I must confess that over the past several days I have been ill-inclined to update my blog; fortunately I have come upon much free time.

I begin where I left off; upon arriving at the Plaza, I realized that I was going to have difficulty finding my way inside as the security was very tight. Luckily patience brought the opportunity when a young lady adorned in a flowing gown made a great commotion over not being let into the ball. She distracted the guards as I made my opportunity to grab a mask sneak into the ball undetected beneath her cries that she ‘deserved to go to the ball’. Though I am not an aesthete first I will confess she was thoroughly dressed for the occasion.

Given my status as a non-invitee, I decided it inopportune to attract suspicion even in the case of investigation, so I had to spend much of my time trying to blend in with the party goers. I confess I found this rather difficult, as the vast majority of the guests seemed to be… well, I might say as the young man Paul who approached me back in London. To make matters more difficult, I found that a large number of the guests were dressed as women – and quite convincingly, I might add – but my process of deduction quickly revealed them to be men in disguise! It was as if I had to face every inversion of our Victorian politeness. Nevertheless against my better inclinations I discoursed with them to keep my cover. (As a side note, I found myself simultaneously flattered and uneasy by their many complimentary remarks about me and particularly my height. I of course accepted them, but I fear to believe they were actually interested in me in such a way!)

Yet not long after entering I saw a familiar face – though the expression doesn’t fit, for his face was obscured – but I saw him. A short fat man with a waddling gait and but the slightest hint of a limp from an old wound, and the moment I saw him despite my inability to see his face I knew exactly who he was.

Poirot!

At this felt quite an inexplicable rush of anger, irrational enough in its scope that I profess some shame. But it seemed that I was being played with! This man scorned me in Paris, followed me to New York and who decided instead of facing me personal tried to lure me in with a riddle! I tore off my mask and walked over so his face could be revealed to me. It took… a couple tries but eventually he was revealed; the man was indeed Hercule Poirot. I expressed my anger at him, and though he took it calmly at first he soured and became angry at me for being distrustful, arrogant, selfish, etc. In fact, had it not been for a most diffusing statement by a young gentleman dressed as lady, for us two to ‘Get a room and make out already’ (I do not understand what exactly he was saying) our confrontation may have occurred all night.

So indeed, we moved our conversation to a more private area in a storage closet which Poirot knew the way to, and calmly but still assertively I expressed my dissatisfaction with Poirot’s erratic behavior, and while he still seemed quite perturbed he admitted his wrongdoing in the past to trust me, explained that at the time he was rather confused and did not know who he truly was inside. Fortunately he had an epiphany and knew once and for all that I was who I said I was and that he was too, and upon finding himself he had reconcile himself with me. Hence he apologized to me directly and asked for my understanding. Charmed, I forgave him, and apologized myself for my confessedly distrustful and arrogant behavior in the past.

Sadly this productive conversation was interrupted by the entrance of two more young men, who saw fit to barge in on our conversation. One of them, a scraggy blonde, swooned with sentiment and said “How sweet the two of you are.” And the other, a dark mediterranean with a palpable Iberian accent, commented “I like your taste Monsieur Poirot!” We immediately were taken aback. Poirot knew these men and tried to diffuse the situation by introducing us – Daniel Hendrickson, I recall, and Esteban Morena – and then indicated that he and I were friends. He looked me to confirm that we were indeed friends and I, knowing that he wished to know I was no longer his enemy, obliged. Sadly, the young men Daniel and Esteban seemed to be taking our comments as irony, as the coyly waltzed away. I told Poirot that I was finding the circumstance to be must unproductive, and he agreed. He suggested that we could meet at a cafe instead and chat in good faith, and I agreed. I suggested a typical unassuming Starbucks nearby Madison Square Park – incidentally near where I happened to live – and he agreed. We shook on the deal, and thanked each other for our cooperation in duress.

That is enough for a first post; I will provide a second soon.

Holmes