Mouroir

Know Thyself

There is a man who is very old. He is 46 years old. His hair is thinning and greying above the ears. His nose is high and shoorp and the skin over his face is folded carefully. His body is thin in a stiff dark suit. He sits at a table on the first floor. This is where he dines. Light is spread over the table, illuminating the diverse objects on it. (A skein of light holding the disparate together; rubbing out the whatness with too much light.) The kitchen, or perhaps just a workshop, is on the rez-de-chaussée. That is where his beloved works. Or that is where his beloved is keeping watch for him. He also has an enemy on the ground floor. The enemy would be named Mr Dove or some such name of a like sound. The very old man decides to kill his enemy before he, the antagonist, has a chance to do him in. He snaps his knotty fingers for the waiter. The waiter appears in the circle of soundlessly reverberating light. The man dips a wrist in a shimmering bowl and extracts a bottle of wine therefrom. He dispatches the waiter downstairs, committing to him the bottle of vino, instructing him in a breath-load of mumbled syllables to deliver this here (that there) to Mr ’Ove, with his perishing compliments. From the rich man’s table. A clatter of plates from down below. The waiter nods, bows, nods, flashes his cuffs, disappears down the steps. Maybe he also smirks. The wine, of course, is poisoned — the move by which the very old man intends to eliminate his adversary. The very old man listens with his hands whorled on the white table. Indistinct utterances float up from below. Then a shrieking which seems to contort the very air as if life-leaving lungs are clutching at noughting. His beloved dies from the poisoned potion. Now, what happened? Did the enemy somehow forestall and thwart his plans? Did his love intercept the gift for some obscure and subtle purpose? Did she assume it was destined for her? Did the waiter misunderstand his message? Is the waiter deaf? Was the waiter not perhaps ordered by his love to bring everything to her first? To protect whom? Did he mispronounce, lapsing into metonymy? Did he say anything? Did he really intend? Treachery? Treachery?