3 bar menu

Vol.5, Extra 1, P.2

 

“You ’gain, ser? Been seein’ yer face more than me missus’ o’ late, that’s certain. Well, wot’s it t’day, eh? That, er… ma’og’ny bus’ness ’gain? Aye, sorry t’sink yer skiff, but like I said ’fore, that’s a craft we’ve quit a long winter ’go, it is.”

“Come now, monsieur! Only this atelier has got the stuff, the essence spéciale, that I seek! So I beg of you: just this one wish! This one—one!—small set of chairs!”

There is a phrase oft uttered by the greybeards of any generation: “They don’t make them like they used to.” Though yet green at the stem, I can only agree, and with the same ennui, no less. Which brings me to this memory.

Once upon a time in this atelier were there made chairs of fine mahogany. Chairs which I hold to be the very idéal of the form. Chairs that I would sin just to have. For you see, my tavern-to-be required them: chairs authentique, of perfect shape and finish, of timeless beauty and charm. Non non; not even in accommodating the bony bottoms of my future clients did I dare make any compromises. Only the best served. No but’s about it.

The aged clerk of this atelier, however, merely scratched his dusty cheek. Rightfully so. “Once upon a time” was exactly that, and in this atelier, I sadly could not sense even the smell of the chairs I so revered. But in the end, it seemed my inexhaustible spirit and incessant visits had finally cracked his defences. “…Oh, all right, all right,” the clerk relented, “let’s see wot th’master’s old bones remember, then.”

Few joys in my life could rival the bliss I felt in that moment. “Y… you will? You’ll do it?” I wheezed. “My good monsieur…! I can’t thank you enough! Merci! Merci!”

“Aye, well I sure hopes ye can sit tight ’nough,” the clerk was quick to caution. “Cos’ ma’og’ny’s a mean ol’ widow t’work with, if ye gets me. Come an’ see us ’nother month, will ye?”

In my excitement, I snatched the clerk’s hand, gave it a vigorous vibration, and squealed, “I will! Oh, monsieur, I will!”

All good things are worth a good wait. That, I understood only too well. After all, what’s a month or three of anticipation if it would bring me one step closer to realising my dream? Why, I could wait till hell froze over, if need be. Yes; all for mahogany. My precious, precious…

 

∵

 

“Mahogan—y!” I explode. “My mahogan───y!!”

Rose-red splinters scatter to the tune of my screaming sorrow—splinters once composing one of my hard-sought chairs.

Aghast, I watch the gus totter back and brace his chair-beaten head. The other gus stares on, stunned to the gills at the assault upon his companion. But taking it for an opportunity, the previously elbowed rascaille pounces upon him with fists flying.

“…Ain’t done with me, yet!”

Oh mon Déesse. Shouting that now is the clobbered gus himself, eyes red with vengeance, temples pulsing with rage, and hands armed with… with…

…a blur?

From a full-bodied throw, it streaks through the air, catching the fist-ready rascaille square between the brows. Fragments, sharp and delicate, then disperse all over his face, whilst launching out of nowhere a brass-coloured shape that spins and spills a clear fluid unto the floor.

The fragments, the brass, the fluid—piecing together the evidence, I know now the identity of the blur.

My lamp of ébène.

A lamp that is lamp-shaped no longer.

 

∵

 

“Oh là là! Yes, yes… like that! Just like that! Oh, you are sensationnel!”

“S-ser? I’m afraid displays of dalliance are best dared elsewhere…”

A fitting reaction to my admittedly lascivious outburst. But who is to blame me? For days on end had I been on the hunt for the perfect illumination for my tavern. Shop after shop, collection after collection, it seemed a crusade never to end. That is, till arriving at this most tucked-away of tuckaway établissements. There in a dusty corner had it been sat, waiting to amaze me. And amaze me it had. And when my senses had returned and feeling came back to my fingers, I knew it then: that this was destinée.

It was, of course, an oil lamp. But not merely any oil lamp. To describe the specimen, it was something of a wooden “box”, or even a small “pedestal”, atop which was enthroned a fist-sized vessel of embossed brass, complete with lid and snout. Banal enough, you might think, but non non non, you think awrong, mon ami. For you see, the wooden bit itself was of ébène in its many shades, arranged into a marquetry that seemed to shift and shimmer when beheld from moving angles. Like a jewel it was, one made impossibly of wood. Oh I say, it was love at first sight—and for my tavern, a star addition to the ambiance and décor I so aspired to.

“Non non non, monsieur! This!” I yapped to the shopkeep, but being at such a loss for words, I resorted to pointing deliriously at the lamp and chanting on, “This! This, this!”

“That, ser?” the shopkeep said with one arching eyebrow. “My, a princely choice, indeed. But all the wider a hole in the purse, I should warn you.”

I wagged my head. “Wide or narrow, I care not!” I insisted. “I need my ébène! It needs me!”

As it did my tavern, to attain to its calling and dance upon the stage that was to be my countertop. Yes, yes; only the best belongs with the best, someone once said. A saying which I remember toasting to that same night.

 

∵

 

“Éb-éb-éb-ébè—ne!” I erupt. “My ébè───ne!!”

Once more am I made to scream. The artisanal lamp, once oh so delicate and oh so dazzling—now destroyed. Completely and utterly destroyed.

With shivering joints, I stamp out the wick before it could have any ideas about the hot oil now creeping along the floor. The lamp-struck rascaille, meanwhile, stumbles and rubs his broken brow—and with astoundment, discovers a redness dripping from it. Spying a chance, the yet untouched of the two gus makes a grab at the rascaille, his fingers trembling with murder.

“Shog off, shite-berk!”

Screaming that is the other of the rascailles. His face, I knew. His hands, I knew. The destroyer of my mahogany chair. And now…

…the kidnapper of Son Altesse, as well.

Missing from her perch upon the wall, she is now swung through the air, frame, fittings, and all. And landing upon the grabbing gus at unawares, my beautiful Altesse disappears instantly—only to be replaced by the head of the gus thrusting clear through the canvas.

 

∵

 

“…You seek not a mere maiden, but a princess? Passing particular, I must say, ser.”

An impasse. There the art dealer stood, tapping his temple and knotting his lips. The very tableau of a wrangling conscience. But “particular” was right; yet again, the fault was mine to bear.

“My établissement deserves no less than royalty,” I insisted.

“Royalty,” the dealer repeated doubtfully. “Pardon my asking, ser, but yours is, er… an establishment for drink, to be clear?”

“Précisément. But hardly of the sort normally imagined, non non,” I assured him. “A sanctuary for souls of subtlety; the very most raffiné of its kind—and thus the perfect galerie for a princess.”

A cave for hobnobbing. A watering hole for the masses. Envision a tavern, and that’s the first to emerge in the common mind, yes? But to wish to adorn one with a painting, to fuss over the very selection—now that’s a puzzle, I freely admit, a beast of a bêtise. Still, at times in a man’s life must he stand his ground. This was one such moment.

And as though having perceived my resolve, the dealer yielded a slight nod—”Very good, ser”—and began skimming through a small ledger. Soon enough, his brows raised and his lips formed an o. “Well, ser, I believe we do, in fact, house one singular specimen to meet your ambitions.”

My brows soared. My lips formed an O. “Oh là là!?” I wheezed. “Why then, allow me a look, s’il vous plaît!”

The dealer obliged, floating away with a strained grin. Upon return, he had in hand a large, veiled square. And uncloaking it, presented to me a portrait of perfection, a chef-d’œuvre in every sense.

There in the frame was she sat: Son Altesse royale in all her heavenly beauty, smiling mildly amidst delicate, blended strokes of oil on canvas.

This was it. The search was over. Long had she hung in the tavern of my dreams. Now would she do so in the tavern of my making.

Destinée this was. No doubt about it.

 

∵

 

“Altesse!” I detonate. “Votre Alte───sse!!”

My perfect princess. Like the void now in my heart, she is reduced to a grotesque seam in the canvas.

One disaster after another.

Aïe… Déesse, aie pitié.

A numbness washes over me. Doubt floods my mind. This is not real. Rather a delusion from some fever, perhaps. The revenge of an upset stomach. The poison of some miscooked meat, slithering through my veins. Yes; I am asleep, tossing and turning, soon to wake up. And so I stand, thinking nothing, feeling nothing, waiting for this to pass.

But no matter how long I do, the violence about me only increases. Men scuffle and fall. Men rise and shout. Fists and legs swing and jolt. It never ends. It never, never ends.

“Die, die, die!!”

“You first!!”

Crack, crash; spill, splash. My tavern. My dream. All crumbling to dust afore my very eyes. But snapping back to my senses at last, I let out a voiceless scream and throw my body into the bouffonnerie. This must be stopped. It must. But my efforts do not go unpunished.

“Get ye gone!” screeches one of the rascailles.

His face glows red with savagery. His form moves in a fiery shadow. His fist approaches like lightning. And realising it on a path towards my face, I shrink and emit from my throat the only sound it could make.

A helpless “Eeek!?”

 

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