Chapter Ten – Is Lord Verne In the Epstein Files?
Cycling through museums of dream –
Christine, threatened forever by
Her hideous Phantom, Daphne
Sprouting as a laurel tree;
Philomela without her tongue.
Was that what Verne meant by
Classics? In the night’s dark heart
I woke and thought I saw him standing there or
Was it Mirabel – reaching out through a gold-framed
Mirror to beckon me closer
Or warn me away?
Somehow I became convinced
Mirabel was dead – murdered by
Lord Verne – he must have done it because
I was his perfect alibi, covering up
His appearance in the Epstein files
Of life, where old roués
Tarnish up the young.
If I stayed here
I’d be Mirabel forever – so I
Fled through shattered French windows where
Sheer white curtains blew across my face
Impeding me; supplicating
Me to dance, daring my embrace.
Where was I? Was this the ruined castle
Where the wraiths were tourists
Gazing at destruction paid for
With the lifeblood of the country?
The stone terrace beneath my feet
Was littered with the broken glass
Of Piper Heidseck bottles – picked my way
Between the broken statues – horny Pan
Whose face had split, cupids gaping with
Their fractured mouths, Vulcan lobbing
Stone pineapples down the mossy garden steps.
Pursued by something
Too disgusting to confront
I saw his shadow –
A leering man with antlers.
At least the distant view
Was comforting – pond encircling island
Ornamented by gazebo – forests crowned
By snowy mountains.
Surely he could not pursue me there.
Something amiss about this lighting –
Bleached too white – bad weather or
Apocalypse; eclipse of the sun or
The end of the world? I revert to
The “helpless bystander” dilemma of childhood –
This was too horrible: I forced myself awake.
Dreams multiplied enigmas –
I could not abandon Mirabel
Prance on home
And declare she’d
“Done it yet again.”
Either she was in danger or
I was. And all my life
I’d been preparing for this moment.
In the mirror I saw
Richenda Marshott complete with morning mouth –
Sunlight exacerbating a hangover
Not from overdrinking but
From over-dreaming.
Verne’s door was closed –
It would be awkward if I’d killed him
But I refused to check. Men
Should not be so dangerous.
I took control of the empty kitchen.
Some bad person – probably me –
Left out the cake – stiff and
Ruined now – only cardboard sugar
Which I guess it’s always been.
Tossed it,
Put the last espresso in the
Microwave and
Opened cabinets sadly.
Here’s finally a place where guests could
Unpack their clothes –
Empty, empty, empty.
The front door unclicked –
I jumped so hard
I banged my head.
“Ow!”
And Verne cried
“Breakfast!”
I hadn’t killed him after all. Seems
I’m the one who overslept.
“I haven’t slept so well in ages. What was
That stuff?” he
Eyed my mug with disapproval.
“You can’t drink yesterday’s.”
I’ve heard it said their lordships
Can’t comprehend the hoi polloi.
“I brought everything.” He went on,
Impossibly cheerful
Considering yesterday.
Waffles, eggs, fruit.
Coffee. No milk?
“It’s OK,” I said to his
Self-recriminating face
“I noticed you have ice cream.”
Vanilla works as well or
Even better.
“Mirabel never drank milk,” said Verne.
“She says it makes cowbones
And soy makes man-boobs.”
She would say that.
Charming Mirabel.
I could one-up and list the
Plant-based milks I willingly absorb but –
“Ice cream is better.”
Hard to one-up when one is
Drooling. Visibly.
Alysse Aallyn 