Irrelephant

Its a matter of perspective.

A horse. A dead horse, to be specific, taxidermied to imperfection with its eerie, glassy-eyed gaze following you as you enter the ornate ruby doors with gold knobs.

“Magnificent!” I hear the curator exclaim, circling the twenty thousand dollar piece of rubbish as I try my best to stop the return of this morning’s breakfast at the back of my throat.

Eau de Death.

Voile de Formaldehyde.

Four of them, smelling like the foulest depths of Hades itself, are carted in and placed strategically around the intricately carved, carefully choreographed exhibits I had meticulously planned out.

Which, for the record, does not include dead horses.

Being the closest thing they had to an Asian employee, the Musee had assigned the task of creating a ‘one-of-a-kind’ display revolving around Chinese New Year to me, part-Swedish, part-Chinese and part-Japanese.

And since the Chinese zodiac decreed this year to be that of the equus ferus caballus, my ‘brilliant’ director of Southeast Asia Historical Arts, Marco-I-have-my-head-shoved-up-my-ass, had decided to ‘help’ and ‘surprise’ me with these lovely ‘gifts’.

Rhett’s face is paling by the second and I know he was going to regurgitate the oatcakes he scarfed down a few hours ago and quite possibly ruin six months’ worth of work if I don’t do something about it.

“Go,” I hiss, and he dashes to the nearest loo, hand clamped firmly on his mouth.

Damn this, I think, damn you arse-kissers who I know for a fact hate Pierre with a vengeance yet coo over the deformed midget ponies he flew in all the way from mainland China.

“Your motherland!” Celeste tells me cheerfully and I force a smile.

“I’m from Malaysia,” I remind her for the umpteenth time, “And my mother was half-Japanese.”

“Same difference,” she answers, flipping her long, blonde hair over her shoulder, the frizzy ends slapping my face as she whirls around to fawn over Marco-I-am-the-best as he goes on about how this exhibit would place the Musee in international news.

You know what’s the same difference? The size of Celeste’s brain and that of a sea urchin, that is to say none whatsoever. At least the latter serves a purpose, which is more than I can say.

“Miss Norquist?”

I turn at the sound of my name, finding the Musee’s latest line of unfortunate receptionists standing near the doorway, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line as her nose wrinkles in repulsion.

“Yes, Miss Burjen?” I sigh, expecting her to inform me of even worse news.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she announces and I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue, but she just stands there, her skin taking on a greenish tinge.

“Did you care to take a name?” I ask and she shakes her head.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” she replies, her gaze fixed upon the last of the dead horses being wheeled in, “He...uh...said that he’s a visiting professor from Calais Universitie. Said that you’d know who he was.”

I hand her my clipboard and hurry out, not caring about the scandalous gazes directed my way.

The tall, familiar figure of my childhood was reading the plaque denoting the collaboration between the French-Swedish governments in setting up the Musee, his back towards me as I keep my footsteps silent on the marble foyer.