An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Saturday, December 09, 2006

Where did he went?

There is quite a throng in Sonia's living room - the blinds are drawn but the curtains are real. Fat George and Mr Power are siting, very, almost immorally, close to each other on the comfortable if battered sofa by the bay. Mr Lory hovers by the bookshelves, trying to ignore the canoodling of his employees. "Just because you are out of the plot there is no need to carry on like that you pouffes". A rose pink glow suffuses his cheeks. He fingers the leatherette spines of the Collected Dostoevsky set as he averts his eyes and he abrupty withdraws his hand in disgust. Taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket he wipes his fingers fastidiously.

"You like my library Mr Lory? My friend I have in Isleworth works for the publisher. Very collectible I think, is that not so?" Sonia has entered from the kitchen with a tray on which sits a chubby dark brown tea-pot, a plate of rich tea biscuits and a pile of cheap cups and saucers. She is smiling broadly but looks gaunt and haunted. The Alexes follow her, each with a plate of fairy cakes. Each with a face like thunder. They have yet to speak since arriving within moments of each other.

Boris broods brutishly in a red tub chair that clashes with most everything else in the room. Bruno himself is as incongruous as the velour chair: he is huge and clearly muscled beneath the donkey jacket that he wears. The dark blue donkey jacket over the counterfeit Levi jeans and the ox-blood dealer boots give him the look of a man who works at the fairground and whilst the clothing is unassuming and immemorable the head and, more specifically the face, are striking and haunting. The face is crowded onto a small area on the front of a huge head. Thick lips and hollow cheeks, a prominent, large nose that broadens remarkably at the bridge and what seems to be a single eyebrow are all crammed together in a relatively tiny space giving an alarming look to a man who would obviously top 6 feet 6 were he to stand up. It is not possible from this distance to determine the colour of his eyes but they might be as black as is the brush of wiry hair that tops him off. The man is a brute: a pure and simple force of nature's darker side.

Sonia has distributed tea and fancies to all gathered while we have been describing Bruno. Each player now balances a cup and saucer on one knee and a tea plate on the other. All are seated. Mr Power sneers over at the Alexes and speaks, " and what were you two boys up to in the kitchen may I ask?". The blonde Alex glares back at him - "Shut your foul mouth you nasty minded little slug or I shall do it for you. Do not judge everyone by your own foibles and predilections. You have a mouth like a drain and a mind like a sewer. I should like very much to beat your pudgy little face to a pulp - do not give me an excuse. Sonia, shall we start?"

"I am sorry that you all had to come here," starts Sonia, "but as you all know I am forbidden by our writer to leave this flat and ..." Mr Lory holds up his hand, the index finger raised, and interrupts her flow, "Are we not going to wait for Charlie? Or was he not invited? I would just like to know. Before we go on. Excuse me Miss Sonia". Sonia nods "Yes Charlie was invited but then timekeeping has never been one of his strong points has it? No. I think ... and the Alexes agree with me on this ... that we should start immediately ... Charlie can catch up quickly ... if and when he turns up. Failing all else he can always read this. So ... to continue ... we are here because our writer has gone missing ... we need to decide what to do if he doesn't return. Do we carry on from where he left us and run our own lives? Do we find a new writer? Does one of us take over ... and if so who? or should that be whom? my English is not so good at the fine points. I'm sick of being locked up with this pseudo-agoraphobia. I'm also sick of this embarrassing complaint ... I'm a young healthy woman ... it's a real pain in the uterus. I'm sick of these 3 walls ... he, our illustrious writer, never finished describing this flat ... so I've got a whole wall missing and it's bloody draughty in here."

"I'd noticed that" said the other Alex, " ... must be pretty unpleasant but remember he didn't give me a home of any kind ... I just wander the streets constantly waiting to be written back in." A surprisingly shrill voice issues from the tub chair, " .. and I can't leave bloody Tooting until he comes back." "At least you've got a whole house - not half a house ... or three quarters". "And we ..." chorused the three others, "have to live in the bloody office." "Charlie's got a whole flat to himself ... with a bath, a bog, a bed and everything ... favouritism it is ... plain and simple ..." "Shut up George, just shut up will you?" "So, where's he gone do we think? ... and will he ever come back? maybe he's just given up on us and gone back to his ordinary blog."

Charlie sidles into the room through the missing wall ... he is twice the size of the others ... bigger even than Boris ... and he is sharply focussed, with all proper detail ... of a sudden the others look sketchy ... pale and rough edged somehow. "OK you lot back to your places. Break it up. He hasn't gone anywhere. He'll be back later on this evening." "How do you know? Who are you to order us about?"

"I'm the main fucking character you twats. I know more than any of you. Aside from that I'm the one doing the investi-bleeding-gation. You're just a limp bunch of minor characters and fill ins. You wankers only slot into the narrative ... like some sort of punctuation marks ... I carry the entire weight of the plot ... and besides ... I'm the only one who's got enough brains to read his blog last night ... he was going on and on about the problems of the latecomers and the active readers and that ... simpletons ... is why none of us featured ... plain and simple ... jesus I wish he'd stop using that bloody phrase ... I hate it. trust me I know whereof I speak now shuffle off back to your little narrative niches and shut the fuck up ... go on .. piss off "

And they did. They faded back into the surroundings with Sonia chuckling to herself as she went ... "At least I got some furniture out of it...".


1 comment:

  1. Ha, what a delicious twist; from the sublime to the absurd. I love it!

    Cries of Encore, Encore!