Stepping into his parents room was like going back to the good old times…pots of English cream..in dark blue glass.. with a silver top imported from a chemist there .. a bone China pill box with a bouquet of pink roses in a gold gilded frame.. some coins resting in it ..cradled inside the delicate walls of it… A tortoiseshell comb and powder brush .. a find in Chelsea on a cloudy November evening when dad was meeting a minister and she was alone roaming the street in a pink shift with an elegant chocker of pearl..
Me .. the offspring of a dying dynasty … Of faded pictures in much needed polished frames .. of drafty halls.. lace curtains ..Royal warrants..nasal voices..starched collars..polished shoes..brandy and coffee..a play of billiards after dinner.
Exile ..that harsh present ..the desert wind pregnated with sand..camel hair and a mirage of water …blowing around me ..twirling ..whirlpool of silica…
Or maybe I am wrapped in a silk bedsheet ..the loose one .. laying on a couch .. in a moldy room…covered my naked body with the last bit of luxury my mortal body can find.
You on the other hand …there …whispering ..you bastard under your breath …smiling ..smoking that horrendous blend of rolled tobacco …yellow teeth ..yellow fingers .. three cuts from mornings shave .. yet you are still there looking from afar .. in a dark room of the mansion … Playing the role of a used to be gentleman