I knew a man who knew a man called Monte Tickle. I had spied this name written on the back of an envelope that had been thrown amongst a pile of old newspapers and discarded lolly wrappers. So I picked it up and I read it: Sender: Montague J. Tickle, Esquire.
And it was written in a hand so exquisite that I imagined only a quill made from a long white swan’s feather could have fashioned a script so fine. So I turned to the man I knew, the man who knew the man, the sound of whose very name had begun to make my body quiver with laughter and explode with giggles in places that, through scant attention over the years, I’d forgotten even existed, and I commented that a man with a name such as Monte Tickle could never be in a bad mood and, therefore, I said, I wanted to know just what he was like.
“Monte?” said the man I knew. “Monte? What’s he like? He’s all right I suppose. He was a sailor, I know that much.” And with that I placed my finger on the lips of the man I knew and told him to explain no further, for at that very moment, at that exact point in time, I heard a soft and gentle rapping at the portals of my brain. Tap, tap…ever so gently…tap, tap, tap; and then the door to my imagination opened (and it creaked ever so slightly I am ashamed to admit) and, would you believe it, in stepped Monte Tickle who bowed quite deeply, in a gentlemanly fashion, and proceeded to introduce himself to me.
Monte Tickle had a shock of silver-white hair and a moustache which was waxed at each end. His hair had turned that colour quite suddenly overnight when he was twenty-four years old and it was a freak of nature, he said, for which he was immensely grateful. He had worn his hair at shoulder length and tied in a ponytail ever since that time, even though it was a far-from-fashionable thing to do, and he secured it, always, with a strip of soft, velvet cloth the colour of sage leaves drenched with morning dew. He had many such strips of the same, he said, for they were remnants of his great-aunt’s favourite dancing dress and, what’s more he informed me, he felt that dresses must remember for when he walked with his hair styled so he could feel the dancing of tiny feet (his great-aunt did, indeed, have tiny feet) upon his shoulders. He got away with such a hairstyle, he giggled, because he’d been considered an eccentric, an artiste of sorts, but behind his back he heard the whispers: “Hmmmp…I tell you now that that Monte Tickle is nothing if not peculiar.”
Monte dressed impeccably in no particular fashion but with a style that spoke ease and comfort. He wore loose corduroy trousers of that same soft, sage-green hue and a shirt made of cream-coloured silk, and upon his feet were moccasins, hand-crafted, he said, by friends he’d made in the days when he’d sailed the oceans in search of adventure. And wherever he travelled, be it land or be it sea, he carried with him a walking cane of burnished mahogany wood whose base was fitted with a sleeve of finely etched silver. But the head of the cane…oh! the head of the cane was breathtaking, for here the silver was solid and had been ever so delicately carved to the likeness of a swan’s head, and Monte’s hand upon this cane was never the hand of a man upon a stick, but rather he held it with the utmost grace as one would clasp the hand of a life-long friend. And as he wandered curiously through the caverns of my imagination he left behind a faint, almost imperceptible scent of wild, Spanish gardenias.
Monte had given up his time at sea and now lived in a rambling old house that had a name: Leda. It was a light and airy cottage and its garden was a mass of flowers. Monte’s favourites were arum lilies and the reason for this, he giggled, was that visitors were forever dipping their faces into these pleasing white trumpets to discover just why it was that they seemed to emit no floral scent and of course, afterwards, as they turned towards him, their noses would be covered in fine yellow pollen and it would make them chuckle and sneeze because it tickled their noses in accordance with his name!
Monte shared this cottage with the man that he loved, a man called Rupert and One felt that fortune had smiled One’s way if One was invited for weekend sleepovers to Leda. And when One arrived, excited and fidgety at the thought of spending the weekend in the home of One’s friends, Monte would insist to One’s mother that One take the Masters’ bedroom, then he’d laugh and say that yes, this house, indeed, served two masters but remained even so undivided. And when One’s mother would hum and ha and say “No, no, no! One will be just as comfortable sleeping on the lounge thank you Monte,” Monte would smile gently and say “Never! For this is the home of gentlemen and no gentlemen worth their salt would allow their honoured guest to sleep on a lumpy sofa.” At that he would drag an old double mattress into the living room and assure One’s mother that both he and Rupert would be quite cosy here on the floor of their converted living-room-sleep-out. Oh! And didn’t One love sleeping in the Masters’ bed for it was a bed in which One could never suffer a bad dream, for it was soft and white with a mosquito net that billowed like the sails of Monte’s old retired sailing vessel, and its pillows and bedcovers were filled to bursting with the softest of swan down, and it smelled…why it smelled, oh so faintly, of wild Spanish gardenias…
Come morning, if One was first to awaken, One would slip quietly out of bed and tip-toe softly into the living room where One would glimpse the peacefully sleeping duo with hands a-clasp in the grace of friendship. Then, as breakfast time arrived, a sleepy-eyed Rupert would proudly present one with a large, frosted glass filled to the brim with lemon and orange juice, freshly squeezed from the fruits of his garden. He called it a vial of golden sunbeams and said it was especially good for kids, and then he’d say that it was just like life, sweet and sour, and that what one tasted depended on One’s attitude. And you know it seemed that mornings there in the cottage of Monte and Rupert…well somehow that juice always tasted like the sweetest of honeyed nectar.
As one grew older One questioned Monte as to why it was that the house was named Leda and why it was that he seemed to love swans so and Monte replied that, truly, these were questions of great importance and that if One was prepared to listen then he would tell One a tale by means of explanation.
It was a time, he said, when he sailed the oceans in a sea-faring vessel with billowing white sails (not at all unlike the mosquito net surrounding the Masters’ bed One thought, but of course One was growing older so One did not interrupt); and he managed to sail all the way to India and it was there, in a busy market place, in a steamy, teeming, bustling city that he chanced upon a boy who murmured that for a mere handful of rupees he would be willing to lead Monte to a secret place which housed a statue sculpted by Eros.
Monte, of course, was quite naturally curious (as One would also have been curious, One thought). So he paid the price and followed the boy through a maze of cramped, winding alleyways and incense-filled bazaars. He was led to a doorway, and to a staircase that groaned with age. Then at last he arrived at a dim and dusty room, a musty smelling room cluttered with idols and trinkets and it was here, as his eyes adjusted to the light, that Monte beheld a vision of wonderment! Yes, here amongst the soil and dust stood a marble statue so finely carved and of such rare beauty that its surface, whispered Monte, emitted a radiance; a statue so delicate that the faces of its subjects seemed alive with tenderness. It was a statue of the Swan as it mated with Leda.
Monte stood, he said, speechless with emotion until the boy with the fistful of rupees murmured: “Could it be, dear Sir, that you are disappointed?” And Monte, when he at last found his voice, turned to the boy and said: “Disappointed you ask; why never for I will carry this image in my heart forever.” Yet Monte felt a sadness, he said, for the room that housed the statue reminded him of those who, fearing what they cannot understand, cast beauty to the soiled and sullied corners of their minds. Yet also he felt happiness, he continued, because the statue reminded him of Rupert.
And at this point One piped up, for even though One was growing older, One remained, for the most part, a child and therefore not overly worried about interrupting saying: “but Monte, Rupert, as you well know, is the name of a bear and maybe you hadn’t noticed, Monte, but Rupert is a great big bear of a man and not at all like the images in this statue you describe.” And at that Monte smiled his knowing smile and said:”Ah, but what seems on the outside is rarely what is, for Rupert has a heart with the lightness and tenderness of a swan in flight. His body is his protection. For, you see, a swan in flight, though a thing of great beauty, is easy game for those with the eyes of a hunter; and how many, I ask you, would openly weep for the death of a swan?” At this point One piped up again, yet not quite so noisily, for even though One was young still, One was aging every minute: “But I would Monte…I would…cry I mean for the death of a swan.” And at that Monte smiled and whispered kindly: “ah yes, but that is as it should be if One has understood the glory of a swan in flight and the cruelty that can lurk in the eyes of the hunter.” And with these last words spoken, Monte stood slowly and moved towards the edge of my imagination, where he bowed, again, quite deeply and then, alas, within seconds his image began to fade.
“Why, you’re crying! What can it be that’s happened?” asked the man that I knew. So I felt my face and, yes, he was right. My face was wet with tears. “Oh,” I replied, “but surely that is as it should be for I am mourning the death of a swan. Yet I admit that these are also tears of happiness because, you see, I knew a man who knew a man called Monte Tickle.”
(Mish 1999)
‘FEATHERED DELIGHT’….original artwork by mish…
Mishmosh Poetry and Art Blog ...Mish Kanafani مش كنفاني 