LAMOUX No 6

TIMPAUX

I love this city. It is the forgotten city of kings. from the girls who work in the cigar factory to the boys who work on the street. I am an old man now. I sit by the river near the gates to the park. listening to the monkeys chatter in the zoo. I sit there and I think. Lamoux is a city older than Paris yet younger than Rome. Like I am older than most of its population but younger than one. From this point on the river, by the northern gates, you can see the tip of the Roman lighthouse. This is our Eiffel tower, our leaning tower of Pisa, if any tourist comes to Lamoux they are sure to be seen walking the smoothed pavers that circle the base of that tower of ancient light. The lighthouse is the centre for the brass bands who play the golden waltzes and the merchants who sell silks imported from turkey, snuff imported from Spain, and oranges grown on the slopes of the hills in our native land.

I sit here and I watch the water flow past me. The river’s banks lined with lovers in the spring and summer and fishing lines all year round. I have grown old in this city. I have seen many things change. I have seen many quarters turn bad and many quarters turn good. I live near the cigar factory and the clouds of tobacco smoke during the workers lunch hours has stained the outer walls yellow. They are good people though. They are hard working and faithful to one another. I rent my room in a big house owned by an old lady. Estella. She, unlike me has left this country. She, unlike me has known love. Some nights we will share some brandy. Smoke a cigar and she will tell me stories of her adventures. Of her love. She is the soul of Lamoux. When she dies so will the light from the lighthouse. So will the city of Lamoux.

HONDURAS

I was asleep when I heard the yelling. I awoke to a nightmare upon the sea. The bell was ringing signaling all men to group on deck. It was the deep tolling melody behind the desperate shouts of sailors. I remember going to my trunk to grab my valuables. I would not leave them for future generations to find washed up on the shores of the following centuries. I heard an explosion. The whole ship rocked back and forth and then there was another. I laughed. I remembered the stories of pirates and cannon balls from my youth. The ship was obviously on fire. With smoke pouring in from beneath the door. On the third explosion the whole ship was torn apart. including my room. There, were my port hole used to be, where the sea wind used to float in and blow my fringe from my forehead, was a hole where the metal panels had been torn off. I was looking out of a hole big enough for me to stand tall in. The stars appeared between a whisp of smoke. The ship lurched to the side. I was thrown out. The contents of my room following me as I fell.

LORNA

My soap it is famous. It is the pride of the city. There is not one person who has not heard of it. People will travel from all around just for the honour of saying they bath with it. The recipe for it was given to me by a lover in my youth. He was from persia. He said he descended from a daughter of Darius and a general in Alexander’s army. I told him my Mother was of the same family as Napoleon and my father, Marie Antoinette. Neither of us believed the other. We did have some fun though. As those in their youth often do. We would leave the city on Saturday’s and picnic out near the Farms. Where the River Inkon is not yet polluted by the city’s shame. I will not tell you everything we did. There on the banks of the famous Inkon. I will however tell you that this Persian knew how to make soap so fine that it almost melted into your skin. That it made you feel happy and carefree. It made you feel clean of all wrongs that you have commited. He said there was Babylonian magic in that soap. To this day I believe him. The Persian boy left me with our love. I will not tell you how or why. He left me alone and cold and feeling used. The one thing I had to remember him by was his soap. So I made it. I made it for days and days. pouring my sorrow into the mix and using the fragrance of the roses that he would bring to me. Afterwards I did not want this soap. So I gave it away. Some to my friends, some to my family. I gave some to a young man called Augustus. My sister fell in love with she comes once a week to visit me and will buy a bar. She tells me the news and fills me in on the gossip of our city Lamoux. She came this week and told me something of great interest. There was a body found in the Inkon. The Shameful Inkon. Something which will happen occasionally here. Yet this time it was different. This time it was a woman, a famous woman in Lamoux. It was a clairvoyant. One who, it was said, ran the government with her prophecies alone. She was the most powerful woman in the city. Now she was dead. This famous Madam D’Bough.


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~ by yesknow on August 9, 2010.

One Response to “LAMOUX No 6”

  1. ‘Like I am older than most of its population but younger than one. ‘ Tick.

    Tim, I like this. I’m reading on..

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