E-writing Assignment 4

A Turn of Tables

”Good… day.”

You can almost touch the silence.

A table. An old lamp. Rough stone walls veiled by the murky shadows. And two, yes you can see two, human beings.

She is young, far too young to be doing this, isn’t she? She could have become an actress, perhaps a singer. She does have the looks anyway. Not that you can see any of that now. No, all traces of beauty are hidden behind heavily rimmed glasses, a painstakingly correct pony tail of blonde hair and the white uniform of her profession. But try to imagine, yes, you can see it, can’t you? Try to imagine how she would look like dressed up in satin and lace, with heavy eye-shadow and a scarlet lipstick. She’s just gorgeous, isn’t she? But that was months ago. That was when she was still at the university. She’s a psychiatrist now, and satin and lace won’t do now, will it?

She clears her throat.

And again.

She skims through her papers. Swallows.

And clears her throat. Again.

“Mr… J-…

Mr…

Joker.”

He looks up.

He meets her gaze.

Dark bloodshot eyes. The eyes of a predator. He’s going to kill her. Going to tear her apart. Going to… consume her.

No. Of course he’s not. She must focus. Don’t let him see your fear. Don’t let him feel it.

“Yes?”

There is a certain charm about his voice. A soothing, calming tone.

Silence.

His faultlessly made-up face gleams with a ghostly white colour in the light of the old, slightly buzzing lamp.

At last it’s he who breaks the silence.

“Are you… afraid?”

The words seem to awaken her from a deep coma. She shrugs.

Clears her throat.

“No.”

His crimson lips slowly curl into an unsettling smirk.

“I am doctor Arlene. Arlene Quincelle. I am…”

“You are here to judge my sanity?”

At those words she loses the tiny bit of confidence that she had managed to hold on to. You can see it. In her face. In her bearing.

She is afraid.

And he can most certainly see it.

“No.”

Her voice isn’t much more than a high-pitched squeak.

She clears her throat.

“You have already gotten your sentence.”

“And…?”

“I am here… to… treat you.”

It begins as a low mumbling within his chest. But it grows. It turns to a low chuckle. And suddenly he is laughing at the top of his voice. And it’s not the kind of laughter that makes you happy. It’s not the kind of laughter that rubs off on you.

It’s the kind of laughter that makes you feel thankful you are not there. It’s the kind of laughter that makes Arlene feel thankful he’s wearing a straitjacket.

She tries to sit it out. She strains every nerve. And eventually

he stops. And at that moment she gets the curious sensation. That it’s all a game.

Once again he burrows his eyes into hers. The crimson smirk is back on his face.

“So… miss Quincelle, where do you want to start?”

She swallows.

“Where did it start?”

“Are you familiar with Commedia dell’Arte?”

She had heard a lot about this man. She had listened to policemen and witnesses. She had read journals and newspapers. But never would she have expected that question.

“It’s that Italian kind of theatre… isn’t it?”

You can see that he loves her answer. And she can see it as well. She is inferior. Again.

“An Italian kind of theatre yes, right you are, miss Quincelle. But do you know what it is about?”

She shrugs. And looks down. She had expected fear, yes she was prepared for that. But she hadn’t imagined, she hadn’t prepared for… shame.

His smirk widens to reveal his yellowed teeth as he leans closer over the table.

“At its core it’s a struggle between the vecchi – the elders that is – and their servants and inferiors, the zanni. Do you follow me?”

She nods. She is back at school. The tutor wears a straitjacket and the make-up of a clown. But it’s all the same. She is an inferior. She is a stupid girl. She needs to be taught by those who know better. She has been in that role for so long. She doesn’t even have to think to switch back.

“Now, that probably sounds like an uneven battle, don’t you think? Of course the elders – the rulers if you wish – will win. They have the power, they have the law. But, then there’s the Arlecchino. The Arlecchino turns the tables. He is the missing link, the unexpected twist of the plot. He is the element of chaos. Do you follow?”

She nods. She looks up. She clears her throat.

“You are… the Arlecchino?”

He nods. He winks. He leans back in his chair.

“You expected me to be a simple brute, didn’t you, miss Quincelle?”

She nods. Carefully. And she shots wary glances at him as if afraid he might… explode.

“Well, we had guessed you were an enforcer or hitman…”

“Oh, but I was a hitman…”

His smirk turns into more of a smile. Yes, it’s definitely a kind of nostalgic smile.

“A brilliant hitman. A hitman with finesse.”

“Who did you work for?”

Gone is the nervous school girl Arlene. Here’s the other side of the coin. The ambitious young woman. The brilliant young student. She who would be famous. She who would… unlock the Joker.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

He sniggers and catches her gaze.

She shrugs.

“With my flair for Italian theatre?”

“You worked for the Mafia? Don Valestra himself?”

He nods slowly. Winks at her.

“Old man Salvatore Valestra himself.”

Frantically she tears open her notebook and starts scribbling. But amid the scratching of her pen there is another sound. A chuckle. The low chortling of her patient. She looks up and takes in his appearance. From the perfectly even, yellowed teeth of his smile to the alien green hue of his jet-black hair. She tries to stifle a shudder.

“Why… are you telling me this?”

A sly smirk.

“Because you are not going to tell anyone else, are you?”

No, she isn’t going to tell anyone else, is she?

She shrugs slowly. Puts away pen and paper.

“That’s a good girl. Now let’s get to more important matters.”

He licks his crimson lips.

“I need to be out of here by Friday. You will help me, will you not?”

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