Music, it seemed, could appear in many voices, and had all of the emotions and array of vocabulary as a human. It could cultivate a gradual sadness which she would plunge into, a mournful vortex. Or it could evoke giddiness, joy and a sense of gratefulness for life and its blessings. Sometimes, overhearing a particular orchestral symphony, she saw the wall that separates this world from the next lift its heavy curtain, and for one prolonged second, she understood the mysteries of life and existence.
There were a great many festivities in the palace these days, and although the little mermaid was not fortunate enough to serve inside one, she imagined what it must be like to be drowning in music.
One afternoon, returning to her room early due to an upset stomach (another tale to be sure, as our heroine had taken a great liking to the inhabitants of a rather exotic aquarium that was installed in a smaller atrium. She recognised the array of sea-creatures as the delicacies she and her sisters had so enjoyed, and did not hesitate to snack on one or two whenever she ventured by) the little mermaid found an extraordinary thing sitting on her bed.
It was a card, gilt-edged and its obtuse manner of elegant writing confused the little mermaid, who could not fathom its meaning. Hastily, she brought it to the Upper Housekeeper, who eyed it with irritably.
“Oh yes,” said she, furrowing her eyebrows, “one of the ladies must have dropped this in the hall. Why are you shaking your head like that, girl? Of course she must have! Oh, don’t look at me like that. I suppose your parents never taught you to read. Neither had the time or the money, I’d wager. No matter. It’s not likely you’ll be reading bedtime stories to anyone.”
She put on her spectacles and held the card an arm’s distance from her and read aloud, “The Prince and Prince Regent cordially invite – oh, it’s addressed to the Countess, you know, the fat one - to the Governor’s Ball, Grand Ballroom, Sea-level at eight o’clock on the eve of the twenty-third.” The Upper Housekeeper cleared her throat and the card disappeared inside her bodice. “That’s tonight.”
The little mermaid reached out her hand to reclaim the card but the Upper Housekeeper slapped it away. “Enough of that. You’ll get your turn. A few more weeks and I’ll put you up for service.” She gazed at the mermaid quizzically. “Eh, you’re a strange lass. You certainly make us all…nervous.” And she bustled off.
The little mermaid was not sure whether she liked the Upper Housekeeper. She was preferable to the Lower Housekeeper to be certain, and it was kind of her to donate two baskets of her daughter’s clothing. She was not one to hover over her workers on the job, and neither was she one to nag. But she had made no attempt to fraternise with the little mermaid since that very first day, and did not relish their short moments of conversation. All matters considered, the little mermaid certainly did not hold her in high enough esteem to be kept away that night.
Returning to her room, she rummaged through the closet for her favourite dress. It was white, and she liked it because it reminded her least of the uniform she was required to wear daily. She slipped into it and stood in front of the looking-glass. The mermaid had not been around human females long enough to know that a generous period of time was customary for a woman to beautify herself. Instead, she dipped her hands into the wash basin on the dresser and smoothed them over her face. Her hair woefully lay in tangles over her shoulders. She wished she had one of those things that resembled a sea-urchin with which to brush it. Instead, she raked her fingers through it hastily. Something inside of her chest began to pound heavily.
Her mind began to ask her an array of questions she had few answers to. What would she do if she met the Prince? How could she tell him everything she had sacrificed in order to be with him? What if one of the servants recognised her? What was he really doing in the boat that night? There was another fear, a deeper fear that purred like a sleeping dragon beneath the fractured pattern of thoughts, but she let it lie. She kept her eye on the mouth-wash glass.
The Grand Ballroom was located at sea-level and was a magnificent room, surrounded by glass walls that gave a panoramic view of the ocean. The guests watched the horizon as the moon climbed higher in the cloudless sky, and drank champagne. The orchestra tuned their instruments and began to play. Laughter grew louder and the guests began to dance with abandon. The staff busily tried to remain unseen as ladies wove between them, their painted eyes on some gentleman or another, as if such things as servants did not exist. All around the little mermaid, wet, sticky mouths opened and closed rapidly, like schools of baffled fish.
Then she saw him.
He was taller than most, and though he did not dance, he moved through the crowds with a certain grace. His eyes scanned the room, seeing nothing. His gaze was hooded and guarded. He was more beautiful than any creature she had ever seen. She had forgotten hair could fall like that. The creature in her chest stopped beating. The room froze and the music ceased.
He had seen her. He was coming closer, and there was a light in his eye, a light that had not been there before. The cloak of darkness, of infinite sorrow that had reluctantly trailed after him in the past, was gone. She tried not to stare, to divert her gaze – look at that woman’s hat, who is that gentleman with the big hooked nose? – until he was standing in front of her. She raised her eyes to meet his and something snapped in the atmosphere. Her organs, her pores, every follicle from which sprouted hair, each muscle, each individual blood cell, even the rind in her ceaselessly growing toenails sighed deeply and breathed: at last.
The Prince seemed to forget what it was he wanted to say and looked baffled for a moment. He recovered quickly and quipped, “All this, it’s all rather boring, don’t you think?”
The little mermaid was dumbfounded and stared at him, trying to gauge his meaning. What was this word, boring? Was it a positive or negative thing? Did he think that she was boring? And his eyes were black, black like the night, so dark she could not see the pupil.
“Forgive me,” said the Prince. “Perhaps you find this all very diverting. I’m sorry to insult, but what’s the use of being a Prince if you cannot find fault in your own party?”
The sound of his voice was so unlike the music he played. His arms looked unnatural, stiff at his sides. She could not fathom his meaning. He spoke too quickly, and his expressions changed so rapidly she could not tell which one was real.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She looked into his eyes and shook her head slowly, reaching up a shaking hand to pat her throat gently.
“You can’t speak? Were you born that way?”
She shook her head again.
“Well,” he said, looking at ground, “I am sorry for you.”
She gave him a wary smile, for she was unsure why he should be sorry.
“Where is your family? I would like to meet them.”
But the little mermaid’s face fell, and she shook her head. There was something strangely familiar about this girl, and she seemed so foreign and out of place in this glittering, raucous world that he was reminded of the oldest nuns in the orange grove, the useless ones whose vocations had outgrown them. He recalled those esteemed women, and the delight on their faces as his men presented them with bags of gold, gold to hire workers to spare their brittle backs the planting and digging. Gold to share with toothless orphans and slack-breasted widows. Gold to give a second chance to a lonely child, perhaps a child just like the neat and ordinary girl that had watched him so quietly from the shore. Something inside of the Prince, something beyond pity, awoke.