Tea at Tympani Lane Records

World Message of Peace
The Companion

“ Take no prisoners, cry no tears. ”


She stood naked in the doorway. Her body was lithe, round and young, shorn of all hair. He placed the books of his poetry from end to end, from one room into the next. The poetry was inspired by her, The Muse. Slowly and methodically he began to tear the pages (of words, love and dreams) into strips. Quietly and carefully he tore the first book into shreds, as he rips the pages with his bare hands he is utterly detached and methodical. As he finishes with the first book he looks up, regards her, her eyes are unknowing, beautiful in perfect prose and white skin, she doesn’t move. He continues to the next book . . . the pile of strips grows larger. Time goes by, it is night, it is quiet. He works through the first ten, then fifteen, twenty books . . . he begins to shake a little with the task he has set himself. He looks up, she is still beautiful, quiet, unmoving. Twenty-five, thirty books . . . he is slowly edging himself across the floor, trailing strips of paper. He has been sleeping all day and at night, drinking between bouts of writing and fucking the girl in the doorway. This has been going on for weeks, the girl is the step-child of the neighbour down the street, she is 16, his distant cousin. The girl’s step-father hypnotizes her and walks her down the street to the house of the Writer every night at 11 o’clock, comes by every morning at 5 o’clock. Every night it is the same. Everyday he sleeps in fitful alcoholic slumber sometimes rising at noon, sometimes after 6 o’clock to make food and wait for the delivery of the girl, the companion. But this night it is different . . . thirty-five, fourty, fourty-five books in strips. The step-father is not coming by this morning. He goes to the outer room and taking a large glass blue bowl down from the cupboard, mixes flour and water making paste. As he comes back into the main room carrying the bowl, he watches her, watches . . . as he places the bowl on the floor in front of her. He moves through the room gathering up the strips of paper, going back two or three times, making a mound of paper beside the glass blue bowl. He places the first strip in the paste, watches it, as the chopped mottled words seep into streaks of grays, loses his composure and reaches for a glass of brandy. Then taking to the task, he begins by placing the first strip over her left foot, the slimy wet paper smooth on skin, unknowing, she stands unmoving. Quickly and quietly, he soaks the paper strips, applying them to her bare skin . . . first the feet, then the lower leg, the knees and ever upwards. Rarely, he stops to drink from his brandy glass, spurred on by the thought that he is half way through his work. He circles the body, papering, round and round, round and round. The flat stomach, the round bottom, the rib cage, the back, the breasts. He is holding in his breath, as if in some disembodied pantomime, eventually becoming distracted by the brandy. He quickly finishes papering the perfectly round head, sticking straws in her nostrils so she can breathe. The wet frescoe must dry for the next round of occlusion. He pauses in his remonstrations of brandy, washes his hands, falls fitfully asleep, resting at the feet of the companion. Haunted by his task, he awakens after 6 hours, the sun has risen but the sunlight cannot be seen because of the thick drawn curtains. He heads to the washroom. Then he heads to the outer room and brings back 2 large pots of paint, one red and one blue with 2 small utility paint brushes. The companion, barely dry, becomes a papier mache sculpture, in the space of an afternoon, he paints large red and blue flowers over the entire cast. She is the living flower of death. He removes the straws. He drinks more brandy as he waits for his creation to dry. Then the piñata is ready. He goes to the outer room and brings back a rope and a chair. He places the rope around the neck of the sculpture, climbs onto the chair, lifts her, holds her, she is not too heavy and with apparent ease hangs the sculpture from a hook in the ceiling of the center of the doorway. Quickly he goes to the corner of the room. There is a long stick, he picks it up, waltzes with anger back to the companion, swallows and slowly and repeatedly whacks the sculpture . . . coins and candy fall to the floor.

It is evening. She is curled up in a large chair in the livingroom reading a book. It is a novel, an historical romance, something classic set in the 19th century, she is totally engrossed in her reading. It is Hallowe’en. There is a very large bowl full of wrapped chocolate bars sitting in the window. Two children come to the door, they are dressed in black costumes, one is a witch and the other a werewolf. The girl rings the doorbell, they call out “Trick or Treat.” Through the window, they watch the woman sitting in the chair reading, she doesn’t look up nor around, her eyes never leave the page. They cry out “Shell out” and try knocking on the door. They can see the chocolate bars in the window. The girl walks over the lawn, directly in front of the window and waves at the woman in the chair, calling “Trick or treat.” The woman neither looks up nor around and continues to read her book. Crestfallen the girl returns to the steps. The children ring the door bell one more time, wait, then give up in disgust and go to the next house.



Copyright © 2013