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 L'AMOUR NARANJESTAN Antoinette wanted to hide in Naranjestan till it blew over in Paris June 14, 2002 The Iranian Snow was falling on the rose garden of the little Qajar Palace on Lutfali Khan Zand street in shireen Shiraz. The kitchen was filled with scents of sugar, butter and vanilla in the Persian mirror palace. She smelled of warm milk and steamy hot chocolate. Bonjour! the Queen of France with pearls in her hair. Marie Antoinette, "Faites parler la rein." Far from the Blue Danube and white swans in the temple of love with Cupid carving his deadly bow out of the club of Hercules at Versailles, the play-world of the last Queen of France a blue peacock on the bridge to the moon. We met, enchante, in the golden rain of the rose garden at Trianon. We missed the horse-race but attended the dance at the Opera House in Paris and kissed at the masked ball avoiding Louis XVI. Antoinette was 15 when she married Louis in 1770, on May 16 at Versailles avoiding the marriage-bed until as the king told his court one crescent moon night when voluptuously French on satin sheets trimmed with Belgian lace she drank Contreau and Grand Marnier along the green boxwood lined walk by the French doors she wrinkled her sulfur yellow Chinese silk gown under the hapsicord when the lights dimmed in Paris. She turned winter white like a Chantilly puff full of fresh cream, Bijoux de Nice. The King said she finally surrendered and said three words, "Do it again." Snow cream, firm and golden Hercules. Black spider on a silver web on alabaster halls set with Sevres china monagramed with the Queen's stamp utterly promiscuous. Always wearing a hat holding a rose, dressed by Madam Rose Bertin of Paris. We walked along the orange trees of Naranjestan now bare in winter and hung a swing between the trees, played hide and seek among the colored glass lanterns - amethyst, ruby and topaz forgetting the crappy rusted court of little Schonbrunn filled with pastries and truffles in Vienna. Demels rich, smooth green tea ice cream smeared on little black underpants. The Lalique glass teacup, Orange Pekoe steeped in a silver pot was mixed with the Queen's Sapphic inclinations toward Madam de Lamballes crunchy almond cookies served with a glass of Muscat. A fart never before nine o'clock in the ribboned boxes topped with a shooting star. Antoinette continually played with fire being sexually unfulfilled by the powdered gray curles, rose-bud lips and droopy blue eyes of the King whose most extravagant talent was for sleep. He was a hunter in the soft green magic of the trees and streams, a picnic on the banks. A stink bomb behind the pines. Romantic wicker picnic hampers filled with china tied down with leather straps, forks on one side and knives on the other, a box of Vache-Qui-Rit (laughing cow) cheese and a litespeed titanium bike seated Catherine of Russia bringing an irreplaceable tomato omelet. Later shit behind the bushes. While Antoinette danced and gambled in the Duchesse de Guemenee's card-room, un vrai tripot, during the intermission, the King stormed the undefended fortress although the King was not fond of sleeping in the same bed as the Queen now was with child. It was not a dauphin, an heir to the throne. Only years later the Duke of Normandy washed and wrapped, a hundred and one gun slaute, a banquet in the Hotel de Ville, felicite parfaite, Salon Pompadour with crystal chandeliers, classic teas and patisseries, Mille-Feuille, Charlotte and Fleur de Chine on Rue Royal tearooms with marbled tables, a French "Le Five O'clock" they celebrated. The French pissed behind the walls of Versailles and dirty alleyways of Paris on Rue de Ravoli and behind Notre Dame where the King and Queen's heads were served with bacon and eggs and le muffins a la cannelle. Filled with blood and cinnomon joie de vivre. Docteur Jekyll et Mister Hyde and the French chimney sweeps soaked in gin with Madam Bovary cuddled in Calvados forced the French Revolution. Antoinette wanted to hide in Naranjestan till it blew over in Paris at Les Nuits des Thes which might save her lacquered ivory and rouge powdered head. In the shadow of the Louvre smoking Nazir cigarettes, hell was designed with guillotines, screaming mouths, decapated heads, thunder and torture without chloroform. We could stay together in Naranjestan with cupboards full of mismatched Limoges and Isfahan paisley printed cotton cloths set with chocolate cake and flowery Ceylon chai Ratnapura in the afternoon. The orange tree blossoms in spring and garlands and goddesses in summer with the Shiraz sun filtering down on the garden drinking cherry sherbert. Ofcourse the Queen forgot the people had no bread but there was always cake in Paris. She was ruled by desserts being the favorite petite crepes of Vienna and Paris, a creme brulee flavored with Marco Polo tea, later with a taste of Marcel Proust Madeleines at Hediars, Place de la Madeleine. Antoinette was a kind of upside-down apple tart drolloped with creme fraiche an innocent smile with a gaping pink crotch. A first ballot selection for Bad French Queen Hall of Fame at Mme.Tussaud. Antoinette Darling was a buttery brioche dressed as a French bitch.com becoming the headless Queen of the French Revolution. She made history as the first and last Queen of France to be guillotined and say "smooth move, Ex-Lax", after drinking smoky Lapsang Souchong tea. Buried without a coffin with thousands beheaded and thrown into a ditch under lime, she rose again like a Bourbon Bon Bon lip-syncing Le Mome Piaf (the little sparrow) in Jardin Du Luxembourg. Her fairytale had turned sour as a Gateau Glace into a lemon sorbet with vodka as nervous as a cat, puffing incessantly on cigarettes, drinking champaigne getting her fingers burned.She could not be saved from the drive to the scaffold on 16 October, 1793 Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, when the last Queen of France, Marie Antoinette, the whore of the French Revolution, bleeding at Place de Concorde was with her last companion, Samon the Executioner. He cut off her head singing La Vie en Rose. I was left alone in Naranjestan with orange sticks covered with bitter-sweet chocolate. J'm'en fous pas mal (I shouldn't care). Pleure pas (Dont't cry).Non, je ne regrette rein. L'amour Naranjestan. Adieu mon coeur.
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