THE CHARADE...... by Gordon Lewis and D.F.Lewis.

There was something about the blonde woman accompanying my wife and I as we rode upwards in the lift from the ground floor of a large exclusive department store. From a distance there probably would not have been any cause for suspicion, but, because of the close proximity, the hair was all wrong for the face, and the make-up, too, wasn’t just as it should be. When the response to my pleasantry about the weather came in a masculine tone, my wife glanced my way with a quizzical look. I believe at that moment we both came to the same conclusion; we had a man dressed up as a woman. It was my first experience of being close to a transvestite, and I felt distinctly ill at ease.

Previously we had lunched well in the ground floor restaurant. The spaghetti bolognese had been washed down with drinks and the final cup of coffee and we were in a hurry to reach the comfort rooms that we knew were on the tenth floor of the building. My wife had heard they were quite sumptuous and being pernickety about such things she wanted to avail herself of the facilities there rather than use the more public toilets on the ground floor. The tenth floor was reached and as we left the lift we were dismayed to see the other passenger followed us. We lingered a while to make sure he wasn’t heading for the toilets, and it was with relief my wife and I went our separate ways quickly as our need had now become most urgent.

Having done my duty, I left the loo...and it was with some surprise that I noticed the tall figure standing with his back to me in the hallway. He was looking from one of the store’s windows. His head of blonde hair began to bob as if he were acknowledging someone outside. But we were on the tenth floor! A window-cleaner in a cradle, then? I could not see anything over his shoulder beyond the plate-glass, merely the reflected cosmetics of the strange face to which my wife and I had stood so close in the lift. I even imagined hearing the slight hiss of what I guessed to be a whisper from his lips. Surely, he was not trying to talk to someone outside the sheer-faced building.

By this time, my wife having taken longer upon her ablutions, as is customary with those of the fair sex — had joined me in the hallway. She, too, gazed quizzically at the sight of someone conversing, apparently, with a tenth floor window! Abruptly, as if sensing we had both arrived, he swivelled upon precarious feet — and I noticed he was shod in the highest of heels I’d ever seen — and spoke quite kindly to us:-

 “Do you want to be a millionaire?”

A Millionaire? What an odd question to ask of a perfect stranger, particularly from a man dressed in woman’s clothing. Still more than a little embarrassed I didn’t know what to say in answer to his question. I wasn’t about to tell him that I regarded myself as a millionaire already. But intrigued now with the whole situation I managed an answer to humour him, someone I now regarded as a bit of a nutcase.

“It would be rather nice to be a millionaire, what would I have to do to qualify for such a large amount of money?”

A question I knew I was going to regret as soon as I uttered the words. In little more than a conspiratorial whisper he said:- “There is an article on sale in the art department that is worth such a fortune. It seems obvious to me the store has no inkling of its true value. All I need from you is that you go in with me to purchase the painting which we could then put up for auction at Christies or one of the other auctioneers for valuable artifacts.

Now I knew I was dealing with a bit of a crank, and wanting to end the whole silly situation, I turned to Sarah, my wife, to say:- “Are you ready to go down to the ground floor dear?”

Then, turning back to face the ridiculous figure of a man in a woman’s garb, I said I wasn’t interested in his offer.

Moving quickly, in spite of his high heels he left the window and was confronting us, actually barring our way to the lift.

His eyes were pleading as he spoke.

“I’m not mad, this is a genuine offer, a once in a lifetime chance to make some real money.”

But why the charade of dressing up as a woman? If he were not mad then he was surely an eccentric of the highest order. It was as if my mind was being read.

“It is not a charade, you know.”

“Wait!” I said in a tone of voice that was quite out of character for me. I sensed that there was more to this ‘gentleman’ than met the eye.

I then questioned what I previously somehow ‘knew’ (as I had then put it) to be a ‘crank’. But my wife , by now, had seen I was faltering in my retreat from the outre — and she tugged persistently on my sleeve to remind me where I was and where I might be going if I didn’t beware.

“A charade is a party game and has no real drama.”

I forget, now, which of us said these inscrutable words, I then realised, though, that we were enacting some kind of ritual, needing to make certain predetermined movements before the puzzle could work itself out.

My wife, now half-forgotten, sank further into the back of my consciousness. If she were fidgetting with fear or irritation (or both), I no longer knew. Whatever the case, I ceased to feel the gently tugging at my sleeve.

I left with the ‘gentleman’ (a word that seemed supremely apposite) and my mesmerised wife, no doubt, followed in our wake.

“Who were you talking to through the window?” I asked. The very wording of my question implied that I knew he must have been talking to some person or something, rather that the otherwise emptiness of the darkening sky. Perhaps it was only his own reflection!

“Does it matter?”

I shrugged. We were trapped, I guess, in some variety of stage play, where our lines had been learned. My co-protagonist was not exactly a pantomine dame — the costume and its effects were far too stunning for that. No, I was faced with more than somebody in drag. It was almost as if a spy had assumed a disguise and women’s garments had been the only accoutrements available. They now neither suited nor looked ungainly. They simply were.

We reached the art department where there were a few late-night shoppers.

It was definitely curiosity that was driving me along with the oddly dressed fellow moving ahead.

“Why are we following this absurd creature Harold?” This from my wife Sarah as she tried to keep up with events. “I think we ought to turn round and leave him to his crazy scheme. This is something we ought not to get involved in.”

“I’m just interested in seeing this masterpiece he says is worth so much money. I have no intention to play along with his proposal. It’s obvious there has to be a catch in it somewhere.”

With that we came to a halt as our crazy companion stopped to look at a bizarre painting on the wall. For the life of me I couldn’t see that it was worth the asking price let alone such a vast amount of money according to the fellow we were accompanying.

“It looks a poor copy of a Salvador Dali,” I observed.

“Don’t talk so loud,” he hissed. “It is not a copy. I am sure we are looking at the real thing. All we have to do is lay a deposit promising to pay the balance tomorrow. All I want from you is a promise to share the cost and we will make a bundle out of our purchase.”

Now I was sure we were mixed up with someone touched in the head, so, turning to Sarah I said:-

 “I think we will take the lift to the ground floor now dear.” Politely

saying cheerio to our transvestite we hurried off towards the lift doors.

As we arrived, luckily there was a lift waiting for us. I hurriedly pressed the button for down, but, as the doors were closing our erstwhile ‘gentleman’ slipped in before the doors closed and, turning to face us, we could see he was not pleased. In fact he was positively menacing and as if by magic a knife appeared in his hand.

It was then I realised he wasn’t truly menacing — he was simply acting out the role of one of the tapering human-like figures in the painting, that Salvador Dali pastiche he had just dangled tantalising in front of our noses. Time almost melted, as my limbs turned jellier and my eyes mistier. By his actions, now, he was stressing the intrinsic artistry of the artifact, its drama, its provenance — its haunting quality, its transposability to reality...

The creature — how else can I name him? — was indeed one of the shifting shapes that had lived in the painting and, now, having stepped out of it, was taunting us with its beauty. At heart, I knew he was a force for good. But how, then, to explain the knife, the evil glint in both eye and blade, the increasingly tawdry garb strung on a stick-insect frame, the sleazy pose...?

To my surprise, it was my wife who broke the near silence (sliced the silence with her sharp tongue) as the lift hummed lower on its seemingly interminable journey.

“You looked through the glass — the tenth-floor window frame… as if the world were a frieze...”

Yes, I nodded, I knew exactly what she meant. The lift ground to a halt and we froze, too. Any seemly relief was beyond reach. A tableau of fear. Or a tableau of foregone riches. A missing millionaire.

The charade may continue any moment.