Status: Complete.
Peepshow Ruffles
Chapter Twenty-Three
The following day Christian sat down to his morning coffee, wreaking merely of rosehip soap and the lavender of his pillow. He sat, too weak to stand and see the despair of an elephant degraded by the ringmaster that is Harold Zidler. Of course, not that Christian blamed Zidler for his misguided trances with chiffon and jewel-encrusted spirits. Passing spirits in his corridor, between the two stairwells, against the bruised brass of his bedroom doorknob. Anywhere but the keys of his typewriter; the steps to his memory of her.
His coffee, like his heritage, was Irish. Christian descended from a line of catholic merry men and their lawfully married slaves. His ideals of love and truth and freedom all arose one simple September day from a torn book he had found behind his mother’s knitting stool. It was a charred, simple, paged-wonder, without embellishment on the cover or a pattern on the sleeve. It had been loved, cherished, like no other object he had ever seen before, other than his father’s bible and his uncle’s whisky glass. It bore only one detail on its; shimmering in shades of rust lay the imprint ‘Great Expectations‘. For the remainder of that year, the boy of twelve, whenever his mother would fall asleep by the fire, and his father walking the street ironically alike a call girl, preaching of damnation and judgement day to passers-by, would sit and read of a love so strong, so instantaneous, that it discovered a heart inside a frozen soul. This, assumed, was the power of love. This was why anyone lived, from the orphan scavengers outside his city window, to the wealthy wonderers in search of new land: in search of new loves.
This all seemed worthless now. Now that he had betrayed Satine. Now that he had betrayed her memory. Now that he had betrayed, disabled, the keys of his typewriter. Now that he too had betrayed Adele.
From the next room came a sleazy sound - the sound of bed sheets being thrust aside allowing a figurine of olive to emerge. “Christian, darling, have you heard anything from my dear Zidler today?”, her voice like violent velvet, soft against his eardrum, but vicious to the soul.
“No.” He replied sharply, preventing himself from engaging any more than he wished to with this woman. The third woman. In fact, the exotic enchantress was not the third woman, but the third woman of importance. First, always and forever first, was the sparkling diamond, her sparkle still gleaming in his eyes; then followed the second woman, the pearl, the consistant slightly older woman of 35 who never failed to perform with grace and class. Immediately following the end of their little affair came Adele - or the sapphire - with eyes of the ocean, locks of a blaze and the personality of a princess. He could but only feel humble in her presence, as she ruled with such generosity and fragility which made Christian feel like her prince. At times he would share bed and conversations with other jewels of the night; a peridot, an amethyst or two, a topaz, an opal, and a very unfortunate and disappointing cubic zirconia. Now, in the next room stood his ruby. Dangerous and fiery, who only a few hours previous was the property of Harold Zidler. These are, and were, the many precious gems of Christian - as if he were a king and all these women were just another detail in his crown. Well, all but three. All but his true love. All but his damsel in distress. All but the witty woman whose wisdom had engrossed him.
“Oh!” The rouge of her lips let out a pouting yelp. “He must be so disappointed, poor dear”.
Her sudden change of spirit from her former fiery self caused concern within Christian. He still cared for Zidler in a number of ways. Sometime, he had been good to his love, and often generous to Christian too. Harold Zidler was a friend of sorts; most importantly, he did not hold the title of ‘Duke’.
“Disappointed? What do you mean, disappointed?”
“Don’t you know, darling? It’s going to go under. It’s drowning in debt, must be the champagne…” Christian continued to stare at her, perplexed, begging her pupils for an explanation. Her face suddenly a portrait of shock “The Rouge, darling. It’s going to go bankrupt”.
His coffee, like his heritage, was Irish. Christian descended from a line of catholic merry men and their lawfully married slaves. His ideals of love and truth and freedom all arose one simple September day from a torn book he had found behind his mother’s knitting stool. It was a charred, simple, paged-wonder, without embellishment on the cover or a pattern on the sleeve. It had been loved, cherished, like no other object he had ever seen before, other than his father’s bible and his uncle’s whisky glass. It bore only one detail on its; shimmering in shades of rust lay the imprint ‘Great Expectations‘. For the remainder of that year, the boy of twelve, whenever his mother would fall asleep by the fire, and his father walking the street ironically alike a call girl, preaching of damnation and judgement day to passers-by, would sit and read of a love so strong, so instantaneous, that it discovered a heart inside a frozen soul. This, assumed, was the power of love. This was why anyone lived, from the orphan scavengers outside his city window, to the wealthy wonderers in search of new land: in search of new loves.
This all seemed worthless now. Now that he had betrayed Satine. Now that he had betrayed her memory. Now that he had betrayed, disabled, the keys of his typewriter. Now that he too had betrayed Adele.
From the next room came a sleazy sound - the sound of bed sheets being thrust aside allowing a figurine of olive to emerge. “Christian, darling, have you heard anything from my dear Zidler today?”, her voice like violent velvet, soft against his eardrum, but vicious to the soul.
“No.” He replied sharply, preventing himself from engaging any more than he wished to with this woman. The third woman. In fact, the exotic enchantress was not the third woman, but the third woman of importance. First, always and forever first, was the sparkling diamond, her sparkle still gleaming in his eyes; then followed the second woman, the pearl, the consistant slightly older woman of 35 who never failed to perform with grace and class. Immediately following the end of their little affair came Adele - or the sapphire - with eyes of the ocean, locks of a blaze and the personality of a princess. He could but only feel humble in her presence, as she ruled with such generosity and fragility which made Christian feel like her prince. At times he would share bed and conversations with other jewels of the night; a peridot, an amethyst or two, a topaz, an opal, and a very unfortunate and disappointing cubic zirconia. Now, in the next room stood his ruby. Dangerous and fiery, who only a few hours previous was the property of Harold Zidler. These are, and were, the many precious gems of Christian - as if he were a king and all these women were just another detail in his crown. Well, all but three. All but his true love. All but his damsel in distress. All but the witty woman whose wisdom had engrossed him.
“Oh!” The rouge of her lips let out a pouting yelp. “He must be so disappointed, poor dear”.
Her sudden change of spirit from her former fiery self caused concern within Christian. He still cared for Zidler in a number of ways. Sometime, he had been good to his love, and often generous to Christian too. Harold Zidler was a friend of sorts; most importantly, he did not hold the title of ‘Duke’.
“Disappointed? What do you mean, disappointed?”
“Don’t you know, darling? It’s going to go under. It’s drowning in debt, must be the champagne…” Christian continued to stare at her, perplexed, begging her pupils for an explanation. Her face suddenly a portrait of shock “The Rouge, darling. It’s going to go bankrupt”.
♠ ♠ ♠
Sorry about the delay, silk darling, this year has been so hectic!