I have not strummed the strings upon my guitar for days. I have not ran my fingers over the frets. nor have I leant over the dip in her waste and played the songs that so many in Lamoux have come to love. Instead I have been trying to find the dancer from the graves. I know she dances on the Rue d’Bloome. I have merely to walk into the correct cafe at the right time and I will have found her. The most beautiful girl in Lamoux. The girl who dances with the most grace. The girl who i must meet and have dance to my music. I will create chords for her. I will write songs of demolition and recovery. Of ugliness and natural beauty. I will forget my past and become hers. Our love will blow apart the shadows from the heart of Lamoux and a new morning will dawn over this city which is becoming blacker and blacker with the sin and soot of greed and lust.


I found myself in the Cafe Babel last night. Talking to one of the Rosemary boys. We got drunk and smoked cigars which he would buy from a small boy who kept passing with his box. I told him I had never been there as I was one for the Cafe Taffe. One for the handsome guitarist there. Last night he wasn’t there. This is what took me to the Cafe Babel. This is what took me to the arms of this Rosemary boy. We drank enough gin to open up and I told him the fate of my ship and my fellow sailors. I told him of the Turkish cargo vessel. He told me he would cheer me. He did all the while chewing on pistachio nuts. I had come from the cargo vessel straight to the Rue d’Bloome. I hadn’t even thought of finding lodgings for the night. Such was my need for the handsome guitarist. Thus I still had my bag. This rosemary decided he would let me lodge with him for the night. We walked the length of the road. Past the usual array of prisoners held by the night and their own needs and desires. We walked past the Rosemary bushes that grow from every crack and crevice. We walked past the old lamps. Our faces growing light and pale beneath each one and then the darkness would cascade atop them once more. We climbed into his apartment as he declared his love for all things written. It appeared he was a poet. I asked him to show me some. He went to a shelf which was full of lavender binders and pulled one off. he gave it to me and he started to undress me. I read the words as he kissed my body. I fell asleep.

I awoke. The Rosemary Boy was walking around his flat naked. Eating his pistachios and reading something. It was the manuscript the sailor gave me on ship. He had obviously been through my bag. No doubts my pocket also. I rolled over and went back to sleep.


My love she shouts. She wails. She pleads. She hosts a lady. Her sister I believe. Her soap with be scented with nought but her tears tonight. I can hear them. The crying of my angel. The laughter of her sister. A door is slammed and her sister leaves. I will go down to make sure all is well. I enter the stairwell. The smell of soap it hits me as it always does when walking down the stairs. I knock on her door. It is opened. I tell her that I do not mean to intrude. She smiles and asks if I have come to buy soap. I say no. I have come to ask if she is well. I come to ask if she will walk with me down by the Inkon. She smiles. She tells me I never leave the house until the lamps are lit. I tell her that her smile is the brightest lamp. She tells me she needs a walk. She follows me out to the landing and we walk down the stairs. The smell of her soap lingers out afterwards. I can smell it on her. A walking perfume. We walk out into the sunshine. I shield my eyes. It has been many years since I have been out in the day. She takes me by the arm and we make for the river. Our pace is slow. Our mouths are closed. We merely look around. both of us deep in the same thought. This city has changed so much since our youths. We reach the river bank. She looks into its murky water. She slowly tells me her sister has become the new Madam d’Bough. She turns to me. She asks me my real name. I tell her. Augustus. She looks back into the murky water smiling. I do the same. I tell her that the river Inkon needs a good clean. Lamoux needs a good clean. She looks at me and back into the water.


I can no longer dance upon the graves of the children of Lamoux. I can no longer wear my bare feet on the lawns of the old cemetery. Flattening the grass. Jumping from one Elm’s shadow to another. The shadow of the church haunts me. The eyes of the church haunt me. I am used to being watched. I know the guitarist would watch me as he strummed. I am watched every night here at the cafe. But the eyes in the church I know are not well. There is a boy there. The seventh son. He is the reason I have stopped visiting the church on St Gideon’s day. He is nothing but dangerous. A gangrenous wound upon the belly of Lamoux. He is the cup that has caught all the overflow from his master’s sin. Learning nought but unsteady vice. I can no longer go to the cemetery. I can no longer watch as the sun gets caught in the threads of my dress. I can no longer listen to the beautiful songs that I know a boy has written especially for me. This city is changing. It was once smiling with wine. Now it is unsteady. Now it means trouble.


My mother and I went to the park by the zoo this morning. Early. We have to walk through there to our apartment after the night shift at the cafe. We watched as the men were setting up their helium balloons. They filled them and slowly drifted up far over Lamoux. I was filled with curiosity as to what they would see. Would they see all the people looking up waving as I was. would they wave back? or would they be too distracted by the horizon and what it was going to bring. My mother sighed. She sighs a lot. I sighed. I was thinking what it would be like to be able to fly. To be able to look down on all the people who walk. To look down on all the stupid people in Lamoux. Who, like me, look up in jealous wonder. My mother looked at me. She asked if I would like to leave Lamoux? I looked back. I told her I would love nothing more. She asked if I would like to go to school and never sell another cigar again. I just smiled and nodded. I hear these questions sometimes. When my mother thinks I am depressed. She feels they cheer me up. Thinking about leaving Lamoux and going to a school. It couldn’t be further from the truth. They only make me more depressed. I know It will never happen. I grab her by the hand. We walk back to the apartment. And fall exhausted into our beds.


I worry. There has been nought in that old cemetery but the dead for days. nought but the shadows of clouds and a wind that has found its through all the streets of Lamoux and has ended its path there at the cemetery. My love. She has gone. That dark man has scared her off. The dark man has done something to her. I have to help her. I know what I have to do. I have to go into Lamoux. I have to leave the church grounds. I have to walk upon the paths of sin and find her, my love. I will make her mine. I will bring her back here and we will live together. I will kill Malugain and I will be the new padre. I will make her live in the cellar and make my bread. She will dance for me. Only for me. I have to go into Lamoux. I will walk every street until I find her. I will walk into every single cafe of sin until I find her. I will save that girl. That angel. I will be her redemption. And she will repay me with her body. with her love. with her dances. We will be the new saints of Lamoux.


~ by yesknow on August 30, 2010.

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