Ghandi, Death and the Queen
1
Gandhi pushed his glasses up his nose and walked towards the water fountain. The asphalt was soft, the sun warm, and he needed a drink. The reflection, of course, still showed the people burning and smoking and having same-sex relationships and watching r-rated movies and playing Taboo. It was refreshing. His hands spilled more onto the floor than into his mouth. Still, there was more than enough to go around.
Picking up his robes, he walked over to the slide. The escalator was working. The golden chute was perfect. The velvet ball-pit at the bottom simply heavenly. He giggled and pushed his glasses back up his nose every time.
He held up his little bell, and gave it a shake. Everybody turned to listen, although Noah, unconscious, continued to spin on the roundabout. The smell of wine and urine floated on the breeze.
“Constipation is a silent form of protest!” he shouted, and everybody laughed. “One’s goal is never different from another’s, the only contrast is the effort one submits!”
The crowd cheered. Gandhi pushed his glasses back up his nose and walked over to the tree. He sat on a rotten fig, and swore, flicking an ant off his dhoti.
“Don’t worry, G,” he whispered to himself, “they don’t understand.” With that, he lay back, and fell asleep.
***
2
Death was sitting on the beach, nursing his big toe. A crab had snuck up on him, right above the knuckle — damn it! So he smote it with a rock. It crunched pleasantly. Another crab wandered towards him.
Skinny-dipping in a clearblue ocean is only fun if you are not a leper, if you do not have a vitamin deficiency that causes an allergic reaction to sunburn, if humanity hasn’t pitied you from the day you were born. His was a lonely island.
Death reached down for the second crab, dipping it in the water for a quick clean. Its back was a luscious brown, its belly coral-white, and its brain a green-yellow mango and mint ice cream color. Squish. There were more, mothers crawling up the sands to lay eggs in the forest shade.
Squish.
This squishing was fun. At least he was getting something from this summer camp. “The guy in the robes” never got picked first, and yet the others were all losers.
The starfish were the most fun. They were soft and gooey. The seagulls too. Death held up a hand, his thumb and forefinger closing in front of one eye, as a sailboat passed. Crunch. He flicked at a plane flying through the troposphere. Boom. A passenger fell, screaming, so he stared at its chest, picturing the heart. Ack! It popped.
Raising himself on tiptoe, he scanned the horizon. Mexico was that way. Forty eight people died in a bus accident. Florida to his right, and the skin on two hundred aging bellies sagged, motionless. Far over the horizon a man climbing a snow-capped mountain packed it all in, throwing himself and his new equipment down a Tibetan gorge. Two miscarriages, ninety-seven cancer victims, and a burst appendix. Bam!
The most fun were the executions. Snipers’ aims improved, drugs became suddenly more potent, and Gods became extinct.
***
3
“Excuse me,” she asked, “but do you know where the bathroom is?”
“Why?” he replied.
“I’m sorry?”
He frowned and dropped his paper into his lap.
“Why?”
“Um, I want to find a bathroom. If you know…”
Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he didn’t hide a long sigh.
“Listen, lady, why don’t you take a seat a moment.” She wasn’t a fat lady, but it took her a while to get comfortable on the wall. It seemed everything was difficult to balance, she was careful to keep her legs together at all times. “Relax, there are no enemies here.”
“Yes, but what I just saw…”
“Oh, those two? Listen, they go way back. Always the same with them. She starts to bite him, he lashes back with a slap, soon it’s one big dirty sandy sweaty mess. Always the same thing.”
“They don’t mind me watching?” She blushed, fidgeting with her pearls. “They like that sort of thing?”
“Like it? I think they invented it.” This seemed to relax her a little, and her knees parted to a comfortable distance. “You just get here?” he asked, hoping to sound friendly.
“Yeah. Just today. I just wish…I just wish I’d had longer.”
“You’re not the only one. I died way back in ’48, some bastard Hindu got me in the chest. Never thought it would end like that. Always thought I’d be in the arms of a woman.”
“Oh.”
She looked down at her lap, and uncrossed her fingers. He hadn’t noticed her take off her stilettos, but now that he’d noticed he felt guilty for staring. Those tights sure looked good, all the way to the toes. She was fumbling with a sandcastle, slowly knocking bits of it into the moat.
“You got a name, lady?”
“Hmm. Yes, I suppose.”
“Good…. So, you want to hear about this place or not?”
“Yes. Yes, go on.”
“Well, there ain’t no bathrooms. You see, we don’t pee here. Although, sometimes if you want to, you can. You don’t shit, either. And if you’re wondering about the accent, I’m an Indian, but there are so many damned Americans here since the war, it’s been tough to stay separate. The big joke is even here they don’t like to mingle. You ever hear someone shouting, you know what to do, right? Tell them you’re a fag. Works every time.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, tell them you like other women, you get freaky with Aphrodite, they’ll get all self-conscious and leave you alone.”
“You think she’d like that?”
“Sure, she’s pretty open to anything. I’m Gandhi, by the way. You?”
“Oh. Windsor. Elizabeth Windsor.”
“Very nice. By the way, I think Churchill’s got a thing for you. He keeps staring.”
***
The emergency ward of St James’ Hospital in Westminster was a tough room. I’d tried everything, from my disappearing penny trick to bar jokes, and yet nothing. I was tired, I suppose, that tofu spare ribs still turning circles inside me. I still had the runs, but the vomiting had stopped.
Anyway, I was weak, so I could only last about five minutes on the chair. As I stood down this scruffy little kid, about twelve, came up to me and asked if his dad would be okay. Had a stomach infection, was starving to death, but the guy was as fat as a bus so I told the little nipper he’d be fine.
Still, that wasn’t enough, I could see the tears in his eyes. I sat down, patted my knee for the little boy to sit, and told him I’d tell him a story. He wanted a garden story¾you know, every Englishman’s Kingdom, right? Fucking hedges and lawnmowers, the entire range of the English psyche.
Whatever, I couldn’t refuse the kid, so I said okay. Now I’m a pretty good story teller, but this kid wouldn’t shut up! Kept changing everything, no, this way, no, the other way. Fucking protested no matter what I said.
“Once there was this beautiful garden¾” I said, and he was already asking me about the animals that lived there. I was going to talk about princes and princesses, but no! He wants animals. “¾full of the most wonderful animals…”
“—full of the most wonderful animals,” he said, shifting his weight against the small wooden chair.
“What were they?” the kid replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Well, all types of animals. What animals do you like?”
“I like insects. And I like butterflies and moths. And Elephants.”
“Right.” Gandhi shifted again, unable to get comfortable. “Well, these were the most beautiful animals in the kingdom, the brightest and the best. There were squirrels and birds and—”
“I said butterflies and moths and elephants.”
“I’m just getting to that, hold on. Anyway, there were the most amazing moths you could find, with the strangest names. Blotched emerald moths, elephant hawk moths, death’s head dart moths, double-striped pugs, common swifts, brown tails, antler moths; the garden was a colored hive of flapping wings. These moths were beautiful, although there were a fair number of little brown moths.”
“What were they called?”
“Brown moths. They were the ones that controlled the food, that sort of thing. Anyway, there was one moth that ruled all the others, the dreaded emperor moths.”
“Ooh.”
“Yeah, they were the fiercest moths in the land, with these great big teeth—”
“But mister, moths don’t have teeth.”
“No?”
“No, they have a proboscis.”
“What?”
“A proboscis. It’s a tube that sucks out the pollen.” The kid beamed at him. Gandhi smiled too, happy he’d been able to distract the kid from his father’s plight, only four feet away.
“Well, aren’t you an educated young fellow. They teach you that in school?”
“No, my dad told me. He’s a scientist.”
“Oh, good for him.”
“Have you got a dad?”
“Um, no. Anyway, so these emperor moths had the biggest proboscis in the garden, and all the other moths were scared. The emperors would get all the other moths to work for them, and any time one of them stepped out of line they’d either starve them to death by getting the brown ones to ignore them, and if that didn’t work to kill them by ripping out their hearts, breaking their wings, and sticking their proboscises in their eyeballs.”
The kid started fidgeting with his fingers, biting his lip under a furrowed brow. Gandhi stopped his story, and looked at the child.
“Yes, what is it now, boy?”
“Well, I like the story, mister, but I don’t think they have hearts or eyeballs either. But…continue, I guess it don’t matter none.”
“Thanks. You know, you can tell the story if you want.”
“No.”
“Okay then. So anyway, in the neighboring garden lived a beautiful species, the most beautiful species you could ever imagine. They were resplendent—”
“What?”
“Gorgeous, the prize of the animal kingdom. They were butterflies, large, gorgeous butterflies.”
“What type?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What type of butterflies were they?”
“Well, boy, why don’t you tell me your favorite type.”
“I like the monarch butterfly.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, the monarchs. Did the monarchs come in and beat up the emperors and save the rest of the kingdom?”
“Um…”
“Yeah, and they destroyed their proboscis, and made sure they could never be evil again, right?”
“…um…”
“Thanks mister, that’s a great story. Have you got one about elephants?”
***
Gandhi mixed a white powder into the Gin, and replaced the cap. “To Liz, enjoy, xx” the card read on the little golden tag.
***
Glasses clinked and champagne poured, jewelry glittered under crystal chandeliers, and an old man silently urinated onto an old rosewood armchair. The cocktail dresses and tuxedos wouldn’t notice, he told himself, too busy testing the latest poses, telling the same old tired revelations. Noses flared, pinkies raised, eyelids drooped like empty sails on an idle mill. Their cologne had mixed into one pervasive funk. Well, now he’d added to it.
At his age he was allowed to give in to his body. Hell, it was expected of him. The last time he’d farted — at the head of the table not two hours earlier — his neighbor had the gall to look sympathetic. Her head had tilted, and it was obvious she was trying to hide a laugh. Sally was her name, he thought, a fourth generation Francophile with a good reputation. She was known to see men without much struggle, and she’d been looking at him all night. He’d paid little attention to what her father had been saying, instead staring at his daughter’s breasts from the amuse bouche right through to the cupcakes.
Sally hadn’t noticed the old man’s scent. That is to say, she noticed the scent, but thought instead it was her old man’s, not the host’s. At the time she’d pursed her bottom lip only slightly, trying to conceal a loathing for her father’s hubris. She was used to it, of course, but this was no ordinary dinner. A future memoir was on the line. Noah had requested her presence at his side. Apparently he’d pointed at her earlier and demanded the place names be rearranged. He hardly moved for anyone nowadays. But he had moved for her.
Sally was an American in Paris, a novelist, soaking up some ego for her art. Her talents had earned her a reputation amongst the literati, although her books were rarely read. She lacked a soul, a point proven time and again within the doughy pulp of her frequent love scenes, both on and off the page. Her characters, especially the girls, were always willing, but never eager. And always a little depraved.
Noah was the bitter father of mankind, a degenerating Casanova, soaking up wine and admiration without respite. The last nine-hundred and forty nine years were all but removed from memory after a continual binge that had started some time before the turn of the millennium. However, as age was a mark of wisdom for these horse- and stock-breeding socialites, his company was desired. His words were recounted. His audience grilled for details.
“I don’t like potatoes” was the only thing he’d said throughout dinner, and yet it had silenced at least a half dozen conversations. Somebody had probably gotten fired over that. He no longer dealt with the help himself.
Sally had waited after dinner to take the armchair across from Noah. She did not want the others to think she was praying either to or on the patriarch. She knew her good reputation. Her chest gently rose with each breath. Her cigarette stopped burning. One shoe dangled off a slender foot.
“Sally.” He said, one hand lowering his beard.
“Yes, father.” She blinked, twice.
“Oh, stop that. Either Daddy or Noah or nothing at all. You writers never seem to find the right word until you’ve exhausted all the others.”
“You don’t like my books, Noah?”
“On second thoughts, call me Daddy. It suits you.”
“As you wish.” She put a cigarette to her lips, and it was lit by the match from a white-gloved hand that appeared out of nowhere, the owner of which she didn’t bother to thank. “Did you…buy one of my books? Flights of Red, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t have time to read such rubbish.” He said this through the rim of his glass, the last drops dripping onto his tongue. His aide refilled it almost as soon as it left his lips, then went to retrieve another bottle.
“I suppose you’ve already seen it all, have you?” she inquired, ashing into the fireplace.
“And some. But I forget most. I keep needing to experience whatever I can, otherwise I will become obsolete.”
They talked of his history, and then hers, a subject both were well versed on, if a little dishonest. Noah continued to look below her eyes, and at the smoke she playfully exhaled.
“Do you read at all, Daddy?”
“Not when I can avoid it. Why, in my day we didn’t waste our time with paper stories. Published back then meant you were dead, with only an epitaph to remember. You might make bearable sense, Sally, but I’d rather emasculate myself than listen to you waffle on. Instead, why don’t we talk. I’m sure you’re very interesting.” She beamed, taking it as a compliment.
“Of course, I’d be delighted. What-”
“I didn’t mean here. I can’t talk amongst these idiots.”
“The Veranda?”
“No. Pierre, take me to my room. Bring a new bottle, this gaulish piss is starting to bore me. You have any of the home brew?”
Pierre nodded, barely hiding a smirk.
“And I’ve pissed myself. I’ll need a warm towel. Bring Sally one as well. We’ll see whether she’s as creative as she thinks.”
Sally thought of sales and royalties, her name in papers throughout Europe.
“Tonight I am celebrating my birthday, and I don’t intend to be dressed. Sally, come. I’m in an energetic mood.”
“Yes, Daddy.” She held his other arm, and the two helped Noah out of his damp chair seat. Sally’s heart was racing with thoughts of readings, perhaps some prizes. Noah’s was beginning to fade. And Pierre’s beat slowly, for his legends were made up each night after work, in the company of his son. He didn’t care if either got published.
***
Strong, noble hands kept her complete attention, her thoughts no longer matching her emotions, so they had disappeared, unable to anchor in the tide of more visceral effects. The dampness he was trailing through seemed more than salt and water, but love. It had been years, had it? Since she had known a man? Or cared about one. No corgi could replace the feeling of being wanted.
“You know, my lady, you’re quite the catch.”
She knew nothing but his hands. She shuddered with each caress.
“I mean it, you know.” His voice was playful, if a little hushed by the cigar. “I wish to spend my life with you.” Their laughter made this joke resonate in her mind, but soon it was lost again in his fingers.
“It’s a little late for that, Winston. You lived your life for me.”
“I lived my life for Britain.”
“You knew little of Britain, dear.”
“And you, my lady?”
“One was Britain.”
***
Inauguration blog; TQB
Not bad for an old girl Dec 20th ‘08
Hello. There have been few moments in my history that I cherished as much as my first televised Christmas speech. Now, thanks to the marvel of the internet, and my family producing their website, I am pleased to announce the first post here; www.royal.gov.uk/TQB.
I welcome comments and suggestions from my people on the upcoming speech, to be delivered in only 5 days. Perhaps I might draw your attention to 1957’s address;
“It is inevitable that I should seem a rather remote figure to many of you, a successor to the Kings and Queens of history. It has always been easy to hate and destroy, that’s why we can take pride in the new commonwealth we are building. This year Ghana and Malaya joined our brotherhood. In the old days the monarch led his soldiers on the battlefield. Today I cannot administer justice, but I can do something else; I can give you my devotion to these old islands. I would like to read you a line from pilgrim’s progress; My sword I give to him that will succeed me in my pilgrimage. My marks and scars I carry with me. I wish you all, young and old, wherever you may be, all the fun and enjoyment, and the peace of a very happy Christmas.”
I remember smiling my prettiest smile at the director after I was done. I felt so happy! The entire nation looking at me, thinking together in one thought; that is one awfully delightful catch, Duke Phillip. Well, I may not be so beauteous today, but I’m better than most my age. Phillip is like an old sandal. I think Winston and Neville are beginning to distrust him.
-Liz
Inauguration blog; TQB
You’re welcome Dec 21st ‘08
Hello. I would like to give a warm welcome to those who left comments on my previous post. I know, it is good for an old girl like me to be so up-to-date. Some, however, quite confused me, I’m afraid. I have contacted Mr Brown about the seeming lack of simple spelling and grammar online. I can only assume that some of you are coloreds from my realm. With that in mind I suggest going to this site for financial assisted English language programs. I will not respond to any messages that are not correct in both form and decorum.
It seems many of you would appreciate my speech marking the religious aspect of this holiday. You will remember that in ’06 I talked of the importance of religious tolerance, and in ’07 I talked of Jesus and his birth. I think I will do something else this year.
Others have asked that I bring Neville and Winston onto the big screen. I do not approve of that idea, nice as it was, for both are rather delicate, and the lights would scare them.
I am glad, of course, to see my Canadian people respond as well. Congratulations on your development, I am very proud of you all.
I must go, the terrible two need feeding. They’re such wolves! Phillip is off on another hunt, bless him. He’s so dashing in breeches, I just wish he didn’t always get so worked up on the things. Always cursing the protestors. I tell him they aren’t to blame, that it’s the media, but he doesn’t listen. Well, I should go. It is nice speaking to you all though, knowing you are out there listening. It can get lonely during the day. Toodle pip!
-Liz
Inauguration blog; TQB
Exciting times Dec 22nd ‘08
Well, I am pleased to announce that the director for this year’s speech is interested in doing an outdoor segment if it snows. Wouldn’t that be lovely? He’s not exactly an Attenborough, but then again, who is? What a lovely man. I really do wish he’d come around more.
May I just thank SMSlady13 for her wonderful comments regarding Jesus. He has touched us all, and I am glad to hear he is helping you through your current troubles. When Diana…I do not wish to talk about her here, but I’m sure we feel the same way. In response to you last sentence, you forgot the comma after “anyway,” and you have combined independent clauses, but I will mention it. Jesus’ wisdom is remarkable, especially considering his surroundings. I wonder if this “Tupac” would be as strong were he to have been born two millennia ago.
-Liz
Inauguration blog; TQB
Desist presently Dec 23rd ‘08
I am horrified to find out what some of you have been writing. I decided to do some research on these acronyms you have been using. An abbreviated letter, when placed like this, is still swearing. Desist.
Also, Neville is sick. He is not eating, and his coat does not have its usual shine. This has been such an annus horriblis I’m not sure what I would do if he died. This would simply kill Christmas for me.
I got a call from the reds today. They suggested I say a few of their lines on the telly. Jumped up little fascists. Phillip and I have decided to write them a strongly worded letter after the season is over. I hate to be improper at this time of year. And I am so busy with cards anyway!
-Liz
Inauguration blog; TQB
One day left! Dec 24th ‘08
I am so excited! OMG! (I’m learning quickly, aren’t it?!)
There are too many exclamation marks in your comments. One must not be brash all the time, it will take the significance out of one’s experiences. Instead, choose the right words to explain what you are saying, so extra punctuation is not needed. Trust me, it will reward you in the end.
I have done all my shopping, and apparently William and Harry will be very pleased with this year’s gift. I don’t even know what it is, but it looks very fancy. It’s called a Wii, and is made in Japan. Phillip was quite droll when they first asked. He said “you are excused, boys,” and went back to reading his paper. He is such a rapscallion sometimes.
Thank you so much for your concern, people but you need not worry; Neville is fine. We’re taking him out to the aviary for being so brave in front of the vet.
My speech is nearly ready. I decided to talk about education this year, specifically about language and media. Also, I just found out that the alternate speech this year will be from some silly little man from a modern music band. So my ratings should be a little better this year. I remember that everybody use to rent out televisions to hear me speak. Well, times are still changing. This site, by the way, has had 3,000,000 “hits” already. Simply marvelous. May you all have awfully happy returns this Christmas. God bless.
-Liz
Inauguration blog; TQB
Merry Christmas! Dec 25th ‘07
And a happy new year. Have fun, everybody! Join me tomorrow to find out how supper went. Phillip is actually cooking!
***
