Made up of bitter punishments, things left unsaid and repercussions that couldn’t be undone, it continued to spin an invisible web over the walls. Between pillars and under the noses of the palace inhabitants, this was a curse that would travel on the back of time, out-shadow shadows and lie in wait at corners where really good fortunes rounded.
The two ghosts stilled their fading fingers and admired their handiwork. Now, there was a fine colourless film sticking to the palace that only they could see. Sometimes, they forgot what they were; there were holes where their hearts used to be. If you looked through them it would turn your eyes bloodshot with scraggly thin lines darting across it. Red lightening in eyeballs, they began to whistle, a charming melody sounding both familiar and new. When dawn came, some people would wake up whistling it too, not knowing why. When the palace was like that, in that silence, it was beautiful. And there were things you could see in that light; like the servant girl who wouldn’t live past twenty seasons, the small boy who couldn’t stop chewing his thumb, he didn’t know it but one day it would just fall off. And the dwarf court entertainer who couldn’t stop dreaming of a certain councilman’s wife. The ghosts stopped their whistling and paused, after they had cast words that would rain down woes, they savoured the moment because it was a joyous thing! The mist was starting to disappear. They listened to the snoring of the sleeping palace, yet to yawn out its share of crusty, smelly morning breath. And strangely, there was a comfort in that.
Footnote Parables
In Harlesden people milled about. It was a spring day and cocoa buttered brown skinned beauties were out in all their bare-limbed glory, ready to lure willing victims with the promise of their sweetness. I felt under dressed in my scuffed Converse trainers, ripped faded jeans and Betty Boo t-shirt. My head was full with revelations, family secrets that were severed fingers lying on my carpet crooking their way towards me.
Mervyn lived a walking distance away from his practice. On his road in full Technicolor, men sported versions of green, gold and white string vests, standing in groups outside gates catching blaring music beats. I was amazed; here were neighbours in London who spoke to each other. Mervyn’s house had cobblestone-like walls. Stunted sprigs of grass with no ambition grew in the small, concrete jungle of his front yard and the oval black gate creaked. He answered on the third knock.
“Hey princess! I’m glad you made it man.” I was swallowed into his hug and immediately picked up the smell of grilled meats.
“Can’t miss a good barbecue.”
I handed over a bottle of white wine that had been sweating in my cupboard for weeks. In the hallway, I stepped over children with missing teeth and mouths full of sweets. Armed with crayons, they huddled over drawing books. A Lover’s Rock tune was playing on the stereo. “Wha gwaan sis?” A man with a long beard dressed in an African print shirt said. He was holding a plate of curry goat and rice as if it was his last supper. I was impressed that he managed to peel his eyes off it to say hello.
“Leon, Joy,” Mervyn said by way of introduction. In the living room, more bodies were gathered on Mervyn’s cream leather sofa. People were leaning on walls chatting between bites of crisp salad and patty. There were some elders sitting at a table talking about cricket and sipping rum. I nodded respectfully as Mervyn went to the kitchen to get me a drink, rum and coke for starters. You could smell the barbecue in the garden from the living room. I knew I only had to walk out through the kitchen door and into the neat, well-kept back garden to find succulent pieces of chicken browning on the barbecue flavoured with spices. Mervyn loved his food.
I sipped the drink Mervyn gave me casually but underneath, thoughts of Peter Lowon were cooking in my brain, sizzling and spitting. I couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that my grandfather had participated in a murder, drunk or not. Maybe my family were cursed and it was just a matter of time before I got dragged down with everybody else.
Mervyn had a brand new fitted kitchen that didn’t so much wow as comfort. A warm, homely space kitted out in wooden cupboards and grey marble-like countertops. There were trays of food spread out like elaborate Japanese fans. I grabbed a plate. Jerk chicken with barbecue sauce beckoned, ackee and salt fish in a big glass bowl, steamed fish and vegetables, plain white rice, salad, rice and peas and fried plantain. I served a good portion on my plate and tucked in. It was a nice day for a gathering; Mervyn was the sort of man who never lacked company. If I stopped by at two am I could guarantee there would be strays wandering in and out of the house. I parked myself on a stool at the counter; more rum and coke was needed.
In the garden, Mervyn stood at the barbecue comfortably flipping chicken sausages and lamb burgers, affably passing his laughter around as if it were napkins. I happened upon him from the back, my shadow following his baldhead.
“You alright princess?” he turned to face me, still poking a sausage.
“Yeah, this is a nice do, great food, thanks for inviting me.” A few people bit into their hot dogs wholeheartedly.
“Hmm, but that’s not why you came is it?” he smiled astutely. I made a show of feigning ignorance, wrinkling my nose and attempting the blank eyed look. “What? No.”
“Yes, I know you, can’t get you down these ends on most days.”
“About my mother.”
“Ahah! I knew it.” He stepped away from the barbecue to give me his full attention. Now the Staple Singers were playing, waiting to do it again.
“Did she talk about her father much?” Internally I smoothed his puzzled expression as pieces slotted into place.
“Not really. You been reading that diary?” he said.
“I think I might need your help.”
“Oh yeah? What for?”
“I don’t know yet, I’m just warning you in advance.”
“So you need my help but you don’t know what for? You’re a strange girl you know that.”
“What does “not really” mean? Just now when I asked about her and my grandfather that was your answer.”
He pinned me to the spot with a calm look, “Not really means not really.” I didn’t believe him.
After that, I got a condensed education on the merits of chess from a bunch of black nerds. Somebody caught me on the video camera and I pulled a face Freddie Krueger would have been proud of. Then, I slunk away to relieve myself.
Mervyn’s house had three floors and I went straight to the top. You would think that his house would be full of facsimiles of him and all the people he entertained, plastered everywhere, but especially as I climbed up to the top floor toilet the walls grew emptier and the house took on the feel of somewhere much more functional and far less inviting than it had appeared down below. The walls were bare, painted a dull greyish white and the carpeted stairs held not so much as a stray hair, as if no-one really spent any time up here. In the bathroom I found myself wondering about Mervyn and his family and what made them tick.
I emerged from the toilet to the faint scent of perfume in the air. It was lightly exotic and sweet smelling. With each step I took, the smell grew stronger. It seemed to get stronger further along the hallway. I followed it to Mervyn’s bedroom. The hairs on my arms stood up. The smell felt overwhelmingly familiar. The bedroom door was firmly shut. I opened it.
He’d had it redecorated after his wife died. It was a masculine room with dark oak panels and huge wooden bed made with a blue duvet. An un-emptied ashtray spilled old cigarette butts onto the dark nightstand while some big shoes frowned at their temporary neglect. I could have blinked and missed it. Peeking out from beneath the soft breast of Mervyn’s pillow was a strip of light purple material. There was a searing, short sharp pain in my chest. I picked up the material. It was silky and light. It weighed nothing but felt heavy in my chest. I held it to my nose, inhaling the scent deeply. Now the smell was inescapable. White spots on the material polluted my memory. I recognised it instantly, my mother’s Hermes scarf. She used to tie it into a bow at her throat. I pulled it out gently, touching it. It had the faded smell of Yves Saint Laurent Opium, her perfume. I was a low, grainy resolution of myself in that instant.