IN THE BORDELLO
Solid woody tables and benches were huddled against the far wall, and in the shadows the Wye Twins are lurking. Florence and Drearia Wye conspire in hushed echoey voices, mynah bird repetitions and poison dart mutterings. They’re exchanging suicide tips, comparing scars, swapping habits and asking “why me?”. They’re shuffling small squares of folded paper and I just know they’ve got pockets of tamazies and Prozac. But they won’t be giving any to me, not since I trod on Florence’s poor broken heart when she showed it to me some time last summer.
Over in the corner of the bar, languishing in deep shadows the Marquessa was enthroned on a bar stool. Smooth like well oiled machinery, she lifted a champagne glass to her blood red lips and downed the lot in one sweeping movement, gulping and belching effortlessly. She jiggled her voluptuous curvature in time to the music. She was in the process of a conning a Jack Daniel’s out of an acolyte in her own inimitable style “Buy me a Jack Daniel’s and I’ll tell you one of my stories” She demanded, drawing an Art Deco compact and mirror from the sleeve of her well-cut white silk shirt. She posed in the mirror’s circle, sweeping a dancing light spectrum from the head of a concealed pustule. And snapping the compact shut, she downed yet another champagne. Her victim began lining up the whiskeys. “Three wise women were sitting on a coach journey from Northampton to Sheffield ” She began “Probably on a shopping trip, taking advantage of their senior citizen’s bus passes, I should think, And one wise woman turns to the others and says ‘which part of your body is really you, the place where you live and experience and be you?’ So the second wise woman says ‘Whaddaya mean?’ and the first says ‘which part of …’…” The Marquessa arched her eyebrows to me and I joined her, partly to hear the story and partly to get my hands on the free drinks. “‘Where you live and experience and BE, which part of your body?’ repeats the first. ‘I don’t understand’ simpers the third wise woman and so the second begins to repeat what the first woman said ‘which part of your body..’ “. The story was beginning to swamp me, like the times when the memories come back at me, or it could have been the pink pill. A sharp focus vision searing through the gaping hole in reality. Madrid backstreets superimposed over physical vision, glowing specks of light hovering, and I crashed my way to the lavatory.
Oh look I’m vomiting gloriously! I think, watching the brown and pink liquid eject itself from my stomach. I lean back against the cubicle wall, spinning, the wall dips down suddenly suddenly down down a hole, like a wall of light, so suddenly that I had not a moment to think I found myself falling down past all those memories clouding my blind mind falling down down down a very deep well hell hole down down down a hole down a rabbit hole. Images shift sense under the scissors images to sound to smell images to sight sound to sound kinaesthetic. Staircases and landings leading to others, doors secreted behind heavy damask arrasses, keys that creak in long locked doors, skeletons that rattle in long-forgotten closets.