  
|
 ANNOYED IN NAIN BY BURNTOAST He had come to Persia determined to be a moslem May 30, 2002 The Iranian We stumbled on Nain in the rain. Crossing the Teahouse Pass toward the turquoise dome of Masjed Jome. We wandered around the deserted town till we found a cherry orchard with paths for blossom viewers to stroll along in spring. The gardner was in the small glasshouse in the back watering the overflow of potted geraniums. He bent over them like an old piece of feta cheese turning syphilis yellow in the afternoon with his chai. The orchard was his brothel of flowering trees designed around a pool where white doves nested inside the door of the Wedding House in Nain. Flaubert led a selfish life littered with dishes, soup-tureens, plates and basins. He had a black slave in plaster with white pants and red shirt at the foot of his steps to tie his horse. His mom, Mme. Flaubert he treated as a comma, yet he lived with his "Maman" when he wasn't in a brothel. He ended his book A Sentimental Education with a visit to the Turkish women's house in Paris ... "That was the happiest time we ever had", said Frederic. "Yes, perhaps you're right. That was the happiest time we ever had", said Deslauriers. A bowl of goldfish next to a pot of purplish blue hyacinths on the windowsill. He felt his heart was as hard as his pinapple on which his hands were resting. He went to the Palais-Royal for lunch to discuss the rights of Frenchmen and stop the slaughter of Franks killing Gauls, English killing Irish, Yankees killing Red Indians, Turks killing Arabs, White men killing Blacks wearing a blue kimono. With delight and tears trembling in his eyes he waited to meet the Persian he had come to see in Nain - Omar Khayyam, the tentmaker, a stacked deck of poems in the moonlit caravansara renting rooms. "Tomorrow? - Why Tomorrow, I may be myself with yesterday's seven thousand years." Flaubert invited Omar, the gardner, baker and butcher to a special Persian breakfast of kaleh pacheh, lamb's head with boiled eye balls and French touch of a tigress clitorise with alligator butter. He brought along a sensible but not elegant squeege and pail to throw up then light up a turkish cigar. Corruption and hypocrisy was rife in Paris at the time in the Palace of Versailles where attacks of epilepsy were common in the dream of the red chamber, syphilis under the Royal beds felled with a hammer. Thank you for all this friendly information said Omar a pious Moslem who had noble relatives. Whether good or bad what does it matter to us outsiders? Let's have another drink! "Ah moon of my delight, who knows no wane, the moon of heaven is rising again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look through this same garden after me - in vain!" Just in time for gray duct tape and some white cocain. Obsessed about meeting Omar ,Flaubert practiced coitus interruptus with a lock of Marie Antoinette's hair. He toyed with Omar's feelings by using his pen like a scalpel laced with quite a bit of infantile whining. The two pillows lay side by side against the bolster, the manghal was heated with red coals and chai was warming in the samavar. Gazing into the coals and smoking their poppy pipes Omar and Flaubert gossiped about Turgenev, Zola, Maupassant and Sand - when she swam in the Seine nude with the Soviet Navy Admiral without his dress uniform. The dusk gathered shadows around them in Nain ecstatically happy like a warm lactating breast in childhood. In the end it came to a lot of coca in Columbia. Then there was a silence. They could hear nothing but the sound of the moazzin. The murmur of the stream by the cherry orchard overflowing into the garden, the old bridge of Nain near lingering larkspur and roses. The stream was a silver mirror and dragonflies rested on the rocks trailing yellow leaves from old willows. They played ducks and drakes with pebbles. Flaubert missed pinapple pudding at Luxembourg Palace. The paths were covered with blossoms. On the wooden trellis were tumbling wild summer Persian roses. A spring breeze whiffs of lavender on the breast of Mademoiselle Roque blossoming in Paris. A secret peekaboo pinhole for guest peeping. He had come to Persia determined to be a moslem, to become a writer of Persian passion, wander into his parisian emotions fresh. Chestnuts and bouillabaisse addiction to Persian roses, carriages, saddle-horses, English-style country cottages, a box at the opera, a table set for lunch in the garden and heaven knows German Leonbergers, Bonaparte dogs, a red box of truffles .....He loved to tell dirty jokes at the Ritz. He was so f*cking excited. Heavy smell of smoke was coming down into the garden. The house was on fire. Omar wrapped his fingers around Flaubert's neck and tried to strangle him. He had tried to run a bath in f*cking Perrier water forgetting to put out his cigarette while he was writing Madame Bovary. Then he shot him. They had to cut away the flesh round the wound and remove the bullet. After the coup d'etat they toured the ruins of Qajar Palaces and male brothels. A sad green parrot was all Flaubert bought from the pistachio-seller on his donkey as a souvenir of 1001 nights and dawns of Creme Brulee. He named the parrot Genghis Khan. It stood on his writing table and stared at him through a glass eye sayin "Don't hurt me." "How time is slipping underneath our feet - unborn tomorrow and dead yesterday why worry about them if today be sweet - " He pulled his moustache and had a ghastly hallucination of a brothel before sinking back on the floor, embracing Omar as Mr. Hasty Pudding. "And soon, as Paris was lost to view, he heaved a deep sigh." He wrote "He loves him when he longer loves him. It is at this moment that he possesses him" - France said non, but Persia said bale. Omar said goodby in Persian. Monsieur Flaubert shrugged his shoulders and left Nain annoyed. His hiar giving off a scent of patchouli. He felt an overwhelming lust, a longing for sensual pleasure. He abandoned his intellectual ambition and conked out on the Nain carpet dreaming of Persia murmuring merci.
 |
|
|
|
Web design by BTC Consultants
Internet server Global Publishing Group