THE SPAGHETTI CHRONICLES. PART 13.

•September 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment

FLEUR

It seems I have succeeded in taking over my forerunners position. The people of Lamoux have more or less accepted that the previous Madam d’Bough had taught me all she knew and wished that I took over her position. These people don’t care as long as they have a superstition to believe in and someone to guide them through their days. Someone to help them with the tough decisions. Someone to confide in. I have become that person. I have already convinced the head of police to free my love. He walks from his cells today. Straight here. I have made more money in this one week than I would have in a whole year in my old life. At this rate i will be richer than my sister by the end of the month. My sister. The only one who tried to stop me. I will use my power to put a stop to her soap. I will force her to become a beggar. Broken and down-trodden. I will make her come to me and beg for my forgiveness. She does not know what is in store for her. and no amount of soap will save her.

MALUGAIN

The strangest of occurrences just occurred. I was in the church. Searching. From top to bottom. From bell tower to cellar for Jean. But he has gone. The imbecile has finally run into the streets. Gone to, no doubt, cause some sort of havoc in some poor souls life. Good riddance. I was suspicious that he was sending word to Padre Daniel about my comings and goings. I will simply find another to replace him. One who I can shape to be my own right hand man. A smart man. Not some fool like Jean. No sooner had i thought these thoughts when there was a figure at the end of the pews. I looked harder. It was the bar maid from the cafe on the Rue d’Bloome. The one who had my son. I looked at her. She looked at me. She said my name. I couldn’t remember hers. I simply asked where my son was. She, with the venom of a thousand snakes on her tongue, told me she could no longer care for him. She wanted money to send him to school. to give the boy an education. I laughed. This was not going to happen. But then I thought. The child could fill in Jeans role. I told the woman. In place of school, why not give him a life in the church? a place by Saint Gideon at all times? I told her I needed a new hand there at the church as the seventh son had disappeared. It could lead the boy to bigger and better things. She laughed. She said that role had to be filled by a seventh son. This was not mentioning that he would always be by my side. She cared too much for the boy to allow my poison to seep into his innocence. I told her I was in the church now. I had found God. been Redeemed. She looked at me. She knew me. She said she knew that there would be a cellar full of gold and treasures that I would have stolen. And she wanted some to send our boy to school. I considered killing her. then and there. Im sure she was thinking the same about me. Then the boy ran up. He was sitting on one of the pews and I hadn’t noticed him. he ran up to his mother and said that he believed in his father’s faith. he said he wanted to do this. His mother looked down. She knew it was perfect for the boy. If only it wasn’t me here. I told his mother that I would just tell everyone he is my seventh son. For all I know he probably is. His mother looked straight into my eyes. she told me that if I hurt his body or harmed his mind and most importantly if any love for vice should pass down from father to son. She would cut out my heart and shove it down my throat. I told her that was fine. I told her I would look after him like he was my own son. With this she hugged the boy. Gave me the evil eye and left the house of God.

JEAN

I have left the gates of the church. Into Lamoux’s night I take my liberated feet. I first stopped at the old cemetery to run my hands over the stones and grass that my love would jump and lie on. I found a pink thread which I wrapped tight around my index finger. It grew red, thick and shuddered with the trapped blood. I played with the thread while I walked. Leaving the cemetery gates I found myself on the streets cobblestones that lead past the dark mans apartment. There was no guitar being strummed this night so I know he is not there. I think about what I will do to him. In the bible the Eunuchs are the musicians. I think the musicians in Lamoux should be also. I linger by his front door and think about setting his building alight. But I think first I will find my love. I walk down the streets. Through the lamp light. Beneath the giant Elm trees. I pass some sailors. I know I must be close to where the dancers and whores are. There is Rosemary growing from every crack and gap in the path. I turn a corner and face the last march of Gomorrah. The sight that meets me is something that even the devil would look twice at. There are Negresses naked from the waist up smiling and slinking along the street. There are men in makeup and bare feet. Some kissing. Some holding hands. There are children selling cigars. I think of my love. Slender. Tall. Gracefully turning. I draw courage from these images and move forward. I brush past the men in makeup. They make some remarks and giggle. I look around. There is loud music coming from all the cafes. It will take most of the night to find her. I look down and there on the ground is a flyer. it says Cafe Babel and it has a picture of my love on it. Dressed in a dress that looks like its made from diamonds. I stuff it into my pocket and look for the Cafe Babel. As I do so I see a man look at me and then race into a building. It is the Dark man. It is Cafe Babel. I run after him. I enter the cafe. the noise is deafening. People are everywhere. I look around. Up on the stage I see her. The most beautiful thing in the world. my angel. She is twirling and kicking. The people are all clapping and cheering. They are all watching her. my love. The music stops. She bows. I make my way to the stage. I will go backstage and take her from there. It is slow getting through the people. I watch her. The dark man approaches her. She smiles. he says something. they both look around and then she sees me. she grabs him by the arm and they run. I will follow. She doesn’t know how much she means to me.

PADRE DANIEL

I awoke behind bars and I stepped out into the evening sun a free man. Walking into the fresh air reignited all my senses. I could here the waves of the ocean in the distance. Smell the flowers and rotting leaves of the park. I could stand straight and feel my heart grow with the energy taken from thoughts of my love. I was making my way to her house on the river. Down past the Lighthouse to the rivers bank, past the library, through the orchard and up her steps. I knocked. A woman answered. She saw me and smiled. She said my name and said that she had been expecting me. I asked if Madam d’Bough was at home. She laughed and showed me to a room where the fire was glowing and wine was being mulled. I sat down. As did she. She told me that she was Madam d’Bough. That the last madam drowned in the river and asked her to take her role as the clairvoyant for Lamoux and my lover. I asked her how she drowned. She told me that no one knew. That some said it was murder, others said it was an accident, others suicide. Either way, she said, she was dead but only in body. In spirit she was very much real and sitting opposite me. She then told me how she went about having me released form prison. And how she and I would rid Lamoux of Malugain. As soon as she shared all of this any doubt I had fell away and I knew that this new Madam was just as good if not better than the last. I asked her when would be the ultimate time to do all this. She told me that we would have to couple first. I had no problem with this. I jumped at her and she become the new Madam d’Bough. My new love.

CAM

The Sailor came back. We were loading our ship full of goods. He asked us where we were going next. Back to the Mediterranean I told him. He asked if he and a friend could work for passage back to Turkey with us. I told him certainly. On the condition that he brings and gives me a copy of that manuscript. He seemed to think it wouldn’t be a problem. Although he told me it was in his bag at his friend’s rooms along with all his other possessions. I asked him why he wanted to leave Lamoux. He told me that he could no longer find the most beautiful thing that Lamoux once possessed. I told him that to experience beauty just once is a great thing. He just shook his head sadly and asked what day was departure. I told him. I told him not to be late as we wouldn’t wait. I told him not to forget the manuscript. This boy is too sad. It is Lamoux. It makes happy men and sad men of us all. There is no in between. And there is no telling what you will wake up. God help all those who choose to stay in the land of Lamoux.

THE LAMOUX CHRONICLES. PART 12.

•September 2, 2010 • Leave a Comment

GLORIETTE

I feel heavy with the weight of my son. I can not be responsible for his future. He is a child yet he is so quickly losing the tenderness of youth and becoming a man. He is not experiencing what children should. School, Friends his own age, playing in the street. He works in the cafe selling the cigars. His playmates are criminals, drunks and whores. He rarely smiles. I watch him. He is always looking wistfully to the skies. Night and day. Looking at the birds, the clouds, the stars, the balloons and the kites that all fly over our city. Lamoux always looks after its children. It always has. I have few choices. We could carry on as we are. Yet I know he will become one of the regulars of Cafe Babel. He will go from selling cigars to some other underhanded dealings. I need to send him to school. My boy needs to be educated. He needs to leave Lamoux for a while. See the world. I need to find money for this. I have little choice but to go to the church. To ask the father of my dear son. I will make that bastard pay for something. I will get something good from the evil that has risen from that man. I have to. Or else I fear the love of vice might carry down from father to son.

TIMPAUX

My heart it is beating in my chest with a roar louder than the ocean beneath a storm. I grabbed my poet tonight. I caught him on the Rue amongst the Rosemary and brought him home. I fed him some pistachios, bathed him and sat him by the fire. We drank wine and talked of different things. Mostly gossip the we had both heard. I asked him to read to me. I thought he would read his usual poems. Tonight it was something different. Tonight as I sat there with hallowed amazement reddening my face and fastening my heart. He read to me an account of a man. A sailor. One whom I have never met yet know very well. One whom once lived in this very house. It was the account of Alexander. The man who was once the lover of the landlady, Estella. She had told me much of their days together. She had told me the bare basics of his end. This was all she herself knew. The bare basics. Yet here was a boy from the Rue d’Bloome. A Rosemary boy. Reading an account in fine detail. Outlining the end of Alexander on board his ship the ‘Estella’. I asked him where he got this manuscript from. He informed me he spent the night with a sailor and was given it as a gift. I asked him if he knew where the sailor got it. He did not. He did say he was seeing the sailor again. They were keeping a very important appointment within the following days. While this boy was sleeping I typed the whole thing out on the lavender paper and hid the original. In the morning the copy and the boy were gone. I re-read the manuscript as I sat by the fire. Pistachio shells at my feet. I would show this to my land lady. I would see the spark within her eyes and within Lamoux re-ignite.

LORNA

This city has lost its senses. My sister is now claiming to be the new Badam d’Bough. Something which she seems to be succeeding with also. I told her what I thought. I told her she was doing a thing that will slowly kill her soul. I told her she will eventually become nothing but a body in the Inkon. Just like the others before her. The Inkon calls all the criminals to its depths. Sometimes it calls the lovers. Sometimes it calls those whith nothing in their hearts but despair. Always it calls the criminals. It washes Lamoux clean. And here I am yelling at her. Crying at her. She merely laughs and tries telling me I am jealous. That I fear that she will be more popular than my soap. Where is this madness born? And here. Here is The Moth. Augustus. Telling me to go for walks with him. I agree and we walk to the Inkon’s bank. I sell him soap every week yet he has an extraordinary off-putting smell. We walk out into the daylight and I know it is the first time he has been out into the day for longer than either of us can care to remember. We walk down and we get talking and I, then, realise he loves me. This strange man whom everyone calls The Moth. Who tells me his name is Augustus on a weekly basis for a bar of soap is in love with me. I stand there on the banks of the river. There with this man who is telling me how much the city needs a good clean. And all I can do is smile. Lamoux has lots its senses. I fear this is just the beginning. And all I can do is smile.


•August 31, 2010 • Leave a Comment

SPAGHETTI IN LAMOUX. TENCH PLAUS OUNE HECKUALS PIERT ELLEFEN.

•August 30, 2010 • Leave a Comment

TRABEQUE

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.

HONDURAS

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.

THE MOTH

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.

ANNETTE

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.

GARFLOUGH

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.

JEAN

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.

•August 27, 2010 • Leave a Comment

•August 27, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Voices of Lamoux. Number Ten.

•August 26, 2010 • Leave a Comment

BERNARD

Tonight I will go out. Make my self look good. Pick a sprig of Rosemary and put it in my button hole. I will fill my jacket pockets full of pistachios and leave a trail from my door to the Rue d’Bloome. I leave the building as the lamps are lit and I can see The Moth walking down towards the local grocer. I know I will find a customer tonight, I have to. Even if it is a Robe. There is usually one who shows me favour and asks me to read him my prose. I make sure my back pocket always has one of my cheap note books inside it in case of his custom. I follow the Lamps to the Road of lust and cigar ends. I pick a sprig of Rosemary and put it in my button hole. I see a few of my fellow brothers in perfumed arms and wink at them. I walk into the Cafe Babel. It is already full of the men and women who come to turn gossip to truth and truth to laughter. I find Gloriette the barmaid. She fixes me a gin and her son Garflough walks by holding empty glasses in his hand. He stops and asks me if I want to buy a cigar. I decline. I tell him he should come back later when I have a friend. I walk out into the cool night air and watch the people. I look out for the sort who will keep me alive. I take a pistachio out of a pocket and shell it. I throw it into my mouth as a Sailor walks in. He must be straight off his boat as he still carries a bag. I know he is one for the boys as he goes straight to the bar without even glancing at the dancers. Particularly Annette, the most beautiful and graceful dancer on the Rue. I walk up to him and notice he looks tired and angry. I ask him what the matter is. He tells me he went to the Cafe Taffe to watch the guitarist there. However, they say he has not been seen for days. I tell him not to mind and that I and the Cafe Babel will take the weight of the world from upon his shoulders.

ESTELLA

This city. This Lamoux. I left it once and I found love. I returned with him and he left me. That was many years ago. I could never leave again. I am far too old. I am a part of this stupid city like it is a part of me.  A most pathetic and sad situation. I remember when I was a young girl. There was magic in the flowers of the city. Poetry would beat from the heart and soul of Lamoux and everyone believed in the future. Now it appears that the people here only believe in the magic of Madam d’Bough. That she comes and goes from the dead and only she can make a future that the people can believe in. This city has gone mad. Where are the lovers? The true lovers? The ones who will lie in bed all day philosophising, analysing one another’s dreams, making up revolutions. That is it. Where are the Daughters of the revolution who will sons of Art and couple to make lessons for the future generations to learn and take example from? Timpaux, who lodges in the bottom story of this house, believes I am the soul of Lamoux. The oldest inhabitant. Maybe. He believes that when I die the city will die too. I am not dying so far, yet I see the city’s spirit slowly fade. The flowers now bloom only because it is spring. They would once bloom because there was reason to. I can see the park from my big house. Timpaux goes there to think about much and achieve nothing. I can see a lot of the kites and in the distance one or two hot air balloons. Maybe I am not too old to leave Lamoux. Maybe tonight I will pray. I will pray to Saint Gideon for some wings and perhaps I will fly above the kites and beyond the balloons and back to the land in which I found my love.

PADRE DANIEL

I have had word from my love. I am to be freed from these prison walls within the week. Free to walk back into that church and beat the eyes from the head of that bastard Malugain. I have received this information from a letter she had sent. She outlined that I was to go straight to her abode upon my release. No doubt she will then tell me how best to go about getting back into the great church of Lamoux. How to go about killing the man who should already be dead. How to become king of this forsaken city. And Jean. I know he will have been faithful to me and informed the vatican of what has happened. Jean. I will repay his faithfulness with a night with that dancer he is always spying on. I will repay my love for this. With all the gold she can carry. she will be my secret little queen. And the first thing I am going to do is touch her beneath her old frayed dress and show her just exactly thankful I am. Madam d’Bough is never going to forget the day that she freed her Padre Daniel from the cells of Lamoux.

Intermission / Overview

•August 23, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Old Lamoux. Sweet and heavenly. A book full of sweet poetry. A book full of beautiful art for all to see. It is a gift to walk into this city. It is a gift to open this book and to read such words. Old Lamoux. And when any of the population falls in love the city’s spirit grows and shudders. And the blankness of death is held off for another season.

Like the green green lawns that slope into the days and years. That fade into golden dust for Summer. Like the church services for Saint Gideon and the needs of men and the nicknames of whores.

And nothing has changed. Not in Lamoux. Everybody knows nothing really changes. Not for Kings or Dukes or bankers or beggars or for the Angels themselves. This is why the Artists love the city. Permenance is the artisans best friend.

Nothing changes for the population. They were born children of Lamoux and this is how they die. This is how they fall in love. Who they fall in love with. Every year enough people fall in Love to balance the crime, to balance the blackness of Lamoux’s soul. Their love is the white caps upon the forceful waves that roll into the harbour. That break against the wharf’s peers. And the poets of Lamoux lie in their beds or on their floors. Backs atop their patterned rugs. Having thoughts of pretty hands over ears atop blades of grass. And love making in the afternoons. with fogged over panes.

Without feeling the danger of comparison Lamoux is classed as one of the most antiquated and beautiful cities of Europe. Their future has always been free, like the loose fitting skirts of their women. Like the liberal whistles of their men. The summers of their dark ages (the lonely days) were recorded in lost documents of great volumes by the educated wordsmiths of the high classes. These were stolen by the lower class poet authorities and rewritten as sonnets. Sonnets of love and death and the ghosts of Gods. A blurred mix of words, sex, love, poetry. These poets would dream of horses. Tho they knew the horses didn’t dream of them.

The Poets and artists travel every day. From Cafe to Cafe. From Quarter to Quarter. They travel thinking of Africa everyday. That new babylon. They walk in the cardboard shoes of the poor. They carry their books. Their charcoal pencils. They carry their thoughts of war and sleepless nights. The say that together they have the power to turn Lamoux into their own country. A country that makes that new wine for the youth. A country where wedding rings signify the opposite. They want the hearts of the children of Lamoux to beat louder. To make the pulsations bigger. For the whole world to hear the thud of their new country. Letting everyone know (and embedding the memory) of the origin of reason and symbolism.

Here in oceanic sunbeams the punches of Lamoux’s pulse give all its inhabitants longer and stronger life. This in turn gives their minds my time to wonder. More time to plan. More time to give rise to heightened sensations. From the couples walking in the first park by the zoo to the Ladies who work in the cigar factory.

They grind leaf and twig ‘tween their long fingers. Given to them by their mother’s families. They smell the smooth scent of puberty. The stench of holy age. Their ears are primed and focus on the herd of keys upon the piano being played in an apartment across the back fence. The piano’s keys dully polished by the lady-like fingers of an elderly gentleman.

Winter brings the tallest of waves to the shores of Lamoux. Some even crashing around the base of the Roman lighthouse. A great tower in which to set a flame alight inside. To guide the ghosts of Lamoux to the centre of the markets. Where the brass band plays and the pigeons nest. Most lonely men will walk here after drinking away their nights. To stave off their hunger with fire and sex.  And unroll the muslin on which to lie. Some don’t feel as if they will escape. Some don’t feel as if they will be saved.

Most believe that Lamoux looks after its children. Most believe that Saint Gideon will look after Lamoux. And the folly of all will be recorded as will the brave deeds. In the kingdom of pavers. In the library of Lamoux. Founded with the bounty given to the city for handing over the scabbard and sword of Alexander the great. Found beneath the lighthouse and given back to the Macedonians. And Lamoux built the Library. To house the papers that document its criminals. To house the documents that outline all the good deeds. To withhold all the poetry written by the poets. To alphabetise the love letters written by the lovers. To file the ransom notes. It is a grand building. With its rear exit backing onto an orchard. which is full of blossom and lovers in the spring. Fruit and children in the Autumn. Fallen kites in the summer and snow and blood trails in the winter.

In Lamoux all can be placated. It is the playing of the symphony in the park by the zoo in the summer. All the aged sit at their windows looking out. Smoking what could be their last cigarette. All the youth are out lying on the grass. Everyone’s lips and smiles stained with wine. Everyone’s breath staining the summer breeze with the scent of liquor. The Symphony still plays. Those who find their feet are not weighed or tied with the cities languor find a partner to dance. As the sun sets of Lamoux. The aural opiate of the symphony seems to control the length of time the golden circle stays in the sky. Finally they let it fall. The lamps are lit and the people sigh collectively. Not even christmas makes everyone feel as good as these summer days when the symphony plays in the park by the zoo.

The Rue d’Bloom is the centre for lust and broken hearts. It is where the poor go to work when they can no longer afford sardines and cigarettes. They go there to dance. They go there to fix broken hearts with laughter. They go there to put themselves through college to see which alphabets are becoming extinct.

The Rue d’Bloom is a road where the jazz singers are seen. Their negro hands holding leashes connected to big friendly hounds. The dancers are seen walking up and down. Dressed in their high-heels and the dresses with sequins in which both lamp light and moon light are reflected in. Smiling and holding hands with one another for safety. The negro’s language isn’t theirs but they speak it. The Rue d’Bloom is the road on which the men walk with their tight pants, and polished shoes, their carefully combed hair and eyes lined with the blackest of eye-liner. They are taken and paid by customers who use them to make them feel like kings. These customers never see the sardonic smiles on the corners of their mouths. Their handshake is called the milkshake. They are a solid group of men brought together by heartache, hurt and the love or Lamoux. Intermingled with the regular street crawlers are the tourists and the sailers and the criminals and the men and women who make Lamoux’s soul a little darker each night. And down there on the street, on the Rue d’Bloom through every crack in the pavement, between the buildings and up from the blocked gutters, the rosemary flourishes.

Many have found the road to Lamoux. That steady road. She who owns the poets, and the stupid, and the farmers. Many have found the road to Lamoux and kissed its fine dust. They have kissed the path of soldiers. They have kissed the path of the young, and the returning way of the smiling, all knowing old. Lined by elms and oaks. Budding, yellowing, or bare. Many have found the road to Lamoux hemmed by fences. Stone, wooden, barbed.

They have seen its ditches were the living have slept and the banks were their ghosts have awoken. The road that joined with rivers and crossed their shadowed depths.

Many have found the road to Lamoux. Many have carved their names into an elm. They have crossed the fences and walked over the fields. They have swam the rivers. And they know. They know. It will not be long before other people follow. Some will find Lamoux and never walk the road again. Some will return after many years and notice the road has changed. That someone found a path that led an easier way. And more people followed. Forsaking the road that was the first. It will be overgrown and forgotten. This road that took them to Lamoux. Like the memory of all the souls who walked it into the city of the Roman Lighthouse. Of all their loves, all their stories, all their times, good and bad within the city of Lamoux.

•August 20, 2010 • Leave a Comment

LAMOUX No 9

•August 20, 2010 • Leave a Comment

TRABEQUE

I was sitting playing my guitar. The sun was as warm as a wine stained smile and I was watching the dancer bowing down, rising up, and kicking her legs up high. It was as if she was scaring the usual cool winds and clouds of a Lamoux afternoon. The Bell-tower of the old church was slowly casting a shadow over my balcony as the sun sunk slowly into the west. I looked up at the old church. It had none of the charm or warmth of the small church in my home village. My Village. I wondered if anything had changed. They would have built a new church. I sighed and I wondered if any of them thought about me. I strummed my guitar a little louder. I looked down at the cemetery. The girl’s mouth seemed to be opened in a smile. She danced barefoot across the fallen head stones. Through the shadows of the old oaks where she would flatten the long grass with every step. I looked back up to the church. There was someone looking down at the girl. A man. He seemed to be watching her with great intent. I stopped strumming. The girl Stopped dancing and looked up at me at my balcony. I leant against the iron railings. A cobweb caught against my pants as the girl looked up. I pointed up at the church’s bell tower. She turned and looked. The man quickly stood up and ran behind the bell. He then went back down the trapdoor like a rabbit down its hole. The girl quickly got her cardigan and left. This will probably be the last I see of her dancing in the old cemetery.

HONDURAS

We are close to the harbor of Lamoux. I have sat here smoking cigarettes with the Turkish captain of this cargo vessel. The bundle of pages that was given to me by my fellow sailor has caused him concern. He asked me how it came to be in the chest. I told him it was a gift. This Turkish man, Cam, seems to know of the sailor whom the story concerns. He keeps mumbling about it and asking questions. I merely tell him the truth. I haven’t any idea about it. I just want to get back to Lamoux. I can not sleep for nightmares. I need to get back to Lamoux. I need to make my way down the hard worn stones to Cafe Taffe. I need to watch the dark man play his songs of men like me. Songs of ship wrecked fools in love with the unattainable. All while I eat a plate of the most well earned spaghetti. This is all I can think about. I have told Cam that he can keep the Manuscript as it clearly means more to him than I. He has refused. He believes it has come into my possession for a reason. So I shall keep it in memory of the man who gave it to me. We get to see the light of The Roman Lighthouse tonight. Tonight, when I will get to walk the streets of my dear Lamoux.

FLEUR

The story of Madam d’Bough is a strange one. The woman they found in the river is not the real Madam d’Bough. The real Madam d’Bough is long dead. But she took an apprentice who learnt all her tricks. Most importantly she learnt how to manipulate the feeble minds of men. She lived in her mistresses house after the old lady’s death and took on her persona and clients. It is not known how she ended up a corpse in the Inkon. That river holds many souls and rarely lets up its secrets. People say she had been inadvertently ruling the city of Lamoux through the advise she would give to the men in power who came to see her. There was also a rumour that she was the lover of the Padre. That she was the reason he became so powerful. It has only just been told that Padre Daniel is in the city’s cells and is to be tried for the murder of the broken souls of Lamoux. He will no doubt be waiting for Madam d’Bough to use her influence and free him. He wouldn’t have heard of her fate. This would be the ideal time for a woman to take advantage. The ideal time for Madam d’Bough to fight the rumours of her death. To stand up. To reclaim her lover. To expose that criminal Malugain. To set the Lion of Lamoux back onto its throne. This time the sister of the soap lady will no longer be in the shadows. Soap will mean nothing to me when I hold Lamoux in my palms.