A feature by Éric Chevillard

In a storage closet I found a big bag of masks, a treasure of incalculable worth in these times when they are critical to our survival and yet so difficult to procure. There’s one small hitch, which is that they’re Zorro masks left over from a costume party I held in the garden some years ago. Now, we all know the mask of Zorro is a deceitful bedfellow, hiding only the top of your face, leaving your nose and mouth exposed. All it protects is your anonymity, in other words, and I’m not sure the killer virus targets its victims so precisely, nor that it chooses them based on looks. And so, since even the tightest-lipped mutes can still let out a nasty cough, the intrepid Don Diego de la Vega could have been fatally contaminated by his faithful servant Bernardo. . .