At the Halloween party we are all masked and wearing black. When my friend and I walk through the door, the hosts greet us and tape a name on our backs. It’s a literary character or a famous person, someone scary or someone who wears a mask. We’re supposed to mingle around the room and ask questions until we guess who we are.
My friend is Captain Ahab. Am I a man? she says.
Yes.
Am I in a book?
Yes.
Is it a horror novel?
No, but maybe, psychologically. My friend is stumped. My mask is lacy and blocks out my peripheral vision. The light in the room is orange and the black shapes of the guests drift around me. Am I a woman? I ask Dr Frank-n-furter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Yes, he says.
Am I in a book?
Yes.
Is it a children’s book?
Yes.
Hmm.
The hosts are a writer and a professor. Pretty much everyone at the party is a writer or a professor. The Wicked Witch of the West asks me how my writing's going lately, and I am stumped. Not great, I say, and I switch the subject. Is my character the main character?
No, the Wicked Witch of the West says.
I bump into a man wearing a black cape. I sneak a peek at his back. Cruella de Vil. He’s talking about the upcoming election. It’s going to be close, he says. She’s going to win, but it will take a long time to count the votes and there will be conspiracy theories swirling around and potential chaos.
Are you a political science professor? I ask him.
No, I’m a professor of German history. I’m teaching a class this semester on fascism in Germany in the 1930s. He tells me he has two students in his class who have turned him into the administration for being a communist. I’m going to try to ride it out, he says, until I can retire in a couple of years and then I’m going to move to Germany.
I don’t know how to respond to this. Am I a scary person? I say, gesturing vaguely at my back.
Yes, Cruella de Vil says.
I help myself to crackers and cheese and swallow down a glass of red wine. Earlier in the day I went to the farmer’s market and bought apples and lettuce and two poblano peppers. I gave the rosemary bread lady a bouquet of rosemary sprigs that I’d just cut from my garden. The sky was bright blue and you could almost forget that fascism might be coming to America.
Back at the party I’ve learned that the author of my character’s book is British and the book was written in the twentieth century. Is it Peter Pan?
No.
Is it Harry Potter?
No.
Something by Roald Dahl?
Yes.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?
No.
Matilda?
Yes.
I’m stumped. The only character I know in Matilda is Matilda.
It’s the teacher, Miss Trunchbull, my friend Captain Ahab tells me. This feels anti-climactic. We’re back to talking about politics and is it privileged to want to move somewhere safe?
Yes.
But where is safe?
Berlin is really nice, says Cruella De Vil. I eat a slice of apple tart. I take a picture of myself and send it to my daughter.
She texts back: Mom, your mask is upside down.
I laugh and slip it off. The light in the room is a soft golden and the black shapes are lovely, ordinary people. I am thinking about how when I gave the rosemary bread lady the rosemary sprigs, she was so happy, she hugged me.