Karin

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told, the lone nameless girl bore one too many in her heart, she stood pretty on the north bridge facing the harbour at Fontvielle, Monaco, in the most densely populated country in the world, she couldn’t feel any lonelier. She gazed over the yon, her gaze searching, restless, absorbing the imagery like a voyeurs whim, but not quite finding what she was looking for, the dense foliage like a thick craving jungle laid bare on the hillock far east side, didn’t capture her imagination, nor did the polished white luxury yatchs all lined up like coffins of guillotined men and women, she was seeking some hazy image in her mind, she couldn’t tell what it was, maybe a childhood memory, her mothers caress, warmth of a cradle or maybe some ancient incantation, she couldn’t conjure.

She leaned over the white stucco bridge with baroque pillars and a chequered floor of matted tiles lay under her feet. Her right heel slightly tipped, in anticipation, and her feet crossed, playful, flirting with the view on offer, she was petite and had a lithe languorous body, like delicate porcelain, wiped squeaky clean tucked carefully somewhere. Anywhere.

Her surroundings disappointed her, the same insipid images and sounds, rich cultured people, young couples kissing, the fast sleek sportscar, she was dressed to kill and could’ve easily adorned the cushioned couched bucket seats of a red Ferrari, she even dated men who drove them, the prim tidy men who took too long a while in the loo to relieve themselves. She was a walking contradiction, she wore a Vivenne Tam black polka dot semisheer silk chiffon dress, the bubble hem framed her well sculpted toned legs, the pleating at the bust and straps adding to her feminine grace, the ruched banding with a sash held her waist gently like a lover with his arms slipped around her with a gentle flourish, a soft cup bra held her supple breasts tenderly.

But her svelte demeanour was only a fragment of her personality, look deeper and one would find a free spirit, a childlike exuberance, and unabashed uncouthness. But there was a certain sadness in her eyes, like the one she was enveloped with, when she listened to Erik Satie’s gymnopedie no.1, music had a deep effect on her mood, she was always careful with music, her discernment was sensitive, like that of a sommelier, sniffing the aroma of an old wine. She felt removed from her existence, a broken leaf, falling helplessly in the wind, she would often drink fine merlot and play the piano, just play along, possessed, exorcising her demons, and feeling an exaltation, almost a release into the deep unknown.

Au Clair de la Lune

At thy door I'm knocking by the pale moonlight
Lend a pen I pray thee, I've a word to write
Guttered is my candle, burns my fire no more
For the love of heaven, open now the door

Pierrot cried in answer by the pale moonlight
"In my bed I'm lying, late and chill the night
Yonder at my neighbor's, someone is astir
Fire is freshly kindled - get a light from her."

To the neighbor's house then by the pale moonlight
Goes our gentle Lubin to beg a pen to write
"Who knocks there so softly?" Calls a voice above
"Open wide your door now, 'tis the god of love"

Seek they pen and candle in the pale moonlight
They can see so little, dark is now the night
What they find in seeking, that is not revealed
All behind her door is carefully concealed

– Anonymous