HomeBorisNatashaOlafPatriciaDecide where the cross is
 

Patricia

Patricia

Patricia
Caviar
Solstice
Lou Lou
Korkal

 

Caviar

Either Marté knows something about my secret quest and is doing his utmost to pop each and every one of my paranoid pods with his grating recitations or else he's trying to drag us both down and out of reality to an unpitiful, manageable, and mediocre form of insanity. He has taken to poetry. 19th century Russian poetry. Every evening of late he accosts me rather than greets me at the door and pronounces it like a Judge in mid-sentencing: 'The moon breaks through the billowing fog, Pouring its sad light on the sad fields'

Is he feigning depression? Quite possibly. Ever since he was drawn into a trance over the glass counter at Georges where they oh so contemporarily use white pills as fodder beneath and around their ties, cufflinks, and aftershaves he has not been quite the same, yearning now for the modish neuroses that draw the contemporary man to anonymous white pills. This is what I tell myself, its how I console my paranoia. If he knows about Odin, my cross, I'll be forced to grate some great quantity of Valium and lace his Russian borax-free caviar with it. He won't notice. When he holds the pathetic little egg covered toast to his tongue he insists on pausing to admire for a length of time which betrays his subsequent ranting about orgasms to the tongue. I know he's borderline with caviar. Marté lacks the good sense to exclude food from fashion. Why this line, over and over? I'm sure it is a clue, and I have to take seriously even the slightest evidence that might lead me to the cross.

No caviar, no Marté this weekend. I'm off to Castlemaine courtesy of Father Boris's wife, Yulia - the idiot. Marté is suspicious. Why? - he asks so relentlessly - has your research trip to Russia been cancelled? I'm almost sure he believes my too stressed story and he was certainly relieved to know that I wouldn't be off in Russia for two weeks with Dougie. But he does wonder why I'm leaving him behind this weekend. He does not know that I'm leaving him behind because Yulia can't hold her tongue. I'm certain that our pious Borris would never loosen his grip on a secret. The cross is in Melbourne now and Yulia has taken it like a thread from one of her many enormous and atrocious tapestries and spread it and wound it and out of bakeries, delicatessens and coffee shops, up and down and through the shops in Carlisle street. What neither Yulia or Boris the fools know is about the great Triangle in Castlemaine-Daylesford which is reputed to correspond exactly to the one at Stone Henge. If the cross is in Melbourne it's not. It is in country Victoria.

Previous page Next page Up to top of page

HomeBorisNatashaOlafPatriciaDecide where the cross is

© Copyright 1999 Odin's Stilettos