The Singe Rigmarole [ON HOLD]

Eloi Cairo's Imprisoned Travel

Goose feathers make me sneeze. This ferret keeps on staring at me. The hessian sack makes me itch. The book of hypotheticals, however, amuses me so.

Let me ask you: One evening at a gala ball, you meet a Moldovian duchess and she introduces you to her fifteen year old sister. There are rumours that the duchess is actually a man on the bottom and you, too, notice her manly legs. At the end of the night, the duchess asks you to meet her upstairs in her luxurious ensuite, however, her sister requests you to meet her at the fountain. Would you rather: (a) Meet the duchess or (b) Hit on her sister? 

I’d go with the duchess; it means I can steal her jewels. I have always wanted a generously-sized yellow topaz to be cut into a ring, encrusted with blood diamonds and red sea glass.

In this moment of time, I can see the shimmering, incandescent glow of my marble chateau as we pass through the town. The flickering flames of the small, gold candles dance upon the gale winds as it carries the light towards the main entrance and casting soft, floating shadows around the smooth arches of the stone pillars and windowsills.  Night is when my gardens bloom, entrancing most hard-hearted beings and enticing bewildered fantasies within the sane. The orange papaya trees entwine themselves with the green coconut palm fronds to shield itself from the weather and to avoid the teasing of the snapdragon vines below. The snapdragons chortle and torment the other flowers; their envious vines swimming in the soil and attempting to assassinate the darlings – thorny, gaping cerulean roses and the snowy cerise blossoms of early winter. Nevertheless, I saved freesias for the downfall of nobility because they smelt nice.

Alas, unlike the ordinary banquets, someone had to unnecessarily gatecrash and ruin the fun.

I went silently, not because of the threats I received by my captor, the prince, but because I saw he possessed a fine revolver. Swift and sleek, its existence alone and the bitter scent of gun powder was enough for me to rage-quit my arrogance.

I know he is rather offended but really, out of anyone who likes to make fun of weak aristocracy, why did he pick me? Léo, no offence to the boy, is worse than me. On Thursdays, he helps to tend the garden and entertains me with small stories about His Royal Majesty. Once, he told me that His Highness has severe anger management issues; starts groping armchairs and jam jars, licking porn magazines and openly masturbating in front of a full-length mirror with odd socks on. Léo criticises his half-brother with loathing, ranting about how he is more like a gremlin with small pox and conjunctivitis than a dignified prince.

I beg differ but I’m only saying that because he owns a gun and he’s thrown me in a cage with a staring ferret that has the IQ of a vegetable and a fruit combined.

The cart isn’t stopping but we’re not travelling in silence. I have never been to the next kingdom because I’ve never seen the need. A home-body, that’s what I am – no need to venture too far. The farthest I’ve travelled was into the nation’s centre; a quadruple times less than travelling to the next kingdom.  In anguish, Monsieur Olivier sings about his troubles in low tones so that I do not hear. It perfectly rhymes which makes it easy to follow:

Pourquoi est-ce que je vends ma fille?

Absolument, elle était ma vie

Elle me dit <je t’aime>

Les mots, je pense, les mêmes

Si elle serait avec moi

I’d like to be sympathetic but I’ve never experienced such a loss – I tend to gain instead.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------