

The Streets of Paris

by Matthew Dean

Copyright Matthew Dean 2019

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Pic 1 "Bread"

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Pic 2 "Still no word"

Pic 3 "Wait"

Pic 4 "nothin'"

Pic 5 "MINE"

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Pic 6 "a song"

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Pic 7 "Hey Oriana"

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Pic 8 "I'll show you"

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Pic 9 "toing and froing"

Pic 10 "A lion!?"

Chapter 22

Pic 11 "brilliant"

Chapter 23

Pic 12 "Men of honour!"

Pic 13 "'Ealth"

Pic 14 "Stalls"

Chapter 24

Pic 15 "winter sun"

Pic 16 "Pipe, pipe"

Pic 17 "on the floor"

Chapter 25

Pic 18 "shadow"

Pic 19 "Job done"

Pic 20 "Three for you"

Pic 21 "Thanks-a-bucket"

Chapter 26

Pic 22 "here I is"

Pic 23 "two pennies"

Pic 24 "confused"

Pic 25 "long and short"

Pic 26 "stars"

Chapter 27

Pic 27 "your honour"

Pic 28 "lipstick"

Pic 29 "in favour of.."

Chapter 28

Pic 30 "wontons"

Pic 31 "Have a drink"

Pic 32 "You could die!"

Pic 33 "Light up"

Pic 34 "ever punctual"

Pic 35 "Hushhhhhhhh"

Chapter 29

Pic 36 "nice to be out"

Chapter 30

Pic 37 "Regardez"

Pic 38 "light of the moon"

Pic 39 "Ooh!"

Pic 40 "Good for me"

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35
Chapter 1

I am outside. It is the evening and the air is cold. Not so cold that it could be said I was in danger from the cold; but cold enough. Why do I lament the bitter air? I could not say. But still, I could not stay.

The night is dreamy and the air is clear. The darkness I prefer. The streets seem softer somehow. My collar is upturned. My hands shut away inside my pockets. If this were your young life, would it were mine. Starlets go. Young men from the dingy outlets to and fro.

This is my life. This is the world as now I know it. This is stardust: quaint, oh how I know! And this is wanderlust; and this is go and go.

Love lasts but a second here on top of the globe.

The streets of Paris are beautiful yet treacherous, as I discovered one cold November evening. A young lady, doe-eyed and dandified, flashed her long, dark lashes my way and smiled like she knew me. I smiled back. A chance encounter with the girl in my dreams perhaps?

Of course it was a few minutes later I discover my coat pocket empty where there had, until that point when a gentleman brushed past in exactly the same coincidental instant, dwelt my purse of modest but adequate means, and happening to contain everything that I need in finding myself a place to stay that bitter night.

No matter. Work. I have worked my way out of these sorts of predicaments before and I shall do it again. So I resolve.

'I'll clean your guests' rooms and cook them breakfast if you let me stay here the night.'

'I'll let your cooks take their leave and prepare your kitchen for the morning, just find me a place to stay.'

'I'll muck your stables if only you let me bed in the straw.'

No such luck.

The park bench then. On the Rue de la nowhere.

The night drags on. Slept not a wink. Not a wink. Not even half a wink. Was too afraid of being devoured by rabid strays or, worse, being actually seen in this humbled state by another living soul.

Oh, spoke too soon.

'What 'ave ve 'ere zen,' the voice of the night-watchmen or so whom I recognised once his full uniformed frame emerged from the surrounding night-mist. 'A stray per'aps. Maybe ve should call ze pound, non?'

'Ahem excuse me officer,' springing to my feet, 'but I am an Englishman and would like directions to my embassy if you please. I have been waiting for you as I was told this was your post, though you seem to not take such a thing seriously having clearly abandoned it for half the night.'

'Ahem,' he returns, straightening up, 'Ov course monsieur I was merely concerned for your security. If you please ze embassy is just a few blocks from 'ere - let me 'urry you along.'

I can't believe that worked. Surely he cannot have thought that I was waiting for him personally until 4am. Maybe that's not unheard of in some parts of the continent. Who knows?

Well, after three hours talking to the solid brick walls in the Embassy and they manage to verify my identity. In another three hours they contact my family who wire me a few euros. And another 90 minutes pass before booking me into some form of official accommodation. Real slick organisation. No bother at all. Not unlike the Post Office.

I'm still in Paris. Feeling slightly less love toward the place than the previous day and slightly less than the day before that and even then I was starting to see through the stardust. Now it just seems like one fog wreathed, smoke filled maze of old European left overs and polluting sprawl. Apparently, so I've heard, the French at large actually despise Paris and all things Parisian and this would seem the fate of any who actually dare to spend time in this place. Not only a quick romantic getaway but actual time after the loved-up leave.

I am back on my feet. Just about. North is north again. The sky is above my head and the earth beneath my feet. Couldn't ask much more.

I meet an acquaintance at a café by the city square. I tell him about my night on the park. Feigns sympathy.

'So, how are the times treating you this fine November?'

'Just splendidly,' I lied. 'Yourself?'

'Oh never better.' He takes a long drag on his freshly lit cigarette. 'All my ventures are booming.'

'Very good. Exactly what I wanted you to tell me. It begs the question though, why did you arrange this meeting?'

'Well, this is of course all aside from the fact that my girlfriend has run of with my best friend.' The smile is now a half smile. 'And when I say run off she is actually still staying in what was our apartment, has kicked me out, kept all the contents and now refuses to speak to me.'

'Oh dear. So you want a room for..exactly how long?'

'Just a week or so. A month at the absolute maximum.'

'It seems we find ourselves kindred in our quest for sound lodgings.' I replied. 'I was thinking of asking you for precisely the same.'

Chapter 2

So there we are. Two young men. What to do? Where to go?

'There is absolutely no hope, you know.' He sounds ominously matter of fact.

'No hope about what, exactly? No hope for humanity? No hope of a warm supper?' No hope that I will ever be rid of this petulant character?

'En France, there is no work. Unemployment is rife and all the new jobs go to French people as a matter of course.'

'Well surely we can find some means of paying our way. Though you may have a point now that the tourist swell is down.'

'You are right when you say I am right,' he states. 'There is no hope for us. However it is fortunate for you that you ran into myself, as I have a truly marvellous plan.'

'And what is that, dare I ask?'

'We will forge for ourselves careers as writers. We will together write a play and it will take Paris by storm.'

'And what will this play be called? Who will be the characters? What will happen to them?'

'These are mere details, mon ami, mere details. Just have faith in me on this one. This is the only way.'

So it seems I - well I and my new temporary-permanent companion - are destined to become playwrights of some sort, ideally before we get ourselves into so much debt that somebody starts demanding a pound of our flesh; not impossible I suppose but you could hardly argue that our quest was a completely straightforward one. But my friend seems confident. So here we go.

A few days later we meet in the park.

'Do you know how to write a play?'

No answer.

'Do you know how to begin writing a play?'

'I know exactly how to do anything you could ask, although it is understandable that one lacking in any vast experience would be as anxious as you undoubtedly come across. A play, you see is simply a series of conversations between various characters,' he continues, 'with a few stage directions thrown in to hold things together a bit.'

'So who shall play the main protagonist, hero or heroine of this "play". The story itself must revolve around the trials and eventual triumphs of a particular person or persons, should it not?'

'Well now you are in the spirit of things: I suppose one might risk the earth and say that you are right on this particular point. In as much as the play must contain characters: that is the only true observation that you have made; we cannot, after all, have a play that contains no characters.'

'Such a play would be less likely to succeed than one that contains characters.'

'I am glad that you are coming round to my way of seeing things, monsieur.'

This conversation, enlightening as it was, was to come to an abrupt end. A great behemoth of a man came careering backwards toward us and clattered, crashed before eventually upending straight over our seated position: a park bench, not too far, in fact, from the exact place I had spent that most uncomfortable of nights, which is now a few days past.

The man's coat was long and heavy, almost covering his full height and girth, but was clearly heavily used, as if he seldom took it off. He was fully bearded, and though clearly an effort had been made to keep up its appearance it was matted and uneven here and there. His eyes were heavily sacked, weary yet oddly cheerful; a flicker of life still visible beneath an otherwise sullen gaze.

The man gets to his feet, groggily, barely acknowledging our presence, and walks on, a discarded beer can clinging to his right trouser leg. Just as well; now people can hear him coming.

'You know, there is one obvious flaw in our plan to stage a theatre production,' I say as I continue our discussion.

'You're not going to start bothering me with your "why nots" and obstacles are you?'

'Well yes I am as a strange matter of fact as it is a rather large mountainous obstacle that looms as large and as present as, well, a mountain. And here it is: we have absolutely no money of any sort, and then less than that.'

'You do weary me with your lack of faith. I can barely hear your trifles. If this is meant to be a success then a success it will be. And a success it is meant to be.'

The next afternoon we meet to discuss the script.

'I think that the script itself should be left in my hands, if I'm being completely honest,' my friend states.

'Ok.'

'Of course, you are free to contribute ideas, but the final word will have to be left with me.'

'So the first thing we must decide is the length of the play.'

'What do you mean, surely we just start writing and then it will be as long as it will be?'

'And how long would that be?'

'How long is a piece of string?'

'Not that long, really.'

And so our conversation spirals into utter pointlessness and meaninglessness; we make no progress at all with either the characters or the script. One has the distinct feeling of being revealed to possess less intelligence than we were sure we had to begin with. Perhaps this is what real learning is like. Learning by doing.

With my friend's increasing delusions of success and grandeur I decide to myself that we need rescuing if our venture is to be a success. And that as a matter of urgency. But we have no money and no contacts in the theatre industry. We have, in short, nothing. Could it be possible to use this fact to our advantage?

I sit on the same park bench pondering this question from various angles. We are in Paris after all, the home of some of the greatest writers and performers and artists of the past century who all endured poverty and obscurity for the sake of their craft. Artists; writers; poets; philosophers; and those pretending to be artists, writers, poets and philosophers: us being firmly in the second group but aspiring to be admitted to the first.

In the meantime the gentleman who had disturbed our working session a day before, I noticed, had secretly slipped into the place on the bench beside me, and was eating a sandwich.

'Excuse me, stranger, sir,' I nodded in the direction of the gentleman, 'are you lost, do you need any assistance?' He continues eating his sandwich. 'Its just that we bumped into one another yesterday afternoon, or at least you bumped into us, do you recall?'

There is still no response from the gentleman.

So I persist. 'Ahem,' this time so he could hear me quite clearly, 'please sir, is there anything I can help you with, anything at all?'

This time the gentleman in the coat seems to have registered my presence, and slowly places his half eaten, simple looking sandwich on his lap.

'Per'aps,' finally the gentleman responds, turning abruptly to face me directly and mocking the manner of my loud enunciated questioning, 'I am choosing to ignore you.'

Its odd how much you can pick up when somebody speaks just a few words. The mans voice was deep and resonant, yet had a crisp edge as though his thoughts seem to flash across his features in a manner that was almost observable. Or was it simply my imagination? It just took me by surprise when he finally said something, that's the only thing.

Perhaps it is best not to talk to strangers in this city. That is a piece of advice that they give to travellers and foreigners, especially at night on the underground, but it seems to ring true in the middle of the day on the park bench. Rude Parisians and all that jazz.

We have more pressing concerns. Both me and my partner in crime are soon to be not just without permanent residence but actually physically on the streets. That is not a place that you want to be in Paris. Especially at night as I only know too well.

Perhaps surprisingly, then, as I have always thought him used to his home comforts, I have to say my friend seems rather more concerned with pressing on with our ambitious project, than things he puts in the bracket of "mere details".

'What if we actually end up roaming the streets of Paris?' I posed this question to my friend a day later.

'What, you mean like we are doing now?'

'Yes but at night, when "they" come out to play.' I widen my eyes and stare at my companion, partly to try to spook him but also to warn him of the reality of living on the streets at night – which, as far as I was aware, he was altogether ignorant.

'Oh when "they" come out to play. And who are these mythical, mysterious "they"?'

'Well they could be real or they could be hallucinations: If they're real its bad; and if your mind is telling you that imaginary figures are real; then its also bad.'

'So what's good?'

'GOOD! Nothings GOOD! We are days away from being banished from already temporary lodgings; we have nowhere to stay and no source of income; in a country that despises foreigners; and in a city that is notorious for the delirium of the unfortunate underclasses, which, my dear companion, we will be set to join in an all too transient space of time!'

I almost thought for a second that I had actually frightened the poor fellow with my hot temper and whether I had or not I instantly felt bad and restrained myself.

'Well, the difference between you and I is that I do not believe in worry. Your philosophy is that we should try to sort everything out so that all does not go awry. I think that that is the exact attitude makes them go awry in the first place and things have a habit of sorting themselves out if you just leave them be.'

Oh he is wise.

'Yes I suppose that's why you are kicked out and living with me at the moment,' I mutter to myself.

People go crazy in different ways. You think yourself immune to such misfortune, something which preys upon other, less fortunate souls.

For fleeting moments, though, when faced with immediate circumstance, you start to entertain the possibility of a much more precarious reality.
Chapter 3

'I have decided that the chief character or protagonist in our play should be feminine. That is to say I have calculated that our chances of success are greater with a heroine; than with a hero.' My friend breaks the silence as we sit around pondering how exactly to advance our project.

'And how have you worked that one out?'

'Well, to start with, I read somewhere that slightly more than 50% of the population is female.'

'Negligibly more, but ok.'

'And out of this greater percentage a higher proportion of the female population attend the theatre than of the male population.'

'Where are you sourcing this information?' another question I don't really want to know the answer to but feel I should ask.

'It matters not - it is a fact. Just as the fact that a female protagonist will empathise with the greater female contingent while wooing the smaller male audience.'

'Wow. This is all very shrewd.'

'And it will be up to you to invent this character now that I have done the lions share of the hard work.'

'So what you are saying is that you haven't actually thought of a main character you have just decided that they will have a vagina. That does sound like hard work.'

'The rest is mere details, mon ami, mere details.'

We sit in the park again to try to make some headway.

'We must find somewhere more comfortable, or at least more conducive to creative and original thought than this same park bench. I am starting to think we are being followed.'

'You have been increasingly paranoid ever since you spent one night on the streets and I think you should admit to yourself that you were a worrier before this. Everything is fine and nobody is following us. Its just your imagination.'

'But we are here to talk about our problems, specifically with this script, rather than dissecting my obvious personality defects.'

'Right you are.'

'Do you think that our heroine should be a kind of anti-heroine, you know, have a dark past?'

'You tell me, its your character.'

'No its not, you came up with the idea.'

'Did not.'

'Shall we write a pantomime instead?'

This is not going well. I cannot continue to apply for extensions to the temporary shelter I have secured when, as with anywhere that is not your home nation, no source of income equals no sympathy. And yet we are still pressing on with our ambitious project and, well, I think it would be misleading to suggest anything other than the fact that we seem to be moving absolutely nowhere at a rate of knots.

It occurs to me that maybe me and my friend are just not creative types. I'm sure we could do a good job of casting, directing, even acting in a play, but writing is just escaping us at this moment in time. Oh the stress! It is the first time in either of our lives that we have found a pursuit that could turn out to be beyond our capabilities.

This does not however seem to deter my companion from believing that we should carry on regardless, as I think he has decided that it is our 'destiny' to write this play, which is also the word he used when he was planning to propose to his last love interest, the one who now lives in his ex-house with his ex-best buddy.

Again I find myself pondering the same questions, only now conscious of the fact that I have started to mildly perspire throughout the thought activity.

I am simply going to pen the first line of our play and maybe that will answer the questions like where and when the thing is set for us. There is nothing else for it. So here it is:

Step off my threshold, street-prowler, or I'll stick this steel straight through your sorry guts.

So where did that come from and what does it mean? I take it for given that these are the words of our heroine that we have set upon but are yet to create in any real form.

She sounds gutsy, even vicious, raised by wolves or, even worse, on the streets. The streets of Paris. And in one of the peripheral poor quarters, not the affluent centre. She seems to be defending a family: perhaps meaning she has no father or husband to do it for her. She doesn't seem afraid of making threats if she is threatened but wouldn't hurt anybody otherwise. She is a heroine and although being dragged up in rough areas through rough times has made her street-smart with a thick exterior and her past will likely seem dodgy in patches as she takes a pragmatic approach to survival, she does all this to defend those she loves and so, in the end, she wins us over.

Wow. Does this count as progress? Lets try another line.

This is what you say if anybody that you do not know comes too close to our home while I am not here. You understand? I am only going to get bread.

She must be talking to her eldest sibling. Or it could be her mother talking to her? And of course, something unfortunate and cruel must happen to her mother while she is "only going to get bread", leaving our heroine to fend for herself and her younger siblings. She could even be a middle child.

'Its brutal; its daring; I love it.' I show my progress to my friend and he expresses his appreciation. 'I must admit I was thinking along similar lines myself. What you have done will suffice.'

'Thanks,' I say. 'So where do we take it from here?'

'Well, credit where it is due, my fine friend: I asked you to create this character for us, you know, fill in the details and that is exactly what you have done. I can't fault you one bit.'

'In fact you even seem to have jumped ahead of us a little and have conceived a major event: the death of the mother. This is very impressive. Perhaps I have been underestimating you all this time.'

'I should probably let you know at this point that there is a small chance that we may have to stay together longer than I had anticipated. My girlfriend, I mean ex-girlfriend has managed to stake a legal claim to our flat so it may be that I am out for, ahem, ever. Not meaning to alarm you of course, just a notification.'

We are hard up. Our fate of being cast out onto the some of the roughest streets in Europe now seems imminent. And what do we seem to be doing to try and get ourselves out of a hole? Writing a play. A play for goodness sakes! Do either of us know how to actually achieve the full and financially successful production of such a thing? My friends ego we do!

Stability. All we need is stability.

The issue is of course that there is a marked difference between making an amateurish start on a script and actually completing something that has got any sort of a chance of success in a city teeming with aspiring playwrights. If my friend is really serious about this, which, when I have pressed him, he seems to be, we need to put our foot on the gas as well as hope to the heavens that some stardust falls on our efforts. Fat chance.

I am sitting contemplating our impending doom. I am becoming erratic. I maintain that I am not paranoid; I am realistic. And the reality is we are doomed. Doomed; my companion would perhaps say destined, to face the dark, cold, treacherous, streets of Paris.

Chapter 4

They finally turfed us out last night, after a week of officially being classed as squatters we were no longer to find lodging at her majesty's pleasure due to: "limited availability and prioritisation" of available rooms. Apparently an 8-month pregnant single lady with two other children was seen as a higher priority. I guess we can't argue but we still feel unjustly dealt with.

We are, in short, alone.

Or so we thought. It turns out that the moment you become actually out of house and home, there exists an unofficial society that are immediately attuned to your plight the moment your feet touch the streets proper. They exist in the books of no government or charitable organisation or establishment; they have no official residence or slogan outlining their cause; in fact for all intents and purposes, they do not really exist: not to the rest of the world, at least.

Leave your world, enter theirs.

We were a-feared of them at first. To me they were "the strangers". Vagabonds. Thieves. Criminals and ex-cons. The insane. The lonely wanderers. Not much differentiated from the stray dogs that howl a cacophony through each night in parts of the city. Mean stray dogs. To be avoided at all costs.

That is, until my friend decided to spark up a conversation and a cigarette with one of them on our first lonely night. I assume he was merely desperate for the latter and thought this gentleman may be in possession of a light as he'd lost his matches and I, as he also often cajolingly points out to me, am the only non-smoker in Paris.

'What in blazes is it that you are doing, are you losing your mind?' I indignantly aim something between a whisper and a scream at my companion after pulling him aside.

'The only thing I am losing is my patience with mistrustful pessimists who are incapable of reaching out and forming inter-human relations with others.'

'You were not "reaching out and forming inter-human relations"; you were reaching out for desperate drag on those cannabis scented cigarettes of yours and now I have to stand and breath your foul air,' I start.

'You could just do the sensible thing and start smoking like the rest of us.'

'Yes, tempting but I'll pass for now, thanks for the advice.'

'Advice; any time, plenty more where that came from.' I would protest but he seems too engrossed in his semi-spliff.

'I have found us a place to stay the night,' my friend pipes up after a few obviously deep and satisfying intakes of non-oxygen.

'I have a certain foreboding in me that this is a result of your brief connaissance with that peculiar looking gent over there.'

'Ah, indeed it was. You're more observant than I often give you credit for.'

'So where is this accommodation that has been graciously brought to our attention and does it come with the luxury of, say, having a roof?'

'Well I don't just know, he never really filled me in on small details like that and, in all honesty, I didn't feel compelled to ask. He just wants us to go with him. He's waiting yonder.'

'You didn't feel compelled to ask. Right. Then why don't we just follow him into the midst of wherever?'

'My thoughts exactly. What are we waiting for?'

Obviously because within five minutes we were hurtling at breakneck speed, or what ever the on foot equivalent is, through the twists, turns, nooks and crannies of every side street, back alley and sewer side between where we were and wherever it is that we are headed.

'I really don't understand why we are following this unknown person,' I half whisper as our guide leads the way some distance ahead of us.

'You cannot know everything in life, or else you would never take any risks and never discover anything new.'

'There are risks and then there are risks. This is a risk.'

'That's the spirit. Now less talking and more walking.' He starts to stride ahead to bridge the widening gap between our frantic feet and our guides nimble, seemingly effortless hopping in between and over the city scree lining every section of our path.

We lose things along the way. Our bulky suitcases didn't make it across an outflow that by necessity had to be traversed, not without wetting our socks just a little. Next we lose a largish piece of hand luggage to the same greedy waters, but further on as we scale across some kind of carrier pipe; wide enough to walk on, just, but as this time was the case, my friends balance was paid for with the jettisoning of his bag in a moment of instability. The city goes on and on. We become lighter and lighter until we are left with only a backpack of essentials apiece and a case containing the beginnings of our planned production, which I strive to keep safe along the journey.

On that subject, as we had our gazes pinned to the undulating surfaces we were expected to negotiate as we put more and more distance between ourselves and the city, I found just enough concentration to start to think about advancing the story of our character just a little.

Thinking about the practicalities of staging a production, we should probably set the whole thing around this homestead of our heroine: best for the story and the budget. This way, as the story goes, we will only have to bother with one set for the whole thing. It has the advantage of simplifying the story for us as well. The villains will come to her, not the other way round.

'Don't go looking for trouble,' could be one of her pearls.

The next task will be to introduce one or two more characters. Where we are headed may give us some sources of inspiration. At this point in time, I am still convinced we are being led into the den of some local warlord who means to entangle two unsuspecting young foreigners into his web of drugs and guns and pimping and stuff.

Already biting into his own, my friend comes up to me and chucks a piece of fruit into my cold fumbling hands. Just managing to hold onto the thing, I recognise it as a kind of pear, seemingly picked straight from the bush.

'Is this stolen from somebody's garden?'

'Couldn't care less if it was. Its delicious.'

Too tired and hungry to protest, I take a bite and we stop for a short rest.

'So, any ideas where we are going then? The chap doesn't speak much does he? And he seems to insist on walking round with that black sort of hooded thing.'

'Nice enough bloke though, never short of a light.'

'Do you think we are going to die?' I think out loud.

'We are all going to die.'

'Do you think we are going to die today?'

'Hmmm..' before he could finish my friend sets of walking again as our guide starts to disappear round a meander along this stretch of canal.

We spend the next part of the journey ducking and diving through an unfathomable maze of gaps in the cities defences: holes in fences; fissures through tumbled brickwork; ditches and dark, dank tunnels; but no trouble: every shady character lain along our path seemed to offer a silent nod or half-wink to our mysterious guide.

The menace comes instead from the skies. The canopy cracks open and in an instant it starts to pour - so much so that our front-runner ducks to find shelter.

We dart inside what appears to be a tiny disused shack. Inside we find more comfort than we were expecting. A pair of wooden chairs. A collection of newspapers scattered on a small accompanying table-top, hmmm.. a month old. Hope nobody's around. No décor of course; just walls of wood and floors of stone. A hearth in one corner looks as though it may just be usable for somebody willing to stock and stoke it. Small comfort, but preferable to facing the elements.

The rain continues.

'So, why don't you show me the progress you have made on this project of ours then.'

'Gosh your not still thinking about that are you?'

'But of course, how else shall we raise our spirits and deliver ourselves from this predicament?'

'Well in all honesty, we still haven't made a great deal of progress.' With the rain I think my earlier enthusiasm had gone and I was now just thinking about survival, rather than the theatre.

'Its only to keep our spirits up. Mind if I smoke?' Well yes actually but that has never stopped you before.

'By the window.'

'So, if you don't mind my saying so, it strikes me that we need a reason why the homestead of this young lady is under such threat from these strangers.' Well that's sounds like an actually reasonable comment from the person who is apparently my co-writer.

'Is she involved in the sex trade, you know, in a non-sleazy way?'

'The answer is no but exactly how can you be involved in the sex trade in a non-sleazy way?'

'Drugs then.'

'She's not you. We are not trying to mire her character beyond repair.'

'That hurts. I am a responsible addict.'

'I think you're talking more about the criminals that we have yet to write in. I suppose her mother could have owed money to some of these people.'

'And now they are looking to take it out of her.'

'So she has a deadline.'

'Well yes. But I think we said this was going to be a character lead production rather than story first.'

'So.'

'So we need the other characters. Before we can fill in the story.'

'But we need the story before we can fill in the characters.'

'No we invent the characters and build the plot around them.'

'But how do we know which characters to invent without knowing what they will be doing?'

I suppose my friend has a sort-of point, but he is nonetheless, wrong.

'How about this then, I'll leave it to you to invent our first villain.'

'Is it even modern to have a character as either a hero or villain?'

'Don't worry about that for now, just conjure something. You are always telling me of your abundant capabilities and greater experience, shouldn't this be a stroll down the street?'

'Of course it will be, pas de question.'

And with that he plunges into what is clearly an effort to concentrate as hard as one is able under the influence of the sorts of flora and fauna that he inhales.

'I have it,' he exclaims, after seven and a half minutes. 'The villain is of course, herself. A frustrated and contrary character, she is her own worst enemy.'

'I wasn't really thinking of anything as literary and deep as schizophrenia just yet. And besides we don't want her to be the enemy do we?'

'Of course. Well in that case perhaps, I don't know, somebody who runs round the neighbourhood pinching bread from the poor.'

'And then attempting to sell it back to them maybe?' I say to encourage the development of his thoughts.

'You know that's actually not such a bad idea.'

'Well I suppose this small time neighbourhood villain of her youth could act as a pre-cursor to the big time crooks she faces as she grows through the play.'

Well this is more like progress. Long way to travel though, in more ways than one perhaps.

And then I find myself alone. The weather has ceased almost as suddenly as it started. We were starting to move again.

Spent the next stretch of the journey desperately trying to catch the other two in fear they might disappear around some corner and leave me stranded amongst the characters of the low world.

I find myself torn between the wish for this arduous and precarious journey to come to an end, and the knot of dread that was tightening and growing in my innards at the thought of where it was we were going to eventually end up.

Darkness by now settles over our heads, but this part of the city seems to be just coming around as the light waves its final fingers above the murky horizon. Our guide seems to stay noticeably closer by as we continue to make haste. The path is now more even, level, straighter and less obstructed than the former portion of the way: but the eyes were all around us. You couldn't see them; you could feel them. Whispers. Was it just my imagination? The mind plays tricks. The creeping shadows seem to know things.

We begin to hope we are nearing our final resting place. Though the stranger in the hood seems to become less sure of himself; second guessing his own judgement. He darts down one path only to swivel round and lead down another. We are lead, street by street, alley by alley, inch by inch, down a maze.

We descend further into darkness. Without keen sight all that can be discerned is black around us. We follow the sound of the footsteps. All becomes steadily quiet save the shuffle of our feet.

Then we see it: a dim ember-glow; a pin point at the farthest reaches of visibility. We follow its lead, allured by its warmth and light.

Then we hear it. Songs and shifty laughter. Half merry; half sad. As we approach we are lulled almost to a state of slumber by the sounds but our dogged feet determine on toward them.

Until eventually, collapsing, we arrive.
Chapter 5

We had arrived to a welcome of sorts. Through an empty wooden doorframe we enter into a yard. At the centre of the yard was a collection of blackened metal dustbins, crowded together, the contents of which smouldered within and radiated a welcome warmth. But the light was limited and failed to reach much further than the distance to one's palms held up to the heat; certainly not to the recesses of the yard.

We place our frozen fingers over the rays of the heat and into their low light. And as we did, a set of fingers appeared on the other side. And then another. And another. We pulled our hands away in surprise, and the hands disappeared. Then we tentatively return them. And the hands show their fingers once more, popping up around the glow. Nobody said a word. But we stood and warmed our hands by the fire. Our strength seemed to return to us a little. We wondered who was with us in the yard, but at that moment, it seemed a question less important. It was to us right to stand, just a little while longer, and share this first hospitality, not with laughter and chatter and faces of friends, but in shifting silence with the cold outstretched fingers of faceless strangers.

But now it was day. The morning was largely uneventful; not least because we were asleep for most of the time. The yard was littered with bodies. Under various disguising throws and bags and blackened blankets..

In fact, half the inhabitants of that place had left at the crack of dawn to attend to their daily tasks, whatever it is they were. And as we rubbed our eyes awake the remainder were upping and leaving, until we were left, once more, alone. But we are still alive.

'Shall we crack on then?' my overloud travelling companion deals me a hearty, unwelcome slap on the back.

'Tsssshhhhh,' I hiss. 'You'll wake the neighbours.'

'We're not in the suburbs now. The outskirts; not the suburbs.'

'All the more reason to be on our guard then.'

'Relax it's the morning. Everybody's half hung over and besides, the locals are quite friendly, you know.'

'Please don't tell me you stayed up half the night drinking and smoking their wares?'

'Well the real question that you should ask yourself is, how can you be completely sure what you were doing all night? After all, do you really remember?' Grins.'They're just locals.'

I had a feeling that we would have plenty of time to get better acquainted with the "locals" probably sooner than we knew.

We headed off and out into the streets. Where we were going we didn't know nor was there any real purpose in our first foray out of the yard. We really just wanted to see where we were.

The daylight revealed to us what the darkness had hid from our eyes the night before.

Where we had ended up was not Paris. Not the Paris I recognised. The air was more pleasant. But the streets were un-looked after. Neglected. Even foul in places. A far cry from the spotless city streets surrounding the oft visited hot-spots.

My friend headed left and I headed right out of the yard. I spent a few cents on a hunk of bread from a tiny bakers set up on the street, the vendor surly looking but happy enough to accept my custom. Now to try to find out where we actually are. I ask the street vendors but they seem unresponsive. Lets try to put some distance underfoot and maybe I'll spot things on the horizon.

I skip through the streets heading, I think, west. Got my bearings, keep going west. Trickier than it sounds, though, as it turns out. So I turn left, right, right again, then left, cut through an alley, turn left onto a wider street, follow it to the end, right, left, right, no signs reaching the edge of this neighbourhood, left, left, round a bend, through a drinking house, now I am sure I am still heading west. Take a right, then a left, then a right, and low and behold I am back within sight of the yard, right where I started.

The second time I head left. Straight on, through a tunnel, straight on, left, left, right, right. Bridge over a muddy flow, past a row of street vendors, wait, hang on I've seen this before.

'How do I get out of this place?' They all seem reluctant to shed any light on my plight, I can even detect a supressed snigger in one or two of the street sellers.

Don't think they are there to lend a hand.

I decide to take a rest and dart into dinghy looking.. I suppose you would call it a bistro. I sit down and pick up a copy of a local newspaper. Should keep up with the headlines. Nothing of any real interest though. Same old.

As I flick through though I get this feeling, that there are eyeballs on me. I don't know what it is. Some say at the mere sight of spiders they feel like they are crawling up and down their flesh; well it's the same with me when I think I am being watched. The reason I left England was because I couldn't bear the CCTV cameras (thankfully I haven't seen any around here). I slam my paper down quickly, but everybody's noses are suddenly in their soup. Suspicious.

A café can be a good place for creativity. Apparently we are here solely to pursue our project. So we must keep our focus on it despite all else. If I remember we had decided the play will open with our heroine fending off a mischievous bread-thieving local fiend in her youth. So the question is, who will be the arch-villain of her mature years?

We will need further inspiration to answer that one. In the mean time I feel intensely uncomfortable in this place so I think I'll cut my rest short and head back out onto the streets.

This time I do not bother trying to head in any particular direction, I just run, down any and every street, as far as I can, in the expectation, hope, that I will eventually locate an exit point to these parts of the city. So I run down streets, alleys, bridges, hop the odd fence, traverse rivulets, navigate city sewage, haul myself over high walls, climb and fall out of a tree, leap across rooftops, tumble down street-stairs, ending up, exhausted in a heap resembling the sacks of garbage that now act as my sitting companions.

One of those times that I wish I smoked.

I have no idea how to leave this wretched dump and no idea how to get back to the yard or indeed where my companion has gotten to, no doubt in some drinking whole, smoking.

So it would appear that I am, for the immediate future, and perhaps a good while after that, trapped. I've always hated enclosed spaces, and this street isn't all that wide now that I come to think about it. You know I think I'll just loosen my shirt collar a little. Its really does feel warm for this time of year. And the air feels relatively thin as well. Oh look, the bin bags are dancing. They are dancing in the street. Just look at them. They are beautiful. Oh dear I feel faint. I feel..I feel f..I think I'm about to..

I groggily, hazily start to come to my senses. The sights around me are a blur. I can see dark, moving shapes; getting bigger; coming closer; until they start to bear down on me. I can hear voices; but can make out no words. Just sort of hovering big black blobs obscuring the light in every direction.

'Where am I?' I choke, spluttering the words as I attempt to pull my body up from the street floor.

No reply, just a few murmers.

Everything is still a blur. They are still standing over my head. I can just about make out the sound of their whispers. Are they talking about me? Deciding amongst themselves how to divide everything on my person between them before leaving me starkers in the street. Or concocting cruel ways to toy with my sanity before dealing me an untimely appointment with destiny for their own amusement?

Well, I think I am amusing at the very least. I can certainly hear titters.

To my feet. Enough of this nonsense. Oops, no maybe not. I crash back down to floor and find my self crumpled in a lowlier position than to start with.

Ok breath. Just breath. It will all start to come into focus in just a few short moments.

Faces:- can I make out faces? Four, five, six; no three, four, five. Maybe its just the one face I can see repeated six times. Come on snap out of it. They are laughing at you in this state. What would your grandmother say? Probably join in laughing, think of it.

Then they grab me.

'Oi, unhand me this instant! Cowards!' They have no right to touch me like this. 'Release me this instant!'

And they do. And I fall, hard, onto the ground, unable to support my frame.

And then they scatter. Flee. Not to be seen in near sight or far. I remain pinned to the floor, face a scratched and bruised mess. I do not know where I am, nor the location of my companion. And whether they were friend or foe, the others have fled my sorry state and left me in a heap.

And there is no other soul in sight.

I manage to prop my back up against the wall and lean my head back against its hard surface, my only warmth a drop of blood that trickles from my lip and drips down my neck.

'Oh world!' I cry. 'What wrong have I ever done you? Why do you leave me low? Even the street dwellers flee from me, laughing.'

No answer. Only a silence I can almost hear. Now even the floating black bags have left it mocks me all the louder.

The panic sets in once more. I can't..breath. Everything turns to suffocating black.

When I come around I am still alone. And dusk is approaching. I drag myself to my feet and walk down the street. I pick my feet up, and after a while, I start to recognise a few of the streets. I follow the odd one, and before I know it, I arrive back at the yard, my companion waiting outside.

This time even he can see I am a bit under the weather and makes no remarks on my bedraggled appearance.

My companion looks calm and relaxed, like he hasn't really been anywhere and stamps out his cigarette butt on the ground.

'Did you meet anybody interesting on your.. travels?'

'You could say that, though meet isn't the word I would use.'

'I understand.'

'You do? Well then you might like to understand that I was accosted and left for dead by a group of scoundrels.'

'Oh really. How many of them were there?'

'Well, I don't know exactly but at least a good number. It was quite frightening.'

'I'll bet.' Long pause.

'So what have you been up to all day, dare I ask?'

'Working.'

Think we'll leave it at that. My friend has several varying definitions of the word 'work' and I have small desire to get into that conversation.

'And do we have any plans for the rest of the day?'

'Not really.'

'Well shall we try to do some writing? After all isn't that why we are here?'

'It is. As well as the cheap rent in the yard.'

'Rent? We have to pay rent to sleep in there?'

'Sort of.'

Dusk has fallen and we re-enter the yard.

I have been silently dreading this moment. The point at which we actually have to, I don't know, talk, to the strangers that prowl around the city by day and make here their dwelling by night.

I creep forward and peer around the doorpost to see what we are dealing with.

'Dear me there are millions of them.' I panic and run half way down the street.

'There is hardly anybody in the yard, what are you running away from?'

'Do they have knives? I bet they have knives.'

'I don't know why don't you come in and ask them yourself?'

I run into the yard and quickly retreat into a corner, hoping beyond hope that nobody notices me.

Suddenly my hands are the most interesting thing that I have ever seen.

My friend turned out to be right. At that point there weren't many bodies in the yard. But it slowly starts to fill as the vagabonds return from their days wandering. One by one they trickle in.

Some are hooded; some are cloaked. Some seem cheerful; others hide their eyes. Some walk briskly; others drag their feet.

My co-writer, as he insists on heron-in being referred to, is sitting with a group playing cards on the dusty floor.

I am staying put, thank you very much. Don't communicate or make eye contact unless your life depends on it. And it may well depend on it. And I was right: some of them do carry knives. I can see them as they walk past me, swinging from the side of their belts, hidden beneath their cloaks.

'Are you going to come and join in or what?'

'Join in with what. Death Poker?'

'You joker you.' Looking down to my floor-seat, 'they're friendlier than you could possibly imagine.'

'They have weapons,' I sit and shiver, 'concealed about their persons, don't you know.'

'But you're missing the point. Haven't you, in that case of yours, hidden, concealed the mightiest weapons of them all.'

'What do you mean? I don't carry weapons or dangerous objects. Explain yourself.'

'Oh I think you do. A pen. Paper and a pen. With it you can wreak destruction, or rebuild an empire.'

'Actually it's a pencil.'

'Deadlier still. The more silent assassin.'

'Well, is all this supposed to make me feel less threatened?'

If you are not going to come to us, then we might have to come to you.

'We? Oh so you consider yourself to be one of them now do you?'

'Not only I: the pair of us have in fact joined the ranks of the street dwellers whether we like it or not.'

'Well I certainly am unsure whether I do like it at all: even one little bit.'

'If I make them promise to keep their knives sheathed will that make any difference at all?'

'No.'

'Maybe you will feel more relaxed if you get to know a few faces.'

'I doubt that very much. I bet some of the rascals that accosted my person today could be in this very yard.'

'In fact they are. That's them in the corner.'

'The knaves! I'll .. I'll..well I shan't be speaking to them in any case: beat a man while he is down.' I am ruddy faced by this point. 'No; I think I should like to leave this place as soon as is possible. I shall sit and I shall write..hang on, how did you know it was them who..?' This is all very disconcerting, but my companion has already re-joined his new friends.

I have no idea where I left the character plot that I am supposed to be creating; not that I really care any more. It takes a certain amount of faith in my friends conviction that this venture is somehow going to dig us out of this inescapable pit.

Ah yes, that's right. We were contemplating the creation of a villain, the "bad person" required to validate the status of our heroine as a heroine in actual fact. Well in fiction actually but there we go. In fact: in fiction: in fact.

I reckon I'll focus on the opening scene. If the youth of our heroine is comprised in the first scene or scenes, and these times are a foreshadow of events later on in her life story, then writing her youth goes a long way to writing the whole thing. Its essentially the same: just a bit bigger.

So the guy currently navigating the smoky seas with a number of locals, while pretending to be involved in a friendly game of whist - i.e. my co writer who indecently it would seem does very little or no writing - reckons to a local bread snatcher.

At a time of bread shortage: oh the scoundrel. A sharp business brain for a young'un, he hordes the bread and sells it at inflated prices. He could perhaps work for some local bread fiend, or a conglomerate that has a monopoly on bread and its distribution. Sounds pathetic. But lets roll with it.

Stop. I am being watched. I can feel it. The gentleman sitting directly across the yard from me, seated in the same position, is I am sure too conspicuously aware of my presence. Hmmm, maybe its just my paranoia. But it feels like more. Why, I wonder, do they find me this interesting? Do they believe that we are in possession of bundles of money, or cigarettes, or contraband?

For the next ten minutes I engage in a sort of covert stare-off. I look up, he looks down. I can't quite catch him looking directly at me; he is too cunning for that.

I tire and return to my studies. Realistically can anybody really have a monopoly on bread? You could just buy flour and make it yourself. So they would have to have control of the milling industry and have corrupt politicians in their back pockets. Intrigue. Suspicion.

There remains a question over the style of the play, and the question is this: prose or poetry?

Perhaps we could accommodate both; I don't really know. I have made an inching, timid start with the impossible task of writing the story; but one thing I do know for certain: I; we; have absolutely no chance with writing poetry. Jack and Jill went up the hill is a profound piece of verse in my world: such is my sheer, bewildered admiration for poets.

I am starting to feel tired. This question will have to wait until the morning.

I try to sleep. Under a starlit sky. The yard is a haunting place during the night. There is always a fire of some sorts on the go. A sentry keeps watch all night, so I'm assured, though you'll never be sure exactly who that is. A random soul, half awake smoking a pipe would be my best guess.

I complain of course, but perhaps there are a few upsides to sleeping on the streets. All I mean is we have to look to turn anything to our advantage; channel our aggression and malcontent into productivity.

The stars. If the stars cannot inspire poetry then what can? When we sleep in the yard we shelter under tin-roof canopies, riddled with so many holes that you can see the stars beyond. And starry nights in Paris are a sight to behold. But I know nothing about the stars. Or about poetry.

And on and on goes our futile quest.

So I sit and gaze at the nameless constellations above my head. That one looks a bit like a man. That one on the other side is a funny shape; I wonder what they call it. Must have read a book on this at some stage in life. If I did I have forgotten it. To be perfectly honest I think the trauma of this whole experience is having an adverse impact on my otherwise functional memory.

Orion. Now I remember. Orion the hunter. Orion is her father. She has her father's strong spirit. She will need her strength to fight the forces that oppose her.

Oriana. Her name is Oriana. A child of a wanton women. Her real father we don't know. Her father is in the stars. That's what her mother tells her. She will always look to the stars.

Now I am tired. To bed.

Chapter 6

'Psst, wake up!!' I feel a non-to- gentle grip, shake and shudder awake. 'I have, for this fine morning, a marvellous plan.'

'Hurrah.'

It is bitterly cold, and in all honesty, I don't agree with my friends uncivilised definition of the word "morning". There is a mist around us, even in the confined area of the yard, and it doubles the chill of the early pre-dawn.

We had previously been the last to wake and leave after our first night in this new place, but today we would be among the first.

At this point I feel an intense urge to divulge the exact nature of this "marvellous plan" from my ever charming companion as he does have a strange habit of grouping the arduous; risky-bordering on stupid; miscalculated; blister and headache inducing; or whatever heady mix of such all under this one same banner. It is a 'marvellous' idea simply because he thought of it. The trouble is it is twice the effort to dissuade his courage once it has its hold on him. And by courage, I of course mean of the kind that has long since past our borders into the land of doubtless stupidity. He is not really courageous: even the slightest bit; come now. His plans would have to work out for that to be true.

'We are going on an adventure.'

'I thought we were already on an adventure.'

'Then an adventure within an adventure.'

'Well it was an adventure coming to Paris in the first place: especially for a timid soul such as I.'

'Then an adventure: within an adventure: within another overall adventure; so many adventures.'

'Yes, arguably too many.'

'No such thing, mon ami, no such thing!'

I wrap my coat, that I haven't removed in two days, the tighter around me and shudder; partly from the cold and partly through dread at what the cruel day has in wait for us.

'So where are we going?'

'To forage for food.'

'To what?!'

'To forage for food.'

'Well I.. this is absolutely..I can't even imagine what..this is most unplanned for, I mean..'

'You mean what?'

'Well what do you mean exactly when you say forage?'

'I mean forage.'

'What, like a dog? Like a stray dog forages for food?'

'Yes, like a dog. Like a stray dog.' His tone is matter-of-fact and passionless.

'Right. Well we had better get to it then.'

For the second time, we head out of the yard, into the streets. Although it was cold inside, the protection offered by our walled abode became apparent to us as the still lingering chill-mist, once flurried into a frenzy by the changing winds that seem to find their way toward us from both directions, dealt us a sharp slap around both cheeks. At least, that was the harsh impression we were met with immediately upon stepping out through the yard entrance and onto those same streets, which had so frustrated us the day before.

But today is different and we seem to have a purpose. Yes purpose. Although I really don't seem to be in the know about the things that are going on in that place, when in comparison to my companion.

This time we do not head off in different directions, pleasant as it was to enjoy a few moments of wandering to myself it did not seem to result in the benefits that I thought it may, and maybe it should be that we stick together for as long a time as is necessary. So we do not head off in different directions, but stick together, in the hope and indeed ambition of achieving our end of foraging for and finding food. I'm still half hoping that it was really some kind of alt-phrase for another, less ungentlemanly activity.

But then I turn around and my friend seems to be rooting through a crowd of dustbins. Has he literally lost all his sensibilities? Desperate times, I guess.

'What exactly is ungentlemanly about searching through dustbins?' is the reply I receive when I raise my concerns, about seven minutes after I briefly forget myself and start joining in for want of something to do.

'Nothing, no nothing at all. Forget I said a word.'

'If a gentleman does it, then it is gentlemanly. Not taking part in an ungentlemanly activity does not automatically make one a gentleman. A true gentleman makes an activity that is deemed to be ungentlemanly, gentlemanly by his mere participation in it.'

'Then we had better hope that someone like that comes along, then we wouldn't just be routing through the trash, now would we?'

'We are not just looking through the trash; we are searching for hidden treasure.'

'You mean like that half baguette you just put in your satchel?' By now my friend literally has his head buried inside an overflowing trash can in an attempt to retrieve something obviously of upmost desirability and certainly more important than listening to a word that I am speaking.

Its an odd experience, rooting through rubbish. You find things. Like odd little memories of somebody else's day or week. An empty paper coffee cup with red lipstick stains concentrated on one side; spent half an hour on the lips and now disposed once its use is served. A polaroid picture; taken as one of several by some happy person and discarded once its taker has picked their preferred image; and left us this one with the smiley eyes of his photo-buddy looking half over there.

Bingo. A clean toothbrush in a fresh packet. Must have clean teeth. Will have clean teeth. If the sky falls down I will yet have clean teeth.

I continue to forage, not quite so enthusiastically as my friend but I do pick out the odd "hidden treasure". A bag of dice. A jumble of comics and illustrated magazines. Pens. A knife. Should I take the knife? No, leave the knife. String. Sewing thread. A piece of embroidered cloth; could make a half-decent handkerchief. Aha, joy! A full packet of mint imperials! Of good quality too! Somebody's unfortunate loss is our great gain! Perhaps a touch overexcited but I do like mint imperials.

'Any joy?' I take my chance to quiz my trash hunting companion as he stops, sweating despite the chill, for a probably deserved breather. In response to my enquiry, he holds up a half filled black bag- and then points to several others huddled on the ground.

'Went for quantity rather than quality. Hope you don't mind.'

'So you have just thrown anything remotely edible into a bag?'

'Beggars can't be choosers.' This is the guy who was once willing to pay eight euros for a glass of mineral water. He really is embracing this new lifestyle in a rather unexpected fashion.

'I guess not. Can I offer you a mint imperial?' I ask rather jovially with my bag of mints poised open at the end of my fully extended arm.

'Can't. Allergies.' Ah, allergies.

We delve back in to our chosen portions of the trash mountain.

'Here, come and have a look at this.' My friend seems to have spotted something out of the ordinary, or what one would suppose to be the ordinary contents of a city street trash heap.

Buried under several bulging bags and other miscellaneous throwaways, seems to be some kind of image. Dusty on the surface, it is difficult to distinguish the forms that it seems to depict; but after looking closely for a while the mind accustoms itself to the dinginess of the surface and starts to interpret what it sees.

Three figures. Dressed up in costume. Beverages in one hand cigarettes in the other, grinning toward us, standing stances daring us to find fault in their bawdy dress and swagger. Could be from any decade, from the twenties even to present day, well, surely a few years old at least. But difficult to be certain.

'Interesting, but why is it interesting?' My friend is not, as a rule of thumb, interested in anything for its sentimental value.

'Well unless I'm very much mistaken..' trails off as he bends closer to examine what he thinks he has seen.

'Well come on, spit it out.'

'Well its only that..' again he leans in closer.

'I have half a reason to believe that the figures depicted in this image are already known to us.'

'Oh really? In what sense are they known to us?'

'All will become clear.'

Right whatever. To be frank I can't even make out the faces in the picture, and I don't really want to. If it interests my friend then it is bound to be; uninteresting.

Back to searching through the rubbish. Now that we have been here for a couple of hours, or at least what feels like that length of time, it could be only half an hour, or less, it occurs to me that everybody should spend at least the same length of time at some point in their lives searching through rubbish in the great outdoors.

In the next however long it happened to be, I find not only toothpaste to accompany my lonely toothbrush: but also a foghorn; a short illustrated book detailing the main events of the French revolution; a crossword monthly; a packet of patterned envelopes and a pot of ink; as well as a few other odds and ends that could be thought of as being on the borderline between interesting and useful: hopefully some of both; but perhaps neither one nor the other.

I leave the foraging for edibles up to my friend, who appears to have discovered new purpose in life; after several years seemingly in a state of boredom and ennui, foraging for the sake of survival seems to give fresh meaning to his existential state of a kind apparently he found lacking beforehand and so he plunges into his task with vigour. Or perhaps its just his appetite, for food, I can't work out which.

It turns out that we are not the only ones with this same idea. Not the only trash or treasure hunters. As the dawn drifts into morning we start to get company, at which point I begin to see the logic behind starting out as early as we did. We had our pick of the finest trash the city has to offer!

'Oh trash is big business you know, especially around these parts,' my friends attempts to give a rationale to his plan.

'Yeah, really lucrative, I can't even imagine.'

'One man's trash is another man's treasure; for every seller there is a buyer; and that's what makes a market.'

That's what makes a car boot sale.

'What, even when it comes to trash?'

'Especially when it comes to trash, mon ami, especially when it comes to trash.'

'So what are we going to do with all this trash, take it some kind of trash market?'

'Not just any trash market, the trash market, which takes place on certain mornings not too far from here. My friend we are in for a treat.'

Oh joy. A trash market. The buying and selling, of trash. What could possibly go wrong?

Plan after plan after plan.

'Is there a purpose to all this?' Again I raise my concerns to my entrepreneurial companion. 'I mean, do we actually know what we are doing? Or what we are going to do once we get to this wonderful sounding place? And how do you know about it in the first place? How can you be sure we don't have to book in?'

This enquiry is met with a shuddering 'HA!' as it seems the ludicrousness of my question should have been all too apparent.

So we walk, three bags in each hand swung over shoulders, the chill starting to lift but now energized and warmed we fail to feel it. We march on, excited by the prospect of what awaits at this famous rumoured marketplace and in the hope of lucrative returns.

It begins to baffle me as I follow down the twists and turns of the back alleys and narrow streets, incapable of discerning our route as the heaps of swag that I carry obscures my view on either side.

'How do you know about this place?' I repeat to my swag-bagging partner as I negotiate, with great difficulty not being able to see my own feet, a set of stone steps strewn with other, now tempting looking bags of thrown-away treats.

'As I have oft repeated, I know all manner of things about all manner of places.'

I tire of questions and simply follow the footsteps as best I can. We walk more and more briskly, until the briskness of the legs of my companions longer limbs forces mine into a sort of awkward canter; the best I can manage, laden as I am. The canter then turns into a sort of gallop as I desperately try to keep pace with the quickening steps ahead of me.

'Will you please slow just a touch whooaaa..' I trip on someone or something and fall flat to the floor, my luggage flies out in front of me leaving me and it in a sprawl, strewn over the ground.

But as I rise to my feet, unaided, expecting to be lost, my eyes are met with sights and my ears with sounds. It would appear that my friend was not telling tales, and that we have arrived at our destination.
Chapter 7

'You want it, we sell it! You've got it, we buy it. Welcome to the market. We don't ask where they come from. We don't care where they go. Buy your wares. Sell your wares. Welcome to the market!'

Utterly brilliant. We seem to have arrived in a horror show. The very essence of the place is torment. Noisy. Noisy and dirty and odorous and untidy and crowded and dangerous and busy and bustling and buzzing and thriving and.. actually oddly brilliant. You can't stand still, but its oddly brilliant.

You kind of enter a flow. Every body moves in one direction, not a result of great signs around the courtyard space saying "This way please", rather you imagine as the result of the canny positioning of the various vendors and merchants, if you could call them that, piling their wits together to produce a constant flow of potential business for themselves. The foot traffic flowed freely; but it was surprisingly difficult to leave.

'Where do we take all this then?' I look around only to see that my companion has already hurled himself unreservedly into the very midst of the market activity, and in fact seems to have started some kind of frenzy as he boasts of the contents of his yet unopened bags to a hungry looking party in an attempt to start a bidding war.

I of course end up getting lost. And squashed and thrown from side to side. This place being alien to my knowledge and experiences, I try as hard as I possibly am able to 'go with the flow', however this being a tad more difficult than it sounds, I resort to simply adopting my long practiced coping strategies for avoiding an onset of nerves.

Breathe in, hold, out..

'I'm being trampled! Doesn't anybody ever look where they are going?' Goodness this is actually quite dangerous. I am quite scared for my safety just at this moment.

It turns out that the rush of foot flow that left me, once more, in a heap in the dirt as the human traffic- yes a veritable stampede- surged about me was for the onset of an auction. Yes that's right. They are in fact auctioning, not a fine antique or a holiday or a Picasso, but used throwaways that the rest of us know as trash. Yeah, I know.

Anyway I survive. Just. But now my wits are thoroughly about me and I manage to latch on the tail end of this frenzied crowd as they seem to wage war against one another to become the rightful owner of what seems to be an item of particular interest. Being slightly shorter than the average man (only slightly mind) I cannot quite get a visual on where the action seems to be taking place, and what it is that is attracting so much attention.

In fact, I can't really see anything. You have too kind of piece together a picture of what is around as you are moved with the thronging masses. But if you stop to ponder for too long you might be knocked off your feet like I was.

Buy and sell seems to be the order of the day. Some are here to buy others to sell. Most will probably do a bit of both and nobody seems to leave your space alone unless you are in the act of one or the other.

My companion is far too busy when I last caught a glimpse of what he was up to. I've got my sack of stuff. What should I do with it?

The thing to do seems to be to try and flog it to one of the vendors, that is, if you can't move it yourself and cut out the middle man.

I try to sell the things I have bought. Really I do. But it just doesn't seem to work.

'How do you like the look of these, eh?' I attempt to lure a passer by to peruse my wares and attempt a salesman's smile, hands together and white teeth glaring, but achieve something rather closer to an embarrassed clergyman who had accidentally walked into a parlour, being as polite as could possibly be managed whilst reaching for the nearest exit.

'Yours for ten euros. Five euros. 50 cents.' I resort to the tactic of selling for anything I can possibly get.

I fail to attract interest.

So I approach one of these, ahem, gentlemen. This was a man round in the figure and rounder in the face, allowing for the geometric impossibility of rounder than round, not the least bit shy of course, or at least that was the distinct impression and manner that was every second exuded as he coaxed; flirted with; haggled; harassed; and entertained a crowd of onlookers in the most vigorous and enchanting manner: all it seems with the sole aim of racing the price of the goods he had for sale to their highest reasonable worth or, if possible, beyond.

However, outside of this activity, he was positively surly.

'Ahem.' I clear my throat audibly in the hope that he will pay me some attention. I had caught the trader in a rare spot of downtime after one particularly frenzied and lengthy session which had clearly exhausted his ample frame and left him dripping with the most visibly salty solution.

I try again. 'I said Ahem..'and this time I wait for a response. As long as it takes. For a while, the seller simply stands around and scratches himself. Then he lights a cigarette, sits on a low stool, more like a step, and begins to puff away.

I just stand, arms folded, tapping my feet, confident the man must be aware of the presence of a potential customer.

At last, the stool is relieved of the burden of its occupant, the cigarette, almost fully consumed is cast into a muddy puddle, and its consumer now turns back to business.

'Excuse me, I have a sack of stuff. I want to sell its contents. Can you help me?'

The response is a mere shrug. A tilt of the head and a display of moist palms.

'Look. Me seller, need.. buyer. Can you help me? I guess it depends on what items I have to sell, right?'

At this the seller contributes the first utterances.

'I will tell you only one thing, Mr man. What you have to sell, has less than nothing to do with anything, when you are here in the market.'

'What does that mean, if you don't mind my asking Mr seller?'

'It means that we don't sell things here.'

'You do. Just a few moments ago I observed your very self shifting piles of merchandise or whatever it was. Everybody in sight took a piece.'

'No Mr man, I do not sell things; I sell hopes and dreams.'

'Erm you'll have to excuse me, I'm a simple sort of person. Would you care to elaborate on that? Its just that, I have things to sell you see. Fresh out of hopes and dreams, really.'

'Not your own hopes and dreams Mr man, their own hopes and their own dreams. At this I am the master. You see a thing on its own is worth a little: but the expectation of a thing; the promise of a quantity as yet unknown seems to fetch a great deal more. Hope is the product we sell.'

The gentleman has completely lost me. What on Earth is he clap-trapping on about? I just scratch my head in puzzlement and stare at the ground.

Well that information was worth the effort it took to divulge, not. Non the wiser, I decide to move on. The seller smiles fiendishly at my perplexity and turns back to his odd jobs, no doubt in preparation for his next performance.

What on earth are we even doing here in the first place? What are we hoping to achieve by our foray into this strange arena? Come out of the other side rich? Unlikely. Pass the time of day? Well that's hope enough.

My sack of stuff weighs as heavy as ever. I think I shall have to either dump the stuff or make use of it on my own. That is if I can find the exit.

Despite the prevailing chill of the waning morning and the outdoor scenario we find ourselves in, this place is oddly stifling. And clammy. Somebody who is not at leisure when frequently brushing and bumping into the sides of perspiring bargain hunters should perhaps think twice about making a trip to this "market".

My aim is now survival. That, to me, means coming out alive and preferably intact. But I must surely have something to show for my morning when I finally do find a way to leave. For now though I am here or hereabouts. Or there or thereabouts. I am not quite sure which and my head feels funny in the heat.

What to do? How does one make money? Is it an art? A science? I guess the key is to buy high and sell low. No, buy low and sell low. No, sell low and buy high. Oh forget it. In any case it would mean the real skill lies is spotting that item which is undervalued: that everybody else has overlooked; and then of course convincing them that it is worth a fortune.

So what do I have? A few odds and ends of no remarkable significance or substantial value.

So even if I could flog these things for their intrinsic value I would not make a killing. "Hopes and dreams," he said, "I sell hopes and dreams."

So how much for a hope and how much for a dream, or are they one and the same?

Dreams come in all shapes and sizes. Apparitions; floating half finished thoughts and scenarios, the amalgamation of all anxiety; hallucination; conscious and unconscious thought that clutters the neural pathways of the average human.

And then there is day dreaming. The lack of ability to concentrate on what is in front of oneself, or the task in hand: the mind wanders to where it really wants to be; apparently anywhere but the place that one actually finds themselves in. These definitions are my own.

But in the case that the gentleman I met was more likely referring, a dream is possibly more like a future hope. Some lofty goal beyond our ordinary expectations to set the sights upon: a time, or a place, however unlikely its existence; the journey to which seems to make our present predicaments seem a mere inconvenience.

I guess if you could sell something like that it might be worth a bob or two.

My dreams tend to revolve around a nice cup of tea.

Aha! Somebody is selling tea. A dream fulfilled. Not much of a dream, some may say, but still.

But there are no chairs, so I must consume on the move. Where am I supposed to dispose of the darned bag. The tea bag, I mean.

This particular cup does taste a bit funny mind.

In the midst of all this chaos I can find no time to think, but after a time you start to get used to it. You just go where the crowd drifts and you seem to avoid being trampled. Then a while longer and it becomes second nature. And then the day dreaming starts. In stifling heat and unfamiliar surroundings it certainly is the case the I would rather find myself in another place, anywhere but here, and so my thoughts wander to places far away.

The discipline of writing a play, however, forces direction upon dreaming. If I can make no progress as a trash-pusher, I will endeavour to advance the story or make-up of this wretched production, that I have been taking for granted has some connection with our reason for being here.

Best be getting on with it. I think if I recall we have a play, staged at the homestead of our heroine, by the name of Oriana. Her mother dies or is killed and leaves with unfinished business for her daughter to deal with or else suffer indefinitely: unpaid debts; unfinished business; unwanted attention.

From all sides and all parts of the community, friend and foe, hero and villain will descend on her small holding; the reasons for which will form the fabric of our unfolding story. A jigsaw will slowly be pieced together around her simple dwelling and news will reach her abode from all quarters of the city.

She may be able to achieve what many in high places with power and resources abundant cannot.

This is all a bit vague and we need specifics.

The throngs, far from subsiding, gather and swell as the morning drifts into day. The shouting gets louder as those bartering and blasting adverts with a shout and a song of the contents of their treasure troves fight to be heard above the competitive squabble.

The draw of profits seems to be a thing that hangs in the air and draws traders and bargain hunters from all around. All I can really see that is of use is the recycling of what would be otherwise abandoned and I suppose the lucky few may know how to come out with a bit of upside. But many here seem to see something that I cannot. Maybe they just turn up for the buzz and aren't really otherwise concerned.

There remains one large and looming unanswered question. Well many actually, but one in particular sticks out. The time. The era. Is she a modern heroine? Or from another time? The Future? Or History?

I shall have to consult my co-writer with this question, and speak of the angel, I think I have just this second spotted his coat tails.

Oh and I've lost the guy out of sight. Figures.

Then it strikes me: the patrons here do not come to make money; this is a show; it is a theatre; and the showmen are the ones who do well; not the simpletons like me who assume that this place is about the mere changing of hands of goods and capital; it is all a performance and the best performers win.

Small hope for me then.

Perhaps one last effort. Can I perform like the master? Can I woo the crowds and turn a profit?

So I place my unopened sack on the ground in a bold and deliberate manner. And to my surprise, the patrons start to circle; a herd instinct now governing their movements about my sack off stuff. The patch of dirt on which it rests seems to become hallowed ground in the expectation of the value of its unbeknown containing. Only I, the seller, am left to stand close to its meagre presence, encircled by eyes I found once dazed and apathetic, certainly not looking toward myself, now hawkish and deadly alert: the expectation of my ensuing activity of the utmost importance and deepest interest.

The crowd grows impatient. The circle tightens, still moving in a steady throb around not me, but the bag on the floor.

'Who'll start me at fifty?' Don't know why fifty but sounds good enough.

Silence. Feeling very exposed. Then, after one of those moments that lasts an age, a miracle. 'Fifty right here, right here monsieur.'

Oh my goodness. Quick do it again. 'Sixty. Bid it up sixty.'

'Seventy five!' comes a much swifter but equally unexpected response.

'Seventy five do I hear one hundred?' riding my luck now.

'Back here,' returns the original bidder.

'One hundred give me one-fif..'

'Two hundred and fifty..'

'New bidder two hundred and fifty, that's two hundred and fifty, who's got three..'

'With me.'

'Three and four?'

'Yup.'

'Four and five?'

'Five hundred, I've got five right here monsieur.'

The bidders try to intimidate not only with the size and timing of their increasingly ridiculous offers, but also with their body language and vocal presence.

My goodness this is a tough gig. But I press on up.

'Five hundred who'll gimme six?'

'Here!'

'Six! I can't see it but I heard it who's got seven?' At this the bidders seemed to unanimously raise their arms as if I were calling into question the depth of their pockets; non of them keen to let on to their rivals the likes were anything but bottomless.

The enthusiasm of the encircling hungry crowd and their seeming willingness to part with their cash conceives in me a dangerous confidence.

I lose myself in the moment. My vision becomes a blur and only the now clear resounding of my own voice fills up my senses from my belly to my ears.

I am drunk on the sound of my voice, and intoxicated by the steaming vessel of my own performance.

And I don't give a sack of stuff for whose watching.

The show goes on.

'Eight!'

'Nine!'

'One thousand!!'

The price rockets, bids arriving thick and fast. No room for the timid here.

'And we're just getting started folks, show me the colour of your pockets - who's got another couple 'hundred? Come on who wants it? Who needs it?'

Suddenly it occurs to me. What on earth am I selling for a thousand Euros? A sack that I extracted from a rubbish tip this very morning.

I am going to be mobbed when they find out what the actual contents add up to. Does this make me a con artist? Is this legal?

I can't stop now. That would lead to an even worse outcome. Mass hysteria and rage in an uncontrolled environment. Not what I am looking for at all.

The bidding war has become cagy. Nobody seeming to want to make the next move. These guys seem a touch serious as they size the others up with sideways shifting glances.

Only the few seem to ready themselves to enter the next round of bidding: many once eager bidders reduced to mere spectators as the show now interests only their curiosity; and no longer their pockets.

I lower my exclamations in volume and in pitch, the attention of all around me now trapped within the arena of my performance and hanging more closely upon the speech of my lips.

'Any one eleven? That's eleven hundred for what I have in my bag?'

'One thousand fifty.'

'I'll take it! Now show me that eleven.'

'Yeah!'

'Now twelve who's stopping now?'

'I have twelve monsieur.'

The process now seems reduced to three serious bidders: the rest either lacking in boldness: or else hard cash.

The three left, now stationary allowing focus upon individuals where there had been, to that point, a moving circling mob, could now be detailed as to there appearance and manner.

The first, short, portly even, a gentleman with his hands fixed firmly in his pockets and dressed head to toe in black, with the addition of a black brimmed hat, fixed firmly around the upper reaches of each ear. The stance and sturdiness of the man are such that the brim of the hat seems, at all times, fixed on a plane perfectly at harmony with a theoretical level ground, even in the patches where the ground seemed anything but level. When he makes a bid he takes one hand, his left, from its cosy dwelling and raises an index finger to full extension, before placing it firmly back in his pocket. His features and expression are, at all times, unreadable.

Stood not three feet away is a second, taller and thinner and dressed in worn denim. Hair is thin and wispy with no apparent attempt at kemptness either their or in the quivering upturns of his long eyebrows. His brow seems moist with expectation. The line between his lips defines a nervous chewing motion and his features twitch; the more as time goes on and the expectation of his prize nears. He fiddles and flicks the finger ends of one hand and raises the other straight in the air spasmodically to signal his intention of bidding.

The third would seem by appearances to have herself considered the wealthiest. Dressed in gilded cloth and a feather plumed headdress, golden bangles adorning every inch of her half exposed forearms and hoops even larger hanging in bunches from her burdened earlobes and festooned about her generous bosom. She makes known her intentions by the seemingly more subtle method of appearing to neaten her headdress accompanied by a faint polite cough. Not to say the lady is removed or distant, she in fact seemed quite relaxed in our setting; her bare feet hugging the dirt beneath them, and she commands the space around her.

My tone now barely above the level of a whisper (and a good thing too to hide the hoarseness of my cracking chords), I proceed with a performance of utmost intensity yet vanishing volume with the remaining participants.

'1250?' Finger of the first gent. '1300?'Arm of the second. '1350?' 'Ahem,' tries the lady.

The bids now proceed in such steady increments each as careful as the next.

'1400.' Finger '1450.' Arm. '1500.' Finger. '1550.' 'Ahem.'

The bids climb higher and higher and still the reason for their interest in my merchandise escapes and even frightens me, though I try not to let on.

It is now more imperative than ever that I do not slip up.

So I kick away the banana skin that lies on the ground next to my feet and proceed.

This time with gusto.

'What are we at 1550 lemme see 16!'

Arm shoots up in the air.

'Now 17. Come on stay with me!'

The Lady presses her head dress to signal her intention to stay in the game. No ones backs down to this point.

'And 18 sirs: bow out to this lady it will cost you 18 else.'

There it is - the finger. And the twitchy man turns heel and swiftly hustles his way out. First to bite the dust and two remaining. A lady and a man.

'Now lets turn up the heat can we go 1900?'

'Ahem.'

'Now here we go 2000. Come on give it to me baby!' I put the full thrust of my vocal and bodily effort into the activity.

I am now in full flow and my hearing is attuned to everything around me, and I can see crystal clear. I can pick out the whispers.

'He can give it to me any time he likes,' one female onlooker utters to her companion.

'Get in line!' elbows the other.

Come on now don't get distracted!

There is a short pause as we approach the milestone.

'2000,' the Gentleman in black gives a rare utterance as he raises his left finger in the same unflinching manner.

'2000 with the gentleman. Can the lady give me more?'

'A lady can always, always give you more, monsieur. 2200.'

'Now were getting somewhere, what does the gent have left? This ladies going nowhere.'

'2250.'

'2300,'

'2350' come the bids in quick succession, still not deep enough for either to drown.

'At this moment the gentleman to my right has it.' I sense we are nearing the death.

Probably my death but lets try not to think about that, must concentrate on the task in hand.

Don't want to scare them away now.

'2400? I'll take 2375.'

Most discreet gesture from the woman dressed in gold.

Where to take it from here? 'And 2400?' I tentatively venture.

Another silent nod, this time from the man in black.

A look of settled contentment slowly appears, discernible under the shadowy brim of the man's hat as he senses the submission of his rival.

Never relax your guard before the deed is done. Big mistake.

The lady, after a long deliberate pause, plants herself most assuredly inside the hitherto sacred circle around the bag on the floor.

'2500.' She pushes her folded arms onto her chest and angles her chin and hard gaze at the now flummoxed gentleman, and by such a full gesture he is dared to bid again.

It would seem that the lady has prevailed. The man in black backs into the shadows and disappears.

'Sold your way.'

Now to hand over my sack of stuff.

Chapter 8

We are back in the yard. No surprises there. Dusk is settling above our heads and in this instance we traipse back into the yard not dissimilarly in the timing or weary manner of our approach than its regular inhabitants. In fact it was us dragged our feet the more.

The bins are slowly assembled in the centre of the yard as the need to keep warm for the rest of the evening becomes of paramount importance.

The next hour is spent arranging the yard as to make the personal and communal space adequate for the activities of the evening and the longer hours of the night.

Groups form and the various amusements, from smoking pipes to making jokes to the occasional subdued singalong at the sound of the harmonica or an old fiddle, spring up around the reassuring presence of the new fires in the bins.

I myself have only one concern: I feel always the need to keep my play and its script and ideas scratched out on paper, close to my chest. The thought of how little progress we have yet made becomes an agonizing one; the blankness of my paper like an alpine mountain sheer rising up in front of me. But I start to hold it dear and think upon its advancement as though such a mountaineer, stranded upon the hill's hardest face; the only escape being upwards.

Now to the question of the morning. How did I manage to escape and return unscathed to our shelter? Did I indeed sell a bag of garbage for two and a half thousand euros? Or was the whole thing a dream or a hallucination lived out in an intoxicated stupor, as no doubt would be your chief suspicion?

Well..

'You should have been there my friends.. I slipped it into his tea just like you said.. worked an absolute miracle.' My companion fails to appreciate the keenness of my hearing as he brags, in tones he believes to be indiscernible, to his new found friends.

So I was slightly drunk. But I did come away, after deductions, with 2000 euros. 2000 with which to stage an entire production, because I will tell you one thing, I am never repeating what happened this morning. I would not even if I were able.

Although my co-writer seems to think differently.

'There is one thing we are now sure of and that is that you can perform, and perform to one of the toughest crowds in the city. Just a bit of encouragement was needed, but if you can survive there you can survive anywhere.' He takes a break from smoking and we dine on some of the food we found, at one point in the early evening.

'Was this some kind of elaborate setup?'

'No, it was just a setup,' is his simple response. ' There was nothing elaborate about it.'

'Did you ask those punters to buy my useless sack then?'

'Well this is the thing I didn't. Though I don't think its what was in your bag they were buying.'

'No?'

'No. They paid you for your performance. I would have thought that that was obvious by now.'

Less and less seems obvious to me at current times. Things that I would have thought obvious just a few days ago now seem less so. Things I take for given no longer assured. Such as the fact that people are generally sane.

'And another thing,' my friend continues, 'you turned more than just a few heads this morning. What you did didn't go unnoticed. Not in that place.'

'Yes what exactly was that place? I still couldn't get a full grasp of it all before we had to leave.'

'There are those who still say the same, even after many years and many visits.'

'Well, think I'll steer clear in the future then. Onwards and upwards.'

'Onwards and upwards indeed.' At this he leaves, presumably to continue smoking with the locals.

If the madness I have experienced in the past few days is any reflection of reality, it seems painfully obvious we are in need of a hero, or heroine for modern times.

So we resolve: Oriana is a modern heroine and our play is set in the present. Or very recent past. At the very least, this decade. There's a decision.

When I think about it that's what constructing a plot really boils down to. Decisions. Will this event happen or that one? Shall we have 3, 6, or 12 main characters? Will there be a happy ending or a tragic one? The rest is what we call "mere details".

'Oriana why do you cry?'  
'My mother is dead. Haven't you heard?'  
'But that's three days past and now you must try  
To pay down her debts now between you and I.'  
'Your timings absurd and your logics awry  
Her debts die with her, they should never be mine.'  
'The logic is this: that someone must pay.  
This time that is you. I bid you "good day".'

So the lines vaguely rhyme. Does that make it poetry? Oh for a poet! But Oriana is in a right old mess. Oh dear. This young fiend fancies himself a debt collector. Why her mother was in debt we are unsure. But in the absence of the mother, she has a new and potentially more powerful guardian.

The stars themselves, in their boredom, begin to have a conversation about Oriana's plight.

'Look at this little one.'  
'Not so little is she.'  
'But she is not yet grown,  
Not as tall as me.'  
'That we all know Draco,'  
'But what shall we do?'  
'Should we intervene?  
I think we ought to.'  
'And to what end?  
What will she learn?  
We should watch if she rises  
And watch if she burns.'  
'Yes, yes, I completely agree  
The problems are hers  
What are they to we?  
There are farer and wiser  
Of conquerors to see.'  
'And if she does well;  
All the better, I say  
But unlikely it is  
So we'll bid her good day.'

So the stars idly chatter and end up doing nothing.

But all is not lost:

The stars of the sky, the conquerors of old,  
Were too distant, far off to see solid gold.  
They care for no creature  
But heroes and men:  
Whose strength was a legend;  
A fable to tell.  
But Juno, the she-moon did come hither nigh,  
She's defender of all womankind from the sky.  
She sees Oriana and knows her too well  
And settles to give her just one hope in hell.  
Her home shall not crumble  
So long as she dwells,  
In this small painted flat  
Without whistles or bells.

Writing is more of a strain than I had first imagined. And slower. The only thing between a full play script and a blank piece of paper is yourself. You can't just go and ask someone who sits in the opposite desk what to do. And my co-writer is even less reliable than that.

And I need some assistance. Especially with the rhyming verse.

Maybe if I was a rapper.

Anyway we have what could be called the beginnings of Act 1:Scene 1. And perhaps Scene 2. Although they are, thus far, quite short.

Perhaps I should continue the conversation between the moon and the stars, and it will be a recurring theme as our heroines life/story unfolds. I can just picture a lady dressed as the moon standing on stage.

What, I wonder is the best way to overcome what they call writers block? Go for a walk? Read something somebody else has written? Engage in some actual human interaction?

Well: I have no books and daren't go for a walk; so I suppose that that leaves me with only one option.

I look around the yard, paying attention to avert my gaze rather quickly if I accidentally make eye contact. That would no doubt be fatal here in this part of Paris.

How to endear myself to the locals of this place, this yard?

There is one over there, who sits alone, and has in fact for the past couple of nights. Perhaps I could isolate them and pick them off like this. He doesn't appear to have eaten, and I have half a sandwich remaining.

So I should hide the sandwich or he might try to steal it from me.

On second thoughts, it seems a bit risky. He could be any body. He is anybody. And his clothes are tatty. Oh wait, a bit like mine.

But still. Can't think what I could possibly say.

How about "hello". No that's absurd.

Could give it a try though.

So I shuffle across to wear the man sits, after of course strolling around the yard pretending to mind my own business and stretch my legs for a couple of minutes or perhaps a bit longer, and then, casually:

'Hullo.'

No response initially. After a few seconds he starts to rub the ends of his fingers together in some kind of gesture that I am expected to recognise.

'I am not after anything I was just casually saying "hello".'

The man continues to gesture, so I resign and give him the other half of my sandwich. I expect at this point having to endure standing silently while he hungrily wolfs it down in front of me, unable to control his hunger. But in fact, he pulls a plastic bag from his inside jacket pocket, neatly wraps it and stows it away.

'Thanks,' he says, gruffly.

'Can I enquire as to your name, what are you called? Give me a name in return for that piece of bread.' The man sitting on the floor no longer registers my presence.

I give in as no response is forthcoming and start towards my seat.

'My name is Charlie.'

I pause, somewhat startled, and then turn, but he has already upped and left.

He didn't even pull his knife on me.

But in conclusion he's still a knave and took my sandwich just as I suspected he would.
Chapter 9

Couldn't sleep that night. Taxed by.. something or other. The noises around the yard perhaps. Troubling not quite but just less than a conflict resolved in my.. memory maybe.

My thoughts have now switched to Paris. If our heroine is to come from this age, it has possibly become more pressing that we keep up with what is going on around us. News from around the city may come in handy when constructing our fictional plot.

I may have found a use for my co-writer; a way he can contribute in some meaningful way to our script.

'I need news; events and happenings from around the local area and perhaps the wider city.' I say to him.

'Ok.' And off he goes.

My other options for the era in which our play is set, before we set upon the quite roundabout notion of "modern times", was likely to be either the French Revolution: which cooked on, started and restarted over the course of decades; or else having something to do with the French resistance during the war; of which there were few active female members. May be a good place to draw ideas from however. We shall see.

At the very least we can't be completely ignorant of local history due to the fact our play is set here. Feeling the need to keep things as straightforward as possible though.

Only thing is we can't get on the internet, so we are going to have to do our research the old fashioned way. So on the to do list: notable females from French/Parisian history, who are not Joan of Arc. She was killed by the English, so that would portray me in a bad light.

And I must never portray myself in a bad light. Ever.

Yes, I am a happy, healthy, well rounded, informed, intelligent individual with excellent prospects. I am not in any way discontented with my lot in life; but am positive about the future. At least, this is what I shall lead everybody to believe, especially when our play starts to go public.

Hold the reigns. I'm stuck in this hell hole still writing the darn thing and can't see a light at the end of the tunnel. My feet hurt and I am miserable. I shall be happy at some point in the future.

I am not happy now.

I feel we need two more ingredients, broadly speaking, to get this thing off the ground. Those being skilled help and some organisation. Its how to get those things on our budget of 2000 euros that is the major problem. Just one more obstacle on the path to success. Or dismal failure. Which only time will tell.

It does have to be said that simply staging a play will not be enough. We set out to create a "Full and financially successful," production. Only such a rare thing will deliver us from our present predicaments.

Should I take a script-writing class? No. Can't afford it. Should we try to find some professional performers? No, can't afford those either. Carry on with the script I think.

I seem to recall that our young villain had something to do with the city's or region's bread industry. How are we going to make that work?

If we are to set the play in modern times, surely it would be absurd that nobody in a particular part of Paris is able to get their hands on something as staple as a loaf of bread, right? But our villain is clever: he doesn't stop the supply; he just finds a way to inflate the prices of basic goods to make them less affordable, or even unaffordable for the poorest. A bread tax, meted out through the contacts with corrupt officials in local government. A bit like VAT but one that only the poor have to pay. Nasty.

But still not content despite being already wealthy at a young age, our villain is practicing extortion on Oriana, and expects her of course to fall in line and pay up the same as everybody else. He thinks this as she is particularly vulnerable since word got round about her Mother's death or disappearance.

However our heroine has different ideas.

'What can I do, what can I do today?  
It seems my household is in debt  
And me who has to pay.  
I should not pay a penny,  
And nor shall I, tomorrow or today.'

The main challenge with this production is undoubtedly going to be finding a way to keep the audiences attention despite the fact that the whole thing is set in one place. I guess we could try to make the lighting interesting.

Maybe have two intermissions as well is instead of just one "half-time" to break it up a bit more.

Oh my goodness it has just this second occurred to me that this play may need to last at least 90 mins. So I have to write enough script to last ninety minutes, and aside from asking everybody to talk reeaaaaally sloooowly, I can't think how I'll get there. I've got at most about three minutes. AAAAH!

Patience, patience. All you can do is write another three minutes, I try to reassure myself.

I think we are missing the scene where Oriana asks her mother about who her father is. And since the mother has disappeared or died, we haven't decided which yet, we will have to flash back in time to a scene from her memory.

Our heroine is in a mess, and at such times her memory wanders back to the songs her mother would sing to her:

Oh who am I kidding I can't write lyrics; a disaster before it has even started, I quit. Except I can't quit I have nowhere else to go.

Your friends fly away and when I am long gone,  
Who's there to help you to guide you along?  
When I was a princess, a young and fair maid  
A hunter he came and I bade him good day  
We fell in love but he had to go home  
To that place where he comes from  
A long way to go.  
Orion, Orion he goes by the name  
He wasn't no plain man  
He wasn't the same.  
As them men who would love me  
Each week just one day.  
His mane was as black as November night sky  
Complexion as pale as the fading moonlight  
He held me and held me I looked in those eyes  
And found myself there in the dark starry night  
Those blue stones they held me; he looked at me true  
He said, 'I came for one; I'm leaving two.'  
So I gave you your name and I won't have it back  
Look to the stars and I'll promise you that  
Your father will see that you get what you lack.  
Your father will see that you get what you lack.

That is the most painfully bad song that anybody has ever written, ever. Again, I quit.

'You hear me? I quit!' I shout at nobody in particular, forgetting my fear in my exasperation.

'Do not quit.'

What? Who said that? I fling my head around.

'It would be better if you did not quit.'

Who is saying this?

'Reveal yourself!'

'You may quit if you like, but then you will be certain to fail. Continue on and it is simply overwhelmingly likely that you will fail. But not certain.'

The voice seems to be coming from above. I crane my neck towards the sky. And there he is.

He looks down, peering over the wall, seemingly not at me, but at my paper.

'Ahem,' I gather myself, 'It is difficult to argue with what you say.'

'Zen don't.'

I look up a second time, but the bearded man in the heavy coat is gone.

This place gives me the creeps. So they are watching me. Paying attention to what I am doing. Well, at least now I know.

I suppose its unsurprising as they have long been in dialogue with my co-writer, informing on me behind my back.

So it seems that I would be well advised to pursue increasingly diminishing odds, embracing almost certain failure in the interest of avoiding failure itself.

Forget about the odds and just write the damn play.

Lets have another crack at this song.

I'll sing you a story, it ain't a tall tale  
If you'll only listen, I 'll take you away  
To one night not far and not so long ago  
A Hunter came by here, I told him to go  
Though I never seen a man fairer'n he  
Before I thought destiny, that ain't for me  
But his mane was as black as November sky  
Skin as pale as moonlight  
In his eyes, them blue eyes, them precious pale stones  
I saw right behind them the heaven's night bones  
I let him come in and he stayed with me there  
If only I knew why he'd given a care  
He left me too early: though he said to me;  
'I leave you with something, a small piece of me,'  
Then you came to me screaming awake to the world  
And I gave you your name Oriana the girl  
Whose father the hunter left a pale but strong pearl.

The last line isn't just clicking into place. 'A pale but strong pearl??' I am trying to suggest that her pale complexion belies her guts, determination and strength of character, and need a neater way of phrasing it.

And I gave you your name, Oriana, dear girl  
Look up to the hunter, my pernicious pale pearl.

Oh somebody call the poetry police. Right, just move on.

So what is Oriana going to do? Perhaps it would be expedient to take advantage of this quandary to introduce one or two of her friends, now that her enemies are known to us.

And this is what its really all about. Characters.

Chapter 10

As I sit around, a person comes rushing into the yard, their eagerness to speak temporarily handicapped by the apparent lack of ability to breath.

'Something..something..' gasping for breath he leans one arm against the wall. 'Something has happened, today in the city. Something big.'

This person is of course my co-writer, back from gathering news from about the city.

'We're waiting.'

'Hang on a moment I've forgotten what it was. It'll come to me.'

Several breaths later.

'There has been an incident on the bridge.'

'An incident? On the bridge? What kind of incident? Which bridge?'

'On the bridge. THE bridge.'

'Oh THE bridge. I may have guessed. Where exactly is that again?'

'The bridge. Over the railway line.'

'Oh the bridge. Yeah that one. What happened then?'

'Well I don't know I just told you what I know. Don't ask me the particulars of the incident itself.'

'But you said it was something big.'

'It was.'

'So how can it be something big if you don't even know what happened?'

'Well judging from the gathering crowds and sirens and news cameras, it was huge.'

'But you had no inkling to find out what actually took place to give rise to such a scene as you describe?'

'None at all.'

'There isn't even a small part of you feels the need to ascertain the facts, the whys and wherefores, the events and the unusual happenings that usually precede the gathering of news crews?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'You didn't even think that despite your incomprehensible lack of interest, that we might like to know what took place when you ran back looking so excited, and then tell us that you don't know what happened?'

'Yeah, I ..I guess I can vaguely see where ..where you are coming from.. but like I say it was really big.'

'Any chance you could maybe find out for us what it actually was?'

'It was a big event. Everyone was there.'

'So it was like a party?'

'Yeah. That's it. Just like a party.'

'So a party, on the bridge over the railway line, with news crews?'

'Errr..'

'Let me ask me another question. Are you..no..just exactly how liquor filled are at this point in time?'

'I am not as you say drunk..nor am I completely sober.'

'Its not yet midday! And I sent you on a serious errand.'

'Hence why I stopped at the bistro.'

'Do you have some kind of problem, in your head?'

'Not that I am aware of.'

'Is there any chance at all that if we leave now we will still catch a piece of the action?'

We leave the yard. I follow the footsteps of my companion, through the streets. After thirty minutes at a brisk pace, we come to the railway line. We follow the line for half a mile on a questionable footpath running alongside which the determined traveller is able to pursue as far as his will can take him.

In our case, as far as the bridge. It is deserted.

'Is this it?'

'This is the exact spot.'

'Well, it would seem that the world has moved on from this 'big' event.'

That would seem true, except for a small van that was being loaded with camera equipment, parked on the other side of the tracks in a disused parking lot. The last of the news crews, on the brink of taking their leave. We could just catch them.

'Hey wait! Wait a minute!'

We run up onto the bridge to try to catch the van and its crew on the other side. But the van door slides shut and the vehicle pulls away as we rush after it waving our arms frantically. We still have no knowledge of what took place.

But at least we know that something did take place.

'Now are you sure that you cannot remember anything that may give us even an inkling, a clue as to what apparently drew the crowds to this very spot mere moments ago?'

'Well, I did spot something on the bridge.'

Quick as a flash we are up on the bridge.

The bridge is for foot traffic only, essentially a tunnel made of tin wide enough for two or three to walk abreast. The light enters through windowless holes punched along its length and at night is therefore in all probability a pitch-dark place to be avoided.

In the day the light stabs in at the openings but the illuminations within are isolated, leaving the walk down the tunnel somewhat awkward; the brightness too bright and the darkness too dark.

But lying illuminated about one third down the length, and why I had not spotted it is a mystery, lies a black book, open and stood on end; a diary, covered in dust.

Upon careful inspection, first by my friend and then my own eyes, the contents of the book can be outlined as follows.

A completely blank book. I toss it back, disinterested.

'Ahem. Would you agree with me that this book, being blank, tells us absolutely nothing, about anything, and certainly not about the important events that have just taken place on this very spot.'

'It seems that way at first glance,' my companion replies thoughtfully, 'but I think that this is an item that has been overlooked by all.'

'What do you think? There is invisible ink all over its pages?'

'No, not that. In fact, I think that every page in this book is indeed, blank, just as it looks.'

'Oh. That is unexpected.' I stand there in silence looking bemused as my companion pores over, sniffing like an addict, every page of the item.

'So what is it that you are looking for if every page is indeed blank, as you say?'

'I am not looking, I am sniffing for clues.'

'Like a dog, like a sniffer dog?'

'Yes, like a dog, like a police sniffer dog.'

Patiently, I wait for this to finish.

'So?'

'So what?'

'What have you managed to discover? What have your senses uncovered that everybody else's have overlooked?'

'Well, see for yourself.' And the book is slung my way.

'What shall I do, sniff?'

'Look at what is obvious.'

'Well, that would be the fact that the book is, unless we are both under some strange influence, completely unused. There is nothing written or drawn here. It's a bit dirty but that's to be expected given the circumstances we have found it under.'

'And there, you have it. It is the circumstance surrounding this object that is of interest to us, rather than the object itself.'

'Well, yes.'

'It is that which is unsaid on these pages, not what is said, that is intriguing.'

'Well yes it certainly does unsay a great deal, I'll say that for it. In fact it unsays, pretty much everything there is to unsay, I'd say.'

There is a long pause.

'So, the obvious question that springs immediately to mind,' I say, 'is if there were police and cameras and hordes and crowds, why did nobody notice this and take it away as a piece of evidence, connected to the.. incident or whatever it was?'

'Yes, but then..'

'And the other is of course about why we are even bothering to piece all this together. If it was so important, surely anybody we ask will know something about it, right?'

'Precisely why I find this book so interesting.'

'Ok you're going to have to elaborate for us mere mortals.'

Too deep in thought for now.

So a bridge over the railway line that has just been vacated by police and crowds, according to my esteemed companion, and news crews, the remnants of which I did manage to glimpse with my own eyes.

But if the police were here surely even a blank book would be taken away from the crime scene, if there was a crime that is or even an accident, and not just left suspiciously standing on end.

I am in the dark.

'So what are we going to do now?'

'I think that it is imperative that we must find what took place in this spot.'

'And this blank, not just apparently blank, but blank in fact, bound bundle of pages is going to somehow shed some light on that, in your opinion?'

'That is my opinion: but I also think that my opinion is right.'

'Well that settles it then, now you have just said that.'

'Settles what?'

'Settles the fact that you, sir, are a lunatic.'

'As are all great men!'

'In addition to there great achievements perhaps, of which we have none.'

'What we have lost in means, we shall re-purchase with the temerity of our young ambition!'

Shall we indeed? Yawn.

'Right, well in the meanwhile hadn't we be better to sweep along the rest of this tunnel to ascertain as to whether the crowds and police officers and television crews missed any other minor detail?'

'Yes I suppose we must.'

But no detail do we find.

Not even a toothpick.

'Do we think that this was left here deliberately for somebody, like us, to find?'

'Could be, could be.'

'Or was it an accident? Seems unlikely with the otherwise immaculate appearance of this shabby tunnel-bridge.'

'Unlikely it is.'

'Shall we stop and take stock of the facts, just once before we are lead into a maze of clues?'

'If such is the desire of your heart then follow it to the ends of the earth.'

'I will do that. In the meantime, here is a list of the hard facts.'

I stop, and try and remember the hard facts.

'We are in Paris, agreed?'

'Agreed.'

'We are standing on a bridge above a railway line, in Paris.'

'Agreed.'

'We have two tiny pieces of evidence that anything has taken place here in the recent past. One being our own witness of a news van leaving the scene and your own account of throngs and the forces of the earth descending on this very spot, not one hour past. Whilst you, might I add, were of your own confession partially influenced.'

'Hmmm correct.'

'The only other thing left here is this meaningless modern artefact: a nondescript notebook.'

'Wrong!'

'Wrong?'

'Wrong!'

'Why am I wrong?'

'You are wrong because you are wrong!'

'You are worrying me.'

'Allow me to make things clearer.'

'Yes please, would you do that?'

'Observe, if you will, the book.'

'Yes, I am observing the book. I am looking at it.'

'Now, observe our surroundings.'

'I am observing the surroundings. I can see them.'

'Tell me what you see.'

'I see dark and light.'

'What do you see in the dark?'

'I can see nothing in the dark.'

'What about in the light?'

'Nothing, just a tunnel. Or part of tunnel.'

'And if the light were to flood this place, what then would your eyes see?'

'Its hard to say.'

'Well maybe it would shed some light on our puzzle, is that what you mean?'

My friend remains silent.

'Well,' I resign, 'I guess I would see a clear empty tunnel, save for our presence. Which is of course, extremely odd, given the recent nature of events.'

'It is odd. It is very..odd.'

Chapter 11

Now our story takes a turn. For better or worse only time will tell.

While we are away, the inhabitants of the yard make themselves busy. Word travels fast among them, and while we are in the dark as to recent events, you can rest assured that such folk were intimately informed.

And the events in the city hold it. In rapture. My friend was not exaggerating. What had happened on the bridge was big. But something else happened. Something bigger.

It takes me a little by surprise, then, that upon our return, despite the new sense of the urgent, of the happening, the gang in the yard seem interested, not in the new turns of things at the expense of all else, but in my imagination. In our play.

We are yet to be filled in on the nature of events.

And I think they would like to keep it that way.

But it is obvious that something has changed. I am now watched more than before, more than was already uncomfortable. I am surveillanced.

I think that for the time being we are to stay put.

And so the yard becomes our permanent abode.

Is there any reason why things happen? Or do they just happen? Is my friend mislead to believe in destiny? I do not know.

What now for Oriana? I now have little option but to finish writing the play that we have started.

She has been visited by a young adversary. Now she needs a friend.

The problem now is going to be plucking characters out of thin air.

'Still no word on mother hen then, chick?'  
'Not up to yet. No, not one bit.'  
'Chin up me duck. She ain't gone far.'  
'But lyin' in a grave only takes a couple yards.'  
'Don't say that she'll be back home soon.'  
'Well I see them men 'most every afternoon.  
And I ain't got a penny so, what's a girl to do?'  
'Come now girl, you know you don't mean that.  
Your momma doesn't want for you  
The same as what she had.'  
'Well my family needs bread and to me that means more  
Than any hopeless hankering or moral law.'  
'You can find a way, we all know you can.'

All getting a bit serious for our heroine.

I'm having difficulty picturing this friend or neighbour of hers. Its what I meant when I said that the characters need to come before the storyline. Otherwise there is a danger that they all really just the same person. Instead of distinct.

So who is her neighbour? A kindly lady by the sounds of things. What's her story? Known the family for a long time: seen Oriana grow up; witnessed her Birth and youth; and perhaps knows things about our heroine that even she herself would struggle to believe. A family friend. Does she have secrets of her own? Is she everything she pretends to be? A guardian angel, compromised by her own past, as is not unusual for these parts of the city.

There may come a time when this character must choose between her desire to safeguard her young neighbour and her own safety: her love of Oriana; and her concern for herself.

I find just here that there is an important point to be made, that we must not focus on our central character at the expense of every other character in the story. A great play will only be written if we get the details of every character and their story correct. It is not all about Oriana.

So our first guardian means well, but is compromised. And we do not know why.

Ah I don't know still feels a bit fuzzy to me. It needs some work.

At this point the neighbour gives our young protagonist a loaf of bread from her own house, to signal her good intentions.

I think that the mail man may have an important part to play in our story. Somebody who is informed about the events in the local area and the wider city.

'Mail m' lady.'

'Where's it from?'

'Open and see.'

'Yeah I will. Thanks Tom.'

Right we have the mail man, Tom.

So Oriana opens her mail and we are intrigued to discover the contents.

'Hey wait just a second.'

'Yeah what's the snag?'

'Read it out to me, will ya?'

'No I'll give it right back.'

'Just do as I ask, you know I don't rea..'

'ya don't read good?

Well sure ya do lady, but I'll stay right by,

Till you've read that letter- til you've read and understood.'

' "By Order of.." '

'Yeah? We're listening hard.'

' "By Order of the.. Senator: you have one month, to pay or leave,

with kind regards." '

This is the first obstacle of Oriana's life.

The deadline.

But her home cannot crumble so we know there must be an escape for her. Alas, the only thing that Oriana knows seems to her the only way out.

'What's that there? A letter I see.'  
'It's none of your business.'  
'It's about your debt. Your debt to me.'  
'I don't owe you nothin', man.'  
'We'll see. We'll see.'

'Step of my threshold. You're nothin'. Now beat.'

Oriana tells the young scoundrel a few home truths. And she is not scared in telling her young adversary where to get off unlike the rest of the neighbourhood.

But the young adversary does not like it. Not one little bit. He is too used to getting his own way.

And so we are let into the mind of Oriana's juvenile enemy when he has retreated to the street, and Oriana into her abode.

This girl is MINE, say I  
This simple lonely she.  
What consequence awaits her now?  
The consequence is me.

This girl is MINE, say I  
This simple lonely she.  
What consequence awaits her now?  
The consequence is me.

We are at a crunch point in the drama. Conflict. Will there be a clean resolution, or more ensuing drama?

At this point, I am in need of some assistance.

'I am thinking of writing a rape scene.'

'Right, so the heroine of the play is going to..'

'Yes that's right is going to..'

'Ahem..'

'Yes ahem..'

'So its absolutely essential to the plot then is it? There is no way around this?'

'Errrr..'

'I mean do whatever you want, of course, I just feel that I should.. you know.'

'Yes, absolutely, yes. I understand.'

'As a general rule, audiences do not, well, appreciate rape scenes. So it had better be justified.' It seems that I have caught my co-writer in a rare sober moment, so I should probably heed his advice.

'In fact, let me chew this one over, and come back to me.'

In this case, I do exactly as I am told.

There are of course possible alternatives to what we are contemplating. Perhaps the debt burden is enough drama for the opening stages. But our villain really wants to exact punishment on somebody that has crossed him. The only thing is that this makes him a real villain, not just a comic one.

Let us see what my co-writer has to say on the subject, now that he has had some time to think it through.

'The issue that I raise with regards to your interesting suggestion is this: it is likely to drastically reduce the scope of our potential theatre going audience, and therefore dent our chances of success.'

I cannot argue with the logic.

'Perhaps the theatre going public will shock us with their understanding of the craft and sympathy towards our creative intentions?'

'Or they may throw eggs at us and spread the word to avoid our play; in which case we shall be ruined.'

We are already ruined, but I understand my co-wright's fears.

I stand and say nothing, whereby silently communicating my intentions to my perceptive friend, whether I am aware that that is what I am doing or not.

He resigns, 'write the scene, and we shall decide thereafter what is to be done.'

How is it even possible to "write" a scene like this?

Perhaps it should be silent. Our villain arrives on the scene with two henchman, seizes Oriana before she can protest, and the deed is done.

Chapter 12

I do no more writing this day. Instead, I feel reflective, allowing my thoughts to resolve themselves without the forceful interference from my own will. It is perhaps well, as the silence impresses upon me the impact of the events unfolding in the city and on the sheet of paper on my lap.

I feel. I begin to feel instead of think. Or feel and think all at once. This fictional character, seems as real to me as what is real: that which is taking place around us. And the lines are blurred, between fiction and reality.

We keep one ear and one eye apiece on what the locals are up to. Between us that is one full set of ears and eyes, and we hope to catch clues, jigsaw pieces of what has happened in this city that could warrant the exclusion of two unsuspecting young aliens.

Though many ears and many eyes are kept watching our every move, and so we are outmanned, outmanoeuvred and in all frankness out of our minds in any attempt to prevail in a battle of wits.

This is not our city, and we do not know its ways. At least not fully.

Our excursions out of the yard have been temporarily put on hold. To be honest, we are bored.

In the following hours, we hatch a plan to keep ourselves entertained.

'Psst.'

No response.

'Psssssst.'

Eventually the only other person in the yard with whom I can speak places himself next to me.

'I am bored out of my skull. I know we are being watched, but we need to somehow see out of this place. I can't stand the not knowing, though I find am having to get used to it.'

'I am in agreement. The isolation is too much to bare. I can't stand being away from all the action.'

'So we agree. We must do something.'

'We must do something.'

'What about making a run for it?'

'Out of the question.'

'Really?'

'That is OUT of the question.'

'Ok.'

'We cannot get out. The only way,' my friend cranes his neck, 'is up.'

'So we can't sneak out the entrance but you don't think anyone will notice if we try to scale these twenty foot walls?'

'There is a set of steps.'

'Those are not steps. They are a series of crumbling holes in the wall.'

'Steps.' repeats my friend.

'How exactly are they to be scaled without the knowledge of every other person in the yard, who, may I remind you, have been assigned to watch our every move?'

'Good question..we must act nonchalantly.'

'Act nonchalantly? Are you sure that's going to get it done? And what are we expecting to see IF we do manage to, I don't know, stroll all the way to the top of these towering structures?'

'The City of Paris, in all its glory.'

'I would be surprised if you can see as far as the end of the street.'

'It depends how high you are willing to climb, mon ami.'

'Right, so, predictably, its me who's going to risk life and limb by achieving this pointless end, let's have it now!?'

'You are right in the first, but wrong in the second. It has a very distinct point.'

'And what if I die? What then?'

'If you make it all the way to the top, I can assure you that your complaints will cease.'

Still remains the question of avoiding detection though.

'Wait until the last light, steal a cloak, and leave it to me to steal attention.'

Steal a cloak? How exactly am I supposed to steal a cloak? Firstly I don't like stealing. Secondly everyone has half an eye on me. But I need to have the cloak handy before my friend's "distraction" and don't get me thinking about what that is going to entail.

I am not a professional thief, I'll bet some of these vagabonds are and the idea of me pulling a fast one on one of them before dark seems absurd.

I have but one option. Nonchalance.

I stroll around the yard, looking at no body and everybody. I do not care if they are there at all really. I am up to nothing in particular; I just fancy a stroll, you see. Everything is normal and just as it should be.

I stride in this manner around the yard. I raise few eyebrows in the exception of nearing the exit, which I am assured is closed to us; were I to try to make for it, I am unsure what would result.

But I am soon to discover.

I continue to walk around, looking for a potential disguise. There are several candidates, but most are attached to their owner. Dusk will be on us soon enough and I must pin down my choice target; the garment fashioned by those wishing to go unseen.

And I may have just spotted the one. A cloak: light; not heavy; charcoal-black-cum-midnight-blue and smattered with the camouflage of scuff and soot. I think that I already know to whom it belongs. To the guide. To the man who can see in the dark.

I know that I will have scarce opportunity to seize it unnoticed. I cannot spot its rightful owner but know that he is a master at going unseen wherever he pleases. When my chance comes I shall take the cloak as though it belongs to me and start upon my upward journey.

And right on cue, just as the light falters around the yard, my companion makes a mad, yet completely planned, dash for the exit. I was foolishly expecting something marginally more sophisticated.

Though, I must admit, it appears effective. The man of mystery, the hooded night crawler whose garment I desire appears as if from nowhere, bearing down upon my unfortunate friend and acquaintance, bringing his charge to an end and his ample frame to the floor. It is enough to steal the attention of the yard. I seize my opportunity; the garment is around my shoulders and I have begun my ascent.

I climb quickly, not knowing how high I have come because I do not look down. Did I mention that I am afraid of heights? The ascent is near vertical. The "steps" are mere footholds. But the cloak works a treat. I go silent and undetected, at least until I am out of reach.

Not without difficulty, I reach the upper limit of the wall around the yard. It is covered in moss and pigeon droppings. I hear noises from around the yard beneath me. I think that my absence may have been felt.

To this point I receive no reward for my efforts. The view is obscured on either side by further brick and plaster wall, stretching from here upwards to the flat rooftops that perch over the three and four storeys beneath them.

I can see no easy way to the top and unless my senses beguile me the sounds coming up the wall from beneath me indicate that I am hunted.

I shift along the wall top, not wanting to slip. I can see a drainpipe in an alcove towards one corner across from where I am stood.

Upon rounding the corner in inch-like steps, the members of the yard reach the top of their climb and emerge, cat-like, atop the wall. I grab the drainpipe, and hope with my life that it holds my weight.

I shimmy up the drainpipe, as lightly and carefully, and as quickly, as can be managed. The drainpipe is good and straight, though the wall around is flaky. Again, not without difficulty, I reach the summit of my second ascent: the rooftops.

Now there are some sights which warrant description. At this level the light lingers on, and the shadows cast down from every protrusion, overhang and crevice silhouette against the dying crimson and tangerine shade that illuminates and paints wherever it finds. They are long, the shadows, and they run across the rooftops and dive over the edge vertically towards street level. There is a hanging smog, collected from a winter's day fuel consumption, and it seems to find its level up here and mingle amongst the pots and rafters.

Attune your ears and perceive a gentle hum, the noise from the streets below and countless stacked abodes, now filled with the activity of the early evening as many breadwinners return from the travails of a long day. They are not aware, but here am I perched upon their rooftops, observing, the constant clamour punctuated by the mewling of rooftop strays: up here to escape the canine chorus which begins in the alleys below; though it is strangely quiet, and all these disturbing sounds are pleasingly muffled at such a height, and it feels peaceful.

After pause for thought, I must now begin to move, as one or two of my pursuers attempt to emulate my risky climb up the drainpipe. There is further still to go.

I can walk along the rooftops, relatively unhindered. At the end of the row, there is a protrusion: a spire, and I walk to its base.

You can forget it. I'm not going up there.

But I am pursued.

My options are limited. I can stand here, and get accosted. I can run. Or I can climb, and see the city, before inevitably being accosted.

Firstly, I decide to run. But I do not get far. I am chased around the rooftops, and I realise that there is no escape. I make full circle and mount the spire the moment I reach its base. Evading the grasp of several fists by mere inches, I begin my third ascent of tumbled brickwork.

I clutch at anything that looks solid. Fortunately, the neglected state of this piece of architecture exposes sufficient foothold, but the poor repair should make one wary at the same time. I can climb higher than anything else around me.

A beam breaks and my foot slips. I continue my ascent, coming to a halt just short of the very top.

I stop for breath, forgetting momentarily the reason that I have risked life and limb to climb so high.

I look up.

And there are some sights for which this writer's words may never prove fit. Though my companion did well enough.

'The City of Paris in all its Glory.'

Blood red at the dying of the light as the hands grasp around my ankles.

I am escorted back to the yard, via a less intimidating route. I do not protest much. My mind was much too occupied to really recall much about the descent.

The sight that I had just witnessed was dreadful and beautiful all at once.

But so worth it. Oh so worth it. Just for the sight. And I wish I were more able to relay it here.

Upon returning to my position in the yard (and having my stolen cloak yanked from me and returned to its rightful owner) I feel reinvigorated in my efforts. I didn't learn anything; I just have a greater sense of the city and its streets.

We are going to stage a play. These streets will be our home.

Chapter 13

After some time, the curfew is relaxed. Yes, we are let loose to once more cause havoc in the immediate neighbourhood.

The buzz has died down and the aftermath of recent happenings, though felt throughout the city, has given way once more to the necessity of living day to day.

My companion seems relaxed once more in our setting, going about things as though nothing has really taken place. But I feel uneasy. Not everything is as it seems. I itch to find out more, but for the time, I must sit on it all.

We try to make ourselves useful to the inhabitants of the yard. However, our communication with them has scarce recovered since our attempt to make for it.

Feeling useless, I decide to head for the café, or bistro, as it is sometimes referred to pursue my goal of emulating the writers.

It is here that I overhear a conversation, that catches my interest.

'I was told never to repeat this to anyone, but if you promise to keep it to yourself I will tell only you,' says the first gentleman.

'I never asked for any secrets. Perhaps you should keep it to yourself?' obliges the second.

'Well, it goes like this,' continues the first gentleman. 'Are you aware of the community in these parts that call themselves "The Company"?'

'I have heard the odd rumour. Of what consequence is it?'

'None. Oh none at all. Unless you live in these parts, that is.'

'Well there it is. I do not live in these parts.'

'And nor do I. But let me speak on.' The first gentleman leans in closer to the second and speaks in hushed tones. 'And are you also aware of the first gentleman of this "Company", the gentleman who goes by the name Charles Parapimpadopolou?'

'It does sound familiar. What of it?'

'There is talk that Old Charlie has not been idle in recent times.'

'I see. And what of this "Company". What is its business?'

The first gentleman cocks his head to one side, 'well, its business has always been somewhat secretive. Nobody is sure of its exact nature.'

'Well something must be afoot, or else we would not be engaged in this conversation, am I right?'

The first gentleman peers over his shoulders takes a glance around the café. I of course am engrossed in todays headlines. He turns back to the second gentleman. 'There is talk of a return.'

'A return?'

'A return.' He repeats. ' A return of the Old Company.'

'And this.. Charles Parapo..this Charles character of course is key to this return?'

'Key? I'd say. He is the only remaining member.'

'Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that's not going to be much of a comeback, in that case, is it?'

'Well, like I say, Old Charlie has not been idle in recent times.'

'So what is afoot? Is this likely to impact the likes of you and I? Where are you going with this?'

'Unfortunately that is all I know.'

The second gentleman stands up, looking angry, takes his coat and dons his hat. 'Well know this - this is the last time I am sharing a table with somebody who says they know something and then reveals that they know nothing at all. Good day.'

And the second gentleman leaves, leaving the first gentleman sitting alone in the café, stirring his soup.

Who are the Company? Who is Charles? These are questions to which I could use answers.

The final spoonfuls of vegetable are consumed and the remaining gentleman ups and leaves.

My next move could prove pivotal.

I make a quick decision. I decide to follow, inconspicuously, out of the café and onto the streets.

I try to trail from a distance of twenty yards or so, or at least as far as is the next body or obstacle, which I dive behind whenever the head is turned. The man walks quickly.

The familiar streets turn unfamiliar as we turn again and again. The gentleman in front does not appear threatening to me, but nonetheless I feel compelled to stay hidden.

We walk, separated as we are, down many streets and pass many doors, until abruptly, the man stops dead, raises a clenched hand and raps three times on a green door avoiding the use of the knocker. He waits expectantly. Some time passes but he does not make his presence known a second time. He waits. And then the door opens and he is admitted inside.

I wait several minutes and watch the passers by.

The door opens and the man emerges once more out onto the street, and sets off.

He walks off away from me down the street, not having lost his quick step.

I go again and find him knocking in the same way at another door, this time of a deep St Christopher blue. He knocks, waits and enters, leaving several minutes later, just as before.

Of course, all this could be of little or no consequence, had the following not happened.

The man stops in the middle of the street, checks the time on a fob carried in his left coat pocket and glances around the surrounding area. I am hidden, but can see through a gap in the wall. The man replaces the fob into his pocket, crouches down and proceeds to lift the cover off the manhole next to his feet before disappearing under the street itself. The cover is replaced, and I can see him no more.

How strange!

But how am I to accost such a gentleman? Our communication with the locals has been hampered and anyway in that I am the poorer of our pair.

The way seems obvious. I must allure the man to a second meeting and find out who he is and what he knows. That way I do not have to dive under the streets but I do not leave completely empty handed. There is value in knowledge and I intend to get mine for free.

I return to the café. Or bistro or whatever you want to call it. The place is not empty and not really full. A spare table I find for myself and sit.

I now have a number of tasks on my plate. I have a play to write. I have a man to see. I have a plot to hatch.

There is heat in the café and it spurs my senses. My pen has been idle, weighing heavy in my pocket, but I must lift it now and begin what I have dreaded.

Oriana, in a state of desolation. A song of tragedy.

I have no words for this. But I will try.

We sung a song in yesteryear  
My sister, I and mother dear  
It was a song of hope and cheer  
My cheeks burnt bright, my eyes saw clear  
Now I am nothing and have less  
Than any body could confess  
My mother bought me up to know  
The world is nothing but a show  
And now my chapter comes around  
My feet they tread on funny ground  
I have my sister and but me  
By one but one's own treachery  
My mouth was plain, too plain you see.  
My mouth was plain, as plainest be.

What is our protagonists state of mind at this point? Is she weary? Afraid? Tired? Alone? Powerless? Or resolved. Thoughtful. Mindful. Powerful. Seeking just retribution.

She is a lion, preying on a mouse.

Speaking of mice, I just spotted one scurrying across the floor. Perhaps this café is unhygienic, and I should leave.

I fold away my papers and think about turning heel. But something stops me. I have no inclination to leave, and I do not know why.

I cannot think of an original song. But I must face this mountain. It is our only hope.

Perhaps it is necessary to establish some kind of framework.

Let us set the song in three idea driven stanzas. Our heroines state of mind progresses as she comes to terms with what has taken place and must decide what to do.

The language of the first stanza must differ from that of the second, and the last. It must show uncertainty. A lack of comprehension. A sense of disorientation. A deep longing.

Then we must hold back from rhyme and cadence and the structure should feel incomplete and chaotic; dark and full of melancholy.

Dum, dee dum, dee dum dee dum dee dum  
Fill me up with a drink of rum  
Yah, dee dah, dee dah dee dah dee dah  
I can see in front only bout this far  
Ree, dee dee, dee dee dee dee dee dee  
Look at me, baby, look at me  
Ho, dee ho, dee ho dee ho dee ho  
Live my life like I'm in a show

No, that's doesn't fit the bill either.

Writing a song is very hard.

Come clouds, come rain, come hither  
And laugh at me, my sister  
Where are you now my mother?  
Why have you come, my lover?  
I was a pale of water  
And you spilled me on the ground  
I toss from side to side  
No fire burns for me  
I lose  
My eyes blur  
My mouth stops, dry.  
I try.

The scene we have set is bleak. The effect I am looking for would be better served by a song of tranquillity and happiness.

It would seem much more sinister.

The wind, it blows  
The moon, she glows  
The streets, they shine  
And all and ones fine  
The streams, they flow  
The grass, it grows  
The streets, they shine  
And all and ones fine

So sings Oriana to her younger sister, who enquires of her dismay.

But we know the reality.

Our heroine is about to act.
Chapter 14

I am still sitting in the café. At least in here it is warm. I have not forgotten about my plan to lure the gentleman I saw here just this morning to meet with me. Or I with him. What difference does it make?

His only haunts, that I have seen, are three: The café, the streets and the sewers. The streets are everywhere; the sewers stretch for miles; so the obvious answer would appear to be to try to catch the man unawares in this very same spot.

Must I sit in the café all day?

What is it that this man wants? He seems to deal in information, or stories, or something similar.

Gossip. That is it. He is an inscrutable gossip. Titbits and morsels of information are his want. The juicier the better.

But I know nothing. I must, therefore, pretend.

I am a man in the know. At least I know something. Something that everybody else does not know. Something important.

The task is now to locate the gentleman and leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

Hang on a minute, this could be dangerous. This man is out of the ordinary.

Danger and intrigue lurk within the folds of his dress, like a beautiful woman. Though I am certain that he is no woman in that, having a beard, he is a man.

Right! Off!

I am to purchase breadcrumbs.

So I go from that place, arriving sooner rather than later at a place where one may purchase breadcrumbs. Or the stuff of breadcrumbs, which is bread.

I exchange coin for crumb.

I must now locate the hatch under which the gentleman disappeared even earlier before my eyes. Can I recall the route? I confess that I cannot.

Although one thing I do know. The street was named 'La Ruelle des Rois'. The Alley of Kings.

I am able to quickly ask the man I bought the bread from the direction to 'La Ruelle des Roix, monsieur, ou est La Ruelle des Roix?'

'C'est la, monsieur, La Ruelle des Roix, c'est la.' He points across the street to an alleyway-come-narrow street, which is rather closer to our current position than I had envisaged.

So the way to it was a rather roundabout one.

Leaving us with a possible conclusion: unless the gent was fond of a stroll, as gents are, he was trying to shake a tail; he was afraid of being followed.

Here is my plan: I am going to inconspicuously lift the manhole cover, and affix to its underside a piece of paper saying 'Follow the Breadcrumbs, Monsieur, and you will find out more.' I will then break off small chunks of bread, coloured sparingly with the ink that I have in my pocket to deter their consumption by scavengers, and leave a trail leading to nowhere other than the café.

This plan is indeed ingenious: In that it contains genius; and is not the work of one lacking in that.

In stark contrast, my amiable companions absurd notion of staging a successful play contains absurdity. And is not the work of one lacking in that!

However perhaps this gent is able to help us in our quest.

Oh. Before I leave the shop, I must remember to purchase stamps.

Back out onto the streets in the direction I have been pointed. In a short space of time, I am kneeling next to the manhole cover.

The street is empty. I bide my time to ensure it remains empty.

After writing my intended message on a sheet of paper, I consider myself for the effort required to lift the manhole cover from the ground.

'Heeeeeaaaavvvvve!'

'Heeeeeeaaavvvvvve!'

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaavvvvvvvvveeee..oh, its budged!

A faint vapour rises through the crack I have negotiated from the sewers below the streets. There is a sound of trickling water.

And a stench.

Right, so, if I just flip this manhole cover on its head..right now to affix piece of paper underneath manhole like so.. Oh dear, I have nothing of an adhesive quality in my possession..all I have is a manhole cover and a piece of paper..and nothing in between..

So the plan, like my spirits, falls.

Unless..

Sweet saviour, my stamps.

I will affix to each corner of my message, a stamp. In this way, the message shall be affixed unto the underside of the manhole cover, where it shall stay until the man who disappeared under here shall see it and interpret its meaning, to his own entrapment.

There, done.

Right, and now for the breadcrumbs.

One by one, I shall smudge each piece I tear away with black ink that I have here in my pocket. I shall lay each crumb a certain distance to the last, enough to avoid conspicuousness while still being visible to the man.

He will not know what lies at the end of the trail, but it is that very fact that will lead him all the way to its end.

And I shall be sitting in the café.
Chapter 15

It is now some time since I have been sitting here. Waiting games put pressure on the nerves and test the jitters. I am a seat shifting café sitter, waiting for another to arrive, so that I can talk with them and ask them questions of topics of immediate interest.

I am one with my surroundings. The pictures on the wall are my friends. They are motionless but watch me sipping tea. They wait with me and keep me company, and I thank them for their trustworthy steadfast loyalty, their discretion and their display of solidarity.

Of course they are just pictures. They have no real feelings at all.

But I am a man. And I live and breath and wobble with uncertainty as I patiently await the other man.

What is the matter? Has he not seen my sign? Or has he seen and misunderstood my riddled intentions? To me it was as clear as day to emerge from the underground and follow the inky trail that leads one here to me. Sitting in the café, sipping on Earl Grey.

After a fashion, in a time, I make to leave. By that I mean, I leave in the fashion of one leaving, returning, going or coming comes, goes, returns or leaves; and I do so after a time. So it may be more correct to say: 'After a time, in a fashion, I make to leave'. This is truth, and will continue as long as man lives.

But making to leave is by no means the equal of leaving. And in this stride, this first act, this pretence that precedes the action of leaving itself; I am come undone, as the swiftness of my making to leave stumbles in its ill sufficiency.

I am cusped upon the arm.

'Is this then your doing, sir?' There is somebody standing there, accusing their fingers upon my inner elbow and holding aloft my scribbled sign, with bedraggled stamps set upon its corners. The very same.

'Ahem, I do not deny it. How came you by it?'

They do not respond, but take the opportunity to fold into the nearest chair. Or chair and table. Combo.

'This,' beginning to speak, holding aloft between thumb and forefinger my signpost message, now slightly damp, 'I found attached to the underside of a manhole cover.'

'Did you indeed?' I respond, 'I wonder how it got to a place like that!' I look away and wait for the response.

'There was a trail of oddly coloured breadcrumbs leading straight to this café.'

'That is odd.'

I look down.

You see I am in a quandary. This morning the man who sat in the café not three chairs away, the man whom I followed, whom I watched whose details in the visual I did note: the coat, the shoes, the distinctive gait, who I did follow almost down a manhole.

And now, before me is sat, cross legged and looking at me: the very same coat, the very same shoes, and unless I am dearly mistaken, that walk, that walking walk that walks when others only walk I witnessed once again as entered this mystery into the café.

But now I can see the visage up close. The complexion is smooth and the skin is soft.

And behold, she is a woman! She is that woman thief! That woman who with pretty eyes betrayed me to the streets!

'You!' I stand and stagger backwards.

'Is there a problem?'

I simply cannot believe the impudent poise and calmness with which she says "Is there a problem?" as though she has come to fix my boiler.

I stand and stare in disbelief. I turn my neck to check its me she looks toward.

'You!!' I repeat, louder.

The young woman continues to look, though does not stare, in my direction. At ease. At ease! How dare she! Why, the shyness which should cross her cheeks in modesty had she not took part in such a plot, and such successful plot, to steal away my own means and identity, in November!

I dare not speak. How can this woman, this ..girl, seem so untroubled.

In the silence the girl eventually begins to stare at her painted nails.

The whole café, I realise, is looking at me, so I decide to take a seat, but pull it slightly away from the table before I sit down.

Unbelievably, the lady still seems concerned by my note.

Perhaps she is a serial thief, choosing not to become sentimentally attached to, or even remember, her victims. Why should she?

I am simply an oddball who has pinned a piece of paper to a manhole cover.

I will play along for now.

'Tell me, ahem, why so interested in my note?'

The woman holds the note yet aloft, and fly her features from it to me and from me in subsequence back to it.

'Well, I happened to come across it. I must admit, I found its directions slightly peculiar but.. Well, silly man, I guess I am the one who wants to ahem 'find out more', like it says..here on this note.'

'But yes of course.'

We exchange glances, the kind I try to avoid in this foreign place with these miscreants.

Does she know that I was following her? Or more, does she know that I suspect that she knows that I was following her?

And does she know that she took my wallet.

Who will be first to let slip. Oh she knows. I can see now that she knows. She is fully aware of what she has done and what she is doing.

Who will be the first to break character and remove their gloves?

'So, thief, it IS you.'

Her expression is hard to read, but she is not refuting my allegation.

'Tell me, woman, do you torment all of your victims this way?'

She remains motionless, and says nothing.

But her eyes, they say it all.

And then she speaks. 'Not all. Just you.'

I have had enough.

'What plot is this? What plot? You, and my companion, and the street dwellers. I bet even the café staff and the street merchants know my name. They all conspire to distract me. To keep me from some..something. Now tell me, lady, sweet and gentle lady, pray what is your part in this? And where is my wallet?'

'Ahem.' Faint polite cough. 'The truth is, sir, I do not know.' She stands up and gathers herself, as if to leave. 'I have but one request. And that is, that you would now come with me.'

So now she wants me to follow her. After apparently running away from me this very morning. Nothing in this city makes even the most uneven amount of sense, does it?

But, you know, this woman is an enchantress and so my legs seems to follow though my senses have reservations. And they carry me out of the café and onto the city streets once more, almost against my will.

'Ahem, where are we going?'

The woman walks briskly, but finally responds.

'Where do you think?' she turns and looks at me, 'Down.'

Oh goody.
Chapter 16

Drip, drip. Drip. Drop. Drip.

I could go on all day. Well in truth I could not. But this unceasing underground can and does.

But the noises are not my chief concern.

You see I am in a very precarious predicament of long-reaching proportions. Them being the sewers. And the sewer folk. Chief of whom seem to be this lady. She knows these sub-paths like the street dwellers know the routes above our head. I have been following her for over an hour.

Under the streets she is transformed. She moves well above ground, but seems to fly beneath it. What is most unusual is her ability to remain in a state of soil-free serenity; I am lagging far behind, and all I can say is that it is fortunate that my clothes were already brown.

'Lady, where are you taking me?' I scream down the sewers, in the hope she is still within hearing distance. 'Answer me!'

Drip. Trickle. Drip. Drop.

Oh dear I seem to be stranded down here.

Oh fickle me!

Again I call and echo down the pipes.

'Curse. Curse this place. Curse these pipes.' Cursed that lady has my life.

Well I keep on moving. I twist and turn and plunge and slide along. It is as though it rains dirty from beneath. All that remains dry is the top of my head.

Plunge and splatter.

'What's the matter?'

'Oh, its you.' I say.

'Try harder to keep up.'

'Perhaps you could tell me where we are going?'

'Perhaps.'

I don't like her.

But I find myself following her.

In fact I can smell her perfume.

That's a powerful odour.

Ah rats! Rats! They scurry about me. They come in waves! And just as soon are gone.

This cellar goes on and on, and I think the gradient is gently downward. We are plunging into the earth itself.

I reach a fork in the way: left, right or straight ahead? My ears can certainly hear her footsteps, but down which path - the echoes ring aloud from all directions?

I choose the fork with the least foul stench. In fact the air is almost scented this way.

Yes, this way, I think. I perceive a faint glow.

Yes, this way.

Trickle, drip, drop.

A hum. A humming, smelling gentle drum. And a glow.

Closer. Closer now.

Oh foul stench! Sweet scent. Follow and be quick.

Look. What have I found? Where have I stumbled, here, and found? Beneath the water, yet up from the ground.

Why; a bottle. How does it glow around?

What have I found? I cannot put it down. What neither floats nor drowns. Is this a thing like things that lie around?

What have I found? What have I found?

A penny, or a pound?

That hums but makes no sound. That speaks soft treason, seeming unprofound.

Yet all herein is trapped around.

Is light, and heavy as the ground.

Trash with trash, but ho! treasure here is found.

Tinker, tanker, hear the chink, the sound.

Oh bottle what does your surround?

How so? Come your insides out. What no?

What bottle keeps, when open upside down?

How came in, if..

If what goes up, needs must not come down?

Inside this bottle, holds a key, and holds it up and down.

'Haaaaaahahahahaha!'

Oh what bewitching cackle is this?

'Be sure you don't get lost down here now won't you.'

'Why were you laughing just now?'

'What do you mean? I always laugh. Its what I do. What do you do?'

'I'm not really sure what I do.'

'Nor am I, monsieur. Now, we have to move.'

I follow through the mire, my guide now moving quicker than before, and laughing all the way.

My focus does start to sharpen.

Every so often we walk underneath an aperture and bath briefly in the light which floods down from above, revealing the brown sewer.

I grow more sure footed, although I still slip, regaining my balance with hands on slippery sides.

I fall behind my guide, but am close enough to follow after the laughter that echoes and reverberates down the tin pipes.

And what is more, the whiff of her perfume.

'Hey,' I pause briefly to catch my breath, my knees supporting my hands and arms, 'maybe one day you could teach me to dance.'

The laughing stops.

An odd silence follows.

And then a creeping sound. Like the shuffle of silent feet. Like the she-wolf walks around the water. She finds the solid ground.

'To dance, monsieur?' I swivel, only to find her face mere inches from my own, on the other side, hanging from the ceiling. Then she smiles.

'I was advised never to smile underground.'

'Except when upside down, monsieur. Then a smile appears a frown.'

She's hanging; I'm standing: our eyes are level.

'To dance monsieur, you want to learn to dance?'

I remain silent.

But we danced on the ceiling and ground. We danced in the round, in around. In a circle made rings and no sound. As she taught me to dance, underground.
Chapter 17

Emerging. Dirty as the first light breaks above the ground and seems to bend round corners. The moon she is still there.

I walk through streets and a thought crosses my mingled senses and informs my muddled mind. I am in desperate need of a bath.

I start in search of a stream or some other clean water.

'Excuse me.'

A lady stands at the door of her humble abode.

'I am in desperate need of a bathe.'

The door is slammed in my face.

But the door swings back wide.

The lady thrusts a washing up bowl complete with sponge and soap, and issues me to a side yard.

'Dispose of zese zings when you are done, monsieur.'

'Merci,'

I wash.

The scrubbing on my skin awakens my senses.

'Scrub a dub.' Start to sing. 'Scrub a dub dub. Oh and it's a fine morning. Scrub a dub dub and it's a fine morning.'

The birds join in with my singing.

Tweet tweet, tweet tweet .

Sweet sweet, they may as well say.

I think the lady in the house is watching me through a gap in the window, but I don't care.

And by the ticking of the clock, its nine, and I must be off.

It is one of those days where I want to walk about on my own. See something, do something, I don't know what.

Do you know, I am none the wiser as to the whereabouts of my things, and yet I am the wiser. Why do I really need my wallet and my passport? They seem so trivial all of a sudden.

And then I see. I am beginning to think like our heroine. I am beginning to see as she sees. To see these streets as they really are, not as an outsider but as an insider. If I am without, then she is within. This is strange.

Oriana has a score to settle. She has not long been violated, but in true character, keeps her wits all about her. She remains calm like a cat.

Yet what can a young girl do on her own? It must be time to introduce another character, or even a group of characters.

Her friends.

Hey Oriana. We heard what happened.

It is the following morning.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

Hang on. We need to know who's talking.

Friend No1: Hey Oriana, we heard what happened.  
Oriana: Oh yeah.  
Friend No2: Yeah.  
Oriana: well, thanks for comin' round.  
Friend No3: What else are friends for?

The number three is a pleasing number: not so many that the stage becomes overcrowded; but enough to suggest that Oriana is a friendly sort; as she is our crowd puller and our lead protagonist, she needs to be somewhat the sociable type without lightening the seriousness of our line.

Oriana: I need your help.

Ok now everything that each of her friends say must now reveal something of their character and purpose in the play, otherwise we are wasting lines.

Friend 1: Do you need something bringing?  
Friend 2: Or for us to go and fight for ya?  
Friend 3: Or do you just want us to stick around for a bit?

The first friend is the logistician of the group, the second is a feisty child-warrior and the third is wise and perceptive.

Oriana: All three – if ya don't mind.  
Friend 3: Tell us a bit more.  
Oriana: You know what happened  
Friend 2: Not all of it. We don't know who did it.  
Friend 1: Or how it came about.  
Friend 3: We are here to help you win.  
Oriana: Well it was the senator's boy. He attacked me, in a cruel way, you know.  
Friend 2: The senator's boy? You must have really made him mad. Oh it was the Senator's boy what did it was it?  
Friend 1: Shall we make a plan?  
Friend 2: Yeah you find where he is and then I'll go get 'im.  
Friend 3: I think perhaps she had something else in mind?  
Oriana: They will take my home away if they suspect I have anything to do with it.  
Friend 1: So what are you going to do? Keep your mouth shut? Let him sin again?  
Friend 2: Fight him in the street? Or lie in wait and take him unawares?  
Friend 3: What say you, friend? We'll do whatever you ask.  
Oriana: I say, patience. And then I will have my revenge.

I need further guidance at this point on the play. I feel I must return to the yard.

I walk through the morning streets and observe that which lies all around me.

A clean mist; a rising vapour that seems to emanate from beneath the streets slowly rises and reveals what's hidden beneath. Cool cobbles seem washed afresh by the dawn and the night's scum is scoured out of imagination.

As the dawn breaks the cobble warms and seem to bath in the dawns new light. What's left is a new day. Bright and shining. Though not terrifically warm.

I walk down the street.

A dog runs at my legs, but I dodge it. The cat, follows the dog, dodges me. Then I hear the birds start to sing; to chirp and to cheep and to sing my name.

And I bounce back to the yard.
Chapter 18

It is mid-morning. I am back in the yard. But this time nobody else is around. There is just an empty yard.

The throws are jettisoned to the side and the bins are cold. I guess everybody has upped and left.

But then something comes idling out of the corner. A small cloud of dust stirred by a small broom. And out from the cloud emerges a thing; a mere slip of a sweeping girl.

'Hello.'

' 'ello.'

The girl continues to sweep, lifting things up and placing them in loose piles to get at all the cracks. She hums a simple tune as she goes and seems oddly content in her work.

If I was left to do this, I'd be furious.

'Ahem, you'll forgive my intrusion, mademoiselle, I did not think there were any, ahem, mademoiselles in the yard.'

'You are ably pardoned, monsieur, now maybe you could help me to arrange these things.'

'Oh, Sure.'

So we sweep and tidy the yard together.

'Can I tell you something?'

She continues to sweep but says, 'Of course.'

'I am a playwright, or I'm trying to be a playwright.'

'Oh.'

'It's just, I am having difficulties with my lead protagonist, who is a girl, probably about your age.'

'Oh, I see.'

I stop deliberately, to let her continue the questions, and test whether I have piqued her interest.

'You have missed a spot, monsieur.' She points to a spot I have missed.

Oh she's smiling and laughing. Oh that makes it better.

She doesn't seem interested in my play though.

It seems that if I cannot be of use sweeping, I must leave.

'Wait, do not leave, where are you going, you were telling me about your play.'

'Ah yes my play,' I say, 'Well, do you mind if I sit in the yard and write, and ask you the occasional question?'

'I do not mind, but please sit over there.'

I set about my business.

'In your opinion mademoiselle, what is the sweetest form of revenge?'

'Why do you ask that, monsieur.'

'Because the character in my play is about to exact revenge after being brutally attacked.'

'I see.'

'What do you think my heroine would do?'

'Let me see about that.' She stops sweeping for a second. 'I think that maybe she would cut his genitals off.' Continues sweeping.

Right.

'Seriously, genital mutilation?'

'No not seriously monsieur, although it gave me amusement to watch you squirm.'

'Ok, if not that, then what?'

'You know I cannot think what she would do. There seems nothing that one could do.'

Yes, our heroine is trapped in the eyes of our audience. This is the exact effect I wanted to achieve.

'Excuse me. Why are you sweeping up?'

'Because the yard is dirty.'

'Are you a slave?'

'Non monsieur. Sweeping is what I do, but I am no slave. I belong only to myself and my broom belongs to me. Please refrain from ever touching it, so please you monsieur. Now if you please..'

Mademoiselle courtesies and takes exit.
Chapter 19

I remain in the yard. My sheets spread about me. The plot must now develop or die.

I take my pen from my pocket.

Bait, bait, bait is the weapon of my hate  
Lies, lies, lies as the lute player sighs  
A web; a trap; a juicy piece of meat am I  
The clock, ticks, at nightfall my revenge is nigh.

So Oriana has decided to make herself a piece of live bait to lure her adversary to commit a second offense. Though this time she has back up. Her compatriots lurk in the shadows waiting for the moment to attack.

The stage is quiet.

Oriana is silently lit, attending to her laundry.

We wait.

And then, after an age, a shadow moves in the dark.

Your rent is due.

Oriana says nothing.

I have come to collect payment.  
Oriana still says nothing.  
If you cannot pay then what is there left to do?

Oriana turns about and opens her legs.

Wait, I'm forgetting to include who is speaking. Oh these notes are going to be a nightmare to follow.

Oriana: Dutifully m'lord.

This apparent act of submission appeals to our villain's vanity and arching sense of supremacy over a feeble woman. Therein lies his weakness: his greatest weakness that our heroine has cleverly exploited; his blindspot; his masculine pride.

Our villain strides toward his mark.

Senator's Boy:  
Your pain is my own pleasure,  
Your sorrow is my joy;  
If tears of sadness follow,  
They follow my pure...

Just trying to think of the final word.

Boy? Toy? Ahoy? All meaningless.

I need a word that rhymes with joy and is in some way suits our purposes.

Aha. I have it. Our villain, after all is simply in the act of an

...envoy.

Your pain is my own pleasure,  
Your sorrow is my joy;  
If tears of sadness follow,  
They follow my pure envoy.

Now for a struggle. The following scene is the culmination of the first Act of our play and of our heroine's youth.

Oriana: Gerroff me, villain!  
Senator's boy: If I am a villain; then taste my villainy!  
Friend 2 (leaping from the shadows with a knife): We'll all be villains before the night is through.  
Friend 1 : If her, then me too.  
Friend 3: Me three. We four are friends you see.  
Friend 1: And back to back  
Friend 2: And hack to hack  
Friend 3: We'll see to you villains-three.

(By this time, the two henchman have joined the fray).

The henchman do no talking as they are of course, dumb thugs.

Senator's boy: Not if I outflank you.

(Turns to henchman)

One take the left, one take the right  
I'll take the middle and we'll fight right through the night

Oriana: The middle? I'll show you a middle, man.

(Punches him in stomach. SB bends double but henchman throw themselves on Oriana. Friends leap on top of henchman. SB recovers and runs away into the night in the commotion.)

Oriana: (on recovery) Oh fiddlesticks! We let them get away.  
As the violins begin to play.
Chapter 20

'Drama, drama! Anyone for drama? Drama, anyone?' I pass a flyer distributer along a street with a couple of theatres that I thought had long closed.

It would appear that our project has competition. We will not be making use of these theatres though: that would cost money; something we don't got.

Time is beginning to wage war against us. We have only a short window in which to register our production.

I recently took a walk to a local library: after some digging, it emerges that to be included in the seasonal revue, meriting a visit from a journalist and therefore a write up in the local press, we have a single month in which to make our intentions known.

And a third finished script I doubt shall be sufficient.

It is time to meet up with my co-wright. I wonder where he has gotten to.

'Ha haahaahahahaha..'

Entertaining round a table in a bar.

I squeeze onto the bench, give a quick jab in the side and slide the script under the table.

'Read it and weep. Its all we have.'

I retreat from the pub and re-enter the street.

After a short while, my companion joins me.

'My, my, my,' holding the script in his hands and gently perusing its pages.

'It is great, but short.'

'It is unfinished,' I chip in.

'Then finish it.'

'We have less than one month to do so. I could use some assistance.'

'How so?'

'We have reached the middle;- nay the thick of the drama.'

'The thick and the thin.'

'The quick; the thick; and the thin.'

'The thin's the tail end mate.'

'Look. We've the quick. I'll the thick. Then you'll make ends with the thin.'

'That's a pearl, or a round peach of an exchange.'

'I'd give any peach for any pearl.'

'Pearls are given to girls. Which one do you have designs on, then?'

'I have a design: and if for these peaches we can get pearls; made pretty with pearls; then we'll have a girl for our play.'

'What's her name?'

'Don't know, I never asked her name. But she lives unheralded in the yard.'

'Well, in other news, events about Paris have unfolded.'

'How so?'

'There has been another incident.'

'Not like the last incident, which we never got to the bottom of?'

'Not like it, but not entirely unrelated, according to my sources.'

'Does it merit another walk?'

'It does.'

'Well then we'd better be off.'

'And off we'd be better off.'

'But we must be on if we're off. Or off if we were ever on. '

'You've said it. We're on if we're off. And off if ever we're on. And, off, we are ever off-on.'
Chapter 21

The skies are grey. The heavens they are shut. We walk in a thin layer trapped between the earth and the sky; and in a long line fixed between two points.

I think that the second part of our drama will start with a song, and a drum beat.

I meticulously follow my friend, though he has no idea where he is going.

'Its this way,' he says, gesticulating.

I try to preserve my depleting resources and concentrate on my play.

A throbbing drum; a beating heart.

A whistle; a singing bird.

A bell; A bell.

Oriana is singing a tune along with the bird, hanging out a carpet to beat on the line along with the drum, while her sister dances around her feet, toing and froing in step with the bell.

My play seems a bit dull. I just can't seem to get any of the characters to really come alive.

I think perhaps I need to brighten the mood. Act 1 was a bit moody.

How about a comic interlude.

A clown stumbles into Oriana's courtyard.

The clown's name is

Jiffy: It's a lunatic bright night and I can't see

(Stumbles around and cannot see Oriana, her sister or where he is going!)

Oriana: You should get out in the day more, Jiffy  
Sister: (With the bell) Jiffy can't see, Jiffy can't see  
Got one red eye; one black eye; and two left feet  
Jiffy (staring and pointing at the sky) Look at the darling moon, how brightly she shines tonight.

(Sister giggles at jiffy. Oriana purses lips a tad and continues to beat the rug)

Sister: Oh Jiffy. Iffy Jiffy.  
Oriana: Don't call him that or it'll soon stick.  
That's no new moon, sir. That there must be on omen; a bright burning meteor heading straight for our heads!  
Jiffy: Woe is me. Woooeeee is me! Let the world be party to my pain – for woe is me!  
Sister: Woe to us all three! Now Jiffy enough of this nonsense. That's the lion of the sky.

Jiffy: A lion!? In the street!?

A meteor and now a lion!?! First I'll be blinded, then mauled, and if by some mercy I survive then I'll be a puff of ash and a whiff of smoke.

(Sister continues to giggle)

Oriana: Now stop this collaborating sister and mine.  
Before the sun made you blind, Jiffy; you were squiffy with wine.

(Clown stumbles offstage)

My companion is moving on ahead of me.

We are walking and the skies are fair and our path is unhindered. We come across a river and walk down to its level. The air changes. The salt-sweet aroma of aqua, tin and stone is clean and penetrates the air above the river. It cuts through the city and its crime. The river is broad and sweeps along. It's a low-way strewn with river-folk. Might them be down but them never ever out. The rest of the way is along the left bank of the river.

Then we dart to one side. We step into a stone circle. The rocks are laid down on earth. Flowers, grasses and some reeds grow about them, clinging to the stones and blowing in a gentle and occasional breeze. The spot is sheltered and; look how hallowed orchids grow! In the cracks! Right verily I say unto you, that never eyes have seen such colour in such varied hue. A damp smoke drifts in across the stream and part obscures the flower heads; but the birds whistle in a clear and melancholic air. What a rare place. What a perfect place. To sit alone atop a stone.

We are bidden not to speak and I sit a while. It is not long before I realise the smoke comes not from across the river, but from my companion who has lit up just around the corner.

'Why have you brought me here?'

My companion speaks from afar. 'Isn't it obvious?'

'Well it has a certain charm, but how does it relate to the news?'

'It relates to the last incident.'

'Does it relate? How does it relate?'

'It relates in that it relates.'

'I see. So how does it relate?'

'Look around you.'

'Yes. So what am I looking for?'

'For you own reflection. In the water.'

'There is only the river. And the river moves.'

'Yes. But that is not all that moves.'

'This place is otherwise still.'

'Yes. And still; does it not move?'

'To the point of tears, let me assure you.'

We stand in silence, taking stock of the view.

'Its pretty.'

'It is pretty. It is handsome and very, very..pretty.'

Chapter 22

Flowers; in the middle of winter? How novel.

We returned to the yard by means of a barge. We weren't stowaways; we were ferried down the river by a bargeman, idling away the time upon the waters and happy it seemed for the company.

The help was unexpected and gratis, but I tossed him my last penny as I left. The bargeman nodded and kept paddling down the stream.

To the yard then. To the vassal of my dreams.

Oriana receives more news. The mailman runs into the yard.

The mailman, Tom: Have you heard?  
Oriana: Have I heard? Come on, what's the matter, Tom?  
Tom: Of the frightful world beyond this courtyard?  
Oriana: Of the frightful world? And what of the frightful world?  
Tom: There is fighting in the streets.  
Oriana: There is always fighting in the streets. That's why I choose to stay where I belong.  
Tom: There is talk of revolution.  
Oriana: Revolution? In Paris? Whoever heard of such a thing?  
Tom: I would guard your families honour at this hour m'lady.  
Oriana: My family has no honour to guard, but I'll think well on what you've said my good mate.  
Tom: Peace to you, girl, if not to this world.

(Exits.)

(Sister comes skipping by)

Sister: I've cut my finger.  
Oriana: Let's get a look at that.  
Sister: It's bleeding.  
Oriana: Hold it still.

(Oriana dresses wound after tearing off a piece of her pinafore)

There. All done.

(Sister skips off)

Take care. And stay close.

I feel another song coming along. I really don't enjoy writing songs but one thing of that I have taken note is young ladies seem given to song as part of their language; mayhap that's why they call 'em birds.

But I've half the wit or the wherewithal of a writer of half-rhymes.

Oriana:

Trouble, trouble, comin' my way  
Trouble, trouble, ain't goin' away  
Rain clouds might thunder and threaten all day  
But out in the sunshine the colours will play.

Oriana is the virtue to my mischief; the courage to my craven; the heart to my hollow; she is the lucky jewel as my left eye shuts;- an' if she's a dog; by eights; then she's a dog star.

By Eights? By Eights. And the thickest eight.

I stop and gaze around the yard. Like my play it is disjoint. I think I need to define the peripheral characters and their role in the play more clearly. Let us return to Oriana's neighbour: the woman from the last act.

Lady neighbour: Oriana.  
Oriana: What business?  
Lady neighbour: What business with you?  
Oriana: There's a deal of industry in idle chores. But I stop and lean on my mop from time to time.  
Lady neighbour: An' you look some worried child.  
Oriana: When you gonna stop callin' me child, neighbour.  
Lady neighbour: When you stop callin' me neighbour, friend.  
Sister: Neighbours and friends, friends and neighbours: and a sister in the mix to spice things up a bit.  
Oriana: Sweet sister, spicy sister, shall we invite our neighbour for supper, then that's whats a sayin' ain't it really?  
Lady neighbour: I'd rather we'd plate in the pantry, and eat in the yard.  
Sister: Underneath the bright stars, we'll eat in the yard.  
Oriana: Then that's settled: cos it's just not right to refuse hospitality, in the sight of the moon and the stars.

Now to the advance of the story of our lady neighbour. As they sit eating bowls of juicy morsels the conversation starts to flow.

Lady neighbour: Its a mighty fine night to be out, under the canopy.  
Sister: The canopy under the canopy.  
Oriana: She is right: we are under the canopy under the canopy.  
Lady Neighbour: Then lets get out from under the canopy, and then..  
Sister: We'll be under the canopy. Oh I love it under the canopy.  
Oriana: Well then what are we waiting for?

(Shuffle around and move from under the canopy)

Sister: Oh stars! Let me sing to the canopy, or under the canopy.  
Lady neighbour: That's a truly Parisian Art!  
Oriana: Aye an' true; that's true: that'll sour Parisian Hearts!

Sister starts to sing:

If the times be bright: ho! the heavens!  
An' if the world be fair; tip and tap!  
An if the air is clear; I'm eleven!  
But I'm really eleventeen: fact!

Lady Neighbour: Now sing the second verse, more, more!  
Oriana(Head in her bowl): Yes, lets have more of this tripe.

Sister (singing):

If the moon is bright: I'm her songstress!  
An' if the moths a-dazzle I'll dance!  
When I'm twelve I'll put me in a knee-length dress,  
Cos I'm an inbetween tween: howzat!

Lady Neighbour: And the last! And now the last verse, babe!  
Oriana(licking lips): Yes at last. At last the last verse. Saved!

Sister:

If my song sounds simple I'm an actress;  
If my dancing's dreary I'm a clown  
When I'm thirteen I'm lucky in a long dress, babe  
An the babe's a teeny teen: that's grown.

Oriana: That was brilliant.  
Lady Neighbour: Oh wasn't it! Oh wasn't it just..amazing!

(Sister sits back down)

Oriana: Now, to business.

(They clear the pantry)

Oriana: So, friend, what's the deal with you? Is it a question that coaxes an answer, or is my abruptness too hard for these sultry-fine hours?  
Lady Neighbour: The moon as my witness; the stars my judge: your question I find neither hard nor abrupt;- only a merry mellifluous tone with gentle intrigue and a nascent understanding, balanced and in the right measure. The one: I suspect not your knowledge sufficient already that the questions an idle one, dreamed up by one who, without breeding enough to imitate the silence seeks meekly to fill it with simpering doubts and heedless malefactions to the nights natural sounds; the other: I feel no incurable need for an answer;- but sufficiency wrought out of glimmering iron, simple in its understatement that I can be silent too, if that's what I so choose to do.  
Oriana: Is that what your husband does?  
Lady Neighbour: It's the exact opposite of what my husband does. He's a dumb brute that he is.

(There is a silent moment that passes between the two)

Lady Neighbour: Now allow me to follow. Ori, do you know that you are the child of light? And do you know how I know that?

(Oriana waits in silence)

I know that because I witnessed your birth. I witnessed the moment you came screaming into the world. It took place in this very yard.  
Oriana: But the light'll only shine in the dark: was I born in the night then? Then that would make me a child of the night: not solely a child of the light.  
Lady neighbour: I have scarce seen wits so sharp; you're a child of the bright starry night.

Oriana: Listen!

(The three wait and prick their ears)

Sister: I don't hear anything, Ori.  
Oriana: Listen awhile!

(There is a faint sound off stage, which grows louder)

Lady Neighbour: Commotion! Trouble in the streets!  
Sister: Ori, I'm scared! I'm scared Ori!  
Oriana: Me too.

(The sounds grow and throb, before dying away)

Lady Neighbour: Shall we stay?  
Sister: Or shall we go?  
Oriana: Fly. I'll stay. Away now, away.

(Lady Neighbour gathers up sister and leaves. Oriana composes herself)

Oriana: What knocking comes near?
Chapter 23

There is a fault in the wall above my head. There is a crack that runs from root to tip. There is a schism and it separates one side of the yard from the other side of the yard. Nobody else seems to notice. But it is driving me insane.

'Does this crack bother not the men in the yard?'

The ensuing silence answers my question.

Back to the wall; back to work.

Oh this play of mine is full of vain conceit.

Let two fighting French men find their way into Oriana's Courtyard.

Fighting Frenchman 1: There is a deal of blood dripping from my hands. In the main its yours, my fine friend  
Fighting Frenchman 2: And there's cuts on my face that could prove you right; but there's a throbbing in my guts that could prove you wrong in the end.

(The two Frenchman fight in the yard)

Oriana: Men of honour! Fighting in a woman's pantry yard! You have spilled from wolf pen, but woe you don't found yourselves in lion's den. It's a good job we've not long eaten, cos three lions can strip a pair of foals of the meat on their bones.  
Frenchman 1: We are no foals; we're jackals.  
Oriana: Then where's the carcass? Where's the ruckus for this fracas?

(Frenchman stop fighting)

Frenchman 1: Better to say, 'Where's the fracas for this ruckus.'  
Frenchman 2: Aye; we just came from the fracas; and now we have this ruckus.  
Oriana: Oh so you fighting men have found a point of agreement have you?  
Frenchman 1: For the length of the argument, for now we have this new foe stands against us pair.  
Frenchman 2: If that was the fracas: and this was the ruckus; right now what's this?  
Oriana: The Fray? Your still standing in a lion's den.

(Frenchmen flee)

Oriana: Honour guarded.

I look around the yard.

In the moonlight the faces are hidden underneath hoods and one by one each nods off. The odd glint indicates that a few keep one eye open.

And there is always a watch. A man perched on high at the entrance.

My pen scratches as I write.

Oriana: Bring us wine.

I say, bring us wine! Is there a sommelier in Paris?  
Jiffy: Wine. I bring wine.  
Lady Neighbour: Come, come. Lets join the fray.  
Sister: I too shall drink a drop.  
Oriana: And the rest shall drink until we drop.  
Jiffy: I'm so drunk already I'm off balance.  
Lady Neighbour: Lets drink and forget our woes.  
Sister: Let's put our hats on

Oriana: 'Ealth, gentlemen, 'ealth. 'Ealth, aye; an' wealth.

It would appear that our heroine is about to embark on a little entrepreneurship: a venture of her very own to give her family bread.

So she starts her very own bakery. She fills the yard with the heavenly aroma only found in the finest Patisseries in Paris.

She sells what she makes and re-invests the profits. And business for a while is good.

But the price of flour, suddenly and inexplicably, begins to rise.

And business stalls.

Chapter 24

I am itching for a chomp at the bit. I am itching the bit that I chomp. The chomp that I itch is biting. The biting itch chomps. That said I am hungry.

So what is there to eat? No bread. No bread for the lining of the lair. No crumb for the eating; no fuel for the feeding of the fire. Its cold. But my play is the fining of the fire inside.

Oriana: The cold winter sun grows pale and wan;  
he waxes and wanes like the withering moon;  
but takes four full seasons to swoon;  
just a month for the moon;  
then the sun is a woman and the moon is a man;  
cos a fair maiden passing by a hailing 'fair' man;  
she turns always slower'n'e can.

Oriana thus bemoans the slow passing winter and her businesses woes.

We find our heroine shutting up her stall after a bad day. She unburdens herself onto one of her three friends.

Oriana: I don't know Palamino,

(Her friends name is Palamino)

Business is just not what I was expecting.  
Palamino: I'm sure it'll pick up. Give it time.  
Oriana: I've no time! My creditors circle like desert birds.  
Palamino: Aye, creditors do that.  
Oriana: Only when they ain't getting theys moneys  
Palamino: Aye, only then.  
Oriana: (Sighs) Oh I feel like singing. Just to chase the blues away.  
Palamino: An' maybe them vultures'll fly away with the blues  
Oriana: Aye ye speak sense: them brought the blues in with 'em; they can take 'em away.  
Palamino: So the blues then: an' I'll play the piper and pipe if you'll sing an' sway

Oriana: Pipe, pipe, Palamino an' play:

(Singing)

Here's a two tone ballad for a play  
Here's a song for tomorrow an' today  
There's a show for the blind; a tune for the dumb  
And a ditty for my pretty little thumb.

(Palamino plays a ditty on the pipe)

There's wobble in the bobble of my note  
My ree-tee-doo-dah skitty that I wrote  
There's a running for the ridden and a leaping for the lame  
And a death-defying warbler in the flame

(Palamino plays a tune and dances as though on hot coals)

Then my clear ringing singing antidote  
And my bright eyed ladi-dadi-ooooo!  
There's a sword for fightless and a kite for the flightless  
and a pretty witty skitty pipe-er-ess:

(Palamino play's her best skitty yet)

Oriana: I feel better already. Lets add a beat.

(Palamino produces a drum, and starts tapping)

Oriana: He who dares wins;  
He who levels grins;  
He who snaffles takes;  
And Palamino's got the shakes.

(Palamino bangs the drum frantically)

The pair roll about laughing on the floor.

Oriana: We'll bruise unless we get up, Palamino.  
Palamino: But then we'll be bruisers, and we'll take this business by the horns!  
Oriana: Speak fair, fair player! Like matadors in Paris!  
Palamino: Whoever heard of Matodors in Paris?  
Oriana: Like two wandering fools we roll about on the floor. And then we take the bull by the horns.  
Palamino: That's a likely a tale as I've heard; we're like two Spanish-borns.  
Oriana: Like two young boy Spanish-borns; we've been gored by the bull with the horns.

Palamino: And so roll about on the floor.

Oriana: In success we're Parisian; and in failure we're Spanish: that's a shame for your grandfather, Pal.  
Palamino: But we're failures in Paris. Cht cht.  
Oriana: Cht cht? Did you just chts me, Pal?

Palamino: I chts you, right before you chts me.  
Oriana: Then cht for your chting: what fails in Paris, in Paris fails to be.

'What fails in Paris, in Paris fails to be.' My companion peruses my play. 'You're getting playful, and rather witty.'

'Any criticisms for my witticisms?'

'I am sure they are not perfect. But then.. we're not looking for perfect. We're looking for great.'

'For great?'

'For great,' my friend says with aplomb. 'And this is not perfect; but great. And that is what makes it perfect.'

New heights of vapour. 'Well, we're inching forward.'

'We're inching by centimetres. We need to start inching by inches.'

'Then I'll write another inch before nightfall.'

'And may your inches proceed like a synch.'
Chapter 25

A shadowy figure creeps into Oriana's yard at night and, rubbing hands together, speaks to the audience:

Shadowy figure:  
Don't think that I am dark  
Thereby the villain of the piece.  
I'm dark for sure and slink about,  
Like a snake or like a thief.  
After one bright tale closes  
And before the next begins  
I close the curtain, snuff the sconce  
Set the stage with a stealing grin  
I am shadow; I am black  
as the night-drawn widow's shawl  
It's a wonder; of it wonder  
that I even exist at all.

Oriana awakes the next morning, and warms here face in the morning sun.

Oriana: Lets shake off the arthritic night. My bones will warm in the sun.  
Sister emerges: How can you be arthritic? You're seventeen.  
Oriana: When you get to my age you will understand.  
Sister: I'll not be arthritic. I'm supple and young.  
Oriana: Of course you're right my clever sister. I am just stiff; that's all.  
Sister: Then let's do our stretches. Come, in a line.

1 and 2 and 3 and 4  
Touch the ceiling, touch the floor  
Two steps left, two steps right  
Wiggle in the middle then flop out of sight

Oriana: Will you slow down? Show me the first bit again

Sister: six and seven, eight then nine  
Sister: Three steps forward, one to the side.  
Up and down, roll around  
Shake the left leg, lunge then kneel down.

Oriana: Right now we're on the floor.  
Sister: You may be on the floor; I am perfectly poised.

Oriana: Well I think I just heard my back crack. Job done.

(Tom rushes into the yard)

Tom: Three for you today. No four, no five, hang on, it seems that the rest of my letters are for you today.

Oriana: Right. Well. Well let's hear 'em.  
Sister: Here's one from the people that sold you that stall. It reads 'Dear blah de blah de blah..you owe us 400 Euros'.  
Tom: This one I have to say m' lady has a similar tone: 'Dear..Blah de.. Blah de..blah..'  
Oriana: Yes, yes spit it out  
Tom: 'You owe us 1000 Euros'  
Sister: Ooh here's a nice one. 'You're crème pâtissière is the nicest in Eastern Paris, if not the western hemisphere!'  
Oriana: So two demands for more money and one over-enthusiastic review.  
Tom: And looking at the rest..that's the flavour of the rest of the bag.  
Sister: So our problem isn't demand.  
Oriana: Its just that costs just keep on going up and up.  
Sister (Looking through letters): And up and up and up.  
Tom (looking through more letters): And up and up and up some more.  
Oriana: (Looking at final letter): Until they can't go up no more.  
Here's a court summons.

Tom: From who?  
Oriana: The flour merchant.

Sink or swim now.

Oriana: Take back this letter to the flour merchant, Tom  
with this hand written message from me.  
'I have my instructions from the court.  
To pay back what I borrowed, or to see,  
your right chosen person in court  
at the time the court chooses it be.

Let me settle the amount that I owe  
Near the end of this next coming week.'

Tom: I'll not fail: your instructions they'll see.

Ok I am determined to write a full day in Oriana's life today.

Oriana can do nothing at present but wile away the time with another of her companions, who walks in with a pan and begins to prepare something soothing.

I'll name this one

Stella Round:  
Now for some chai, and some arrowroot  
Time for some clove, some lavender soup.  
Thistle makes any broth better the next  
These long loping lupines to check every hex  
Camomile honey to calm every nerve,  
Jasmine and ginger, and pepper to serve;  
Scented like lilac in a tulip-shaped cup.  
To drink, my companion, just lift your chin-up.

Oriana: Mmmmm, Thanks-a-bucket, Stella, mon amie.

Stella: I always make tea at this time of day. It is small trouble.  
Oriana: I am waiting for word from my messenger. Next week I shall either be frantically chasing paper, or winding up in front of the magistrate.  
Stella: That sounds like large trouble brewing.  
Oriana: Oh thanks for not trivialising my woes.  
Stella: Never. They sound like woes indeed.  
Oriana: But sipping on this simple brew of yours and my woes seem lightened; somehow alleviated.  
Stella: My brew does have this effect.  
Oriana: Is there a secret ingredient. Some local herb?  
Stella: Oh my, there are many secret herbs secreted into hot water. That is the nature of all brewing.  
Oriana: Ye speak fair knowledgeable, on the herb dearest friend.  
Stella: Ye speak fair, whether on the herb or off the herb dear acquaintance.  
Oriana: My meaning was not I take you for a meanderer of the herb, dear one.  
Stella: Oh but I have fair meandered through herbs and for herbs, for I even pluck nettles in the forest my dear.  
Oriana: Nettles? Ouch! Oh so that's the secret ingredient!  
Stella: Cottoning on at last.  
Oriana: Well good thing I drank it most before I got down to the nettles.  
Sister: I want some nettles!

(Stella hands her a cup)

Oriana: This is a superlative brew. But my! Nettles! How fiendlike to bring nettles to this fiefdom of mine.  
Sister: How like a fiend! Oh but one's friends are but fiends, though fine friends they be.  
Oriana: How judicial, honourable sister, that you balance the good with the bad  
Stella: How judicial indeed. We can all live in hope that the field-cornet fancies as fair.  
Oriana: We can hope.
Chapter 26

Tom: M' lady, your in for some changing of the guard: you're lucks in!  
Oriana: What do you mean Tom, what do you mean?  
Tom: My meanin's, m'lady, that I made well sure to get a straight response from the flour merchant. I stands there an I says, 'now read that letter, an I'll take your reply.' An the flour merchant, or the chief at the flour merchant, cos the flour merchants quite large, says, 'We'll respond in due course.' But I says, 'Now listen, this young lady's a close acquaintance an I charge myself with her good, that I do.' So seein' as I was a goin' nowhere fast an as I was just a standin' there till I had me a letter in reply, they looks at the letter, murmurs a while an says, "Well, as I can see she has companions, an as we got this reply so sharp, and as I never seen a mail man stand so," and 'e scribbles on the note, "here, take this to your young lady."

And so I does. An' so here I is.

Oriana (looking at note): An here you is Tom. An here is the reply: "Very well". Oh but that's wonderful: it means we has a week to pay.  
Tom: Well m'lady, I'll be a goin' now if its ala same. Till the next post. (Exit Tom)  
Oriana: Oh fortune smiles upon me, if just for one day! I'll set about paying the amount that I owe; an' that this second; straight-right away!

The next scene will comprise of Oriana and compatriots running on and off stage at different exit points, seeing to the affairs of the business. Selling, buying, baking, clearing, sweeping, dreaming, hoping, praying.

In the following scene, Oriana sits on a step in the corner of her yard looking at the weeks figures, chin in hand, endowed with an expression that is hard to read. She gazes into the air.

Sister (advancing): So?  
Lady Neighbour: How did we do?  
Oriana: (Sighs deeply) But two pennies short.  
Lady Neighbour: Well here's a penny from my apron.  
Sister: And another from my dress.

Oriana (face brightening):

That's the prettiest two pennies that I ever did see

Sister: Yes how is it that two pennies are prettier than three?

Oriana can now pay the flour merchant - hurraaaah! Her business will surely survive now right?

Oriana: Tom, Tom, Tom!  
Tom enters the yard.  
Tom: What business ma'am? What business makes you hail 'n' holler in the yard so as all 'n' one can hear from near 'n' far?  
Oriana: Tom, you must take this to the flour merchant at once!  
Tom: That I'll do m'lady, that I'll do.

Sister: How long? How long must we wait for Tom to return, with the good news that assures the settlement of this, our largest debt?  
Oriana: We must play a waiting game.  
Sister: A game? I'm game for a game.  
Oriana: Then a game it is. Let's gamble away the time.  
Oriana's sister produces a small bag from her pinafore.  
Oriana: Now where did that emerge from?  
Sis: From my dress, for I am too young for a bag, and so..  
Oriana: And so you hides things in your pinnie, brown-eyed girl.  
Sis: So I does. But now let's play dice.  
Oriana: Well there, I rolled a four and a five. How chance you better beat that petite soeur.  
Sis: There are multiple ways to beat that: a four and a five would match it; as wouldst one five and one four; two fives would better the dice; or any permutation of five and six; but..

(rolling the dice)

..Ha! Two sixes!  
Oriana: To follow a sound mathematical reason; there's your just reward.  
Sis: This time, I shall go first.  
A pair of threes.  
Oriana (as the dice roll): Now I've half a chance of beating that.  
Sis: Better than half.  
Oriana: How's that?  
Sis: Cos seven beats six. And there are myriad ways of rolling a seven, when two dice are thrown on the ground.  
Oriana: Two an.. five?  
Sis: One and six.  
Oriana: Three an.. four?  
Sis: But on how many throws can one chance on six, when two dice are cast on the ground?  
Oriana: Three an.. Two?  
Sis: Three an Three. Four and two.  
Oriana: One an.. five? But that's three ways, the same for six as for seven.

Sis: There's no three ways about it. There's as much chance as rolling a two and a four as a four before rolling a two.  
But when rolling a three, all our numbers must be, only three, only three, only three.

Oriana: I'm confused.

Sis: We're two sisters, each with a dice. If I roll, and my number's three, then how many different outcomes can there be?

Oriana: Why six, because my dice has six faces.  
Sis: We can make four or five or six or seven or eight or nine.  
Oriana: I follow.

Sis: But I don't always musts roll a three.

Oriana: Yah.

Sis: I've six faces too you see.

Oriana: Yuhuh.

Sis: If each of my six faces has a fair part.

Oriana: Yuh.

Sis: And each of your six splits equally still.

Oriana: Errrr, yup.

Sis: Then that's six equal sixths to each of my sixths.

Oriana: Ok.

Sis: Of which I duly have six. That's thirty six ways you and I can roll two dice on the ground.

Oriana: Riiight.  
Sis: Now, I rolled two threes in our game.  
Oriana: I saw um.  
Sis: So to beat me you need to score seven or more.  
Oriana: Got it.

Sis: So of thirty six ways of rolling these dice:

There are no ways of rolling just one; only one way of rolling a two  
Oriana: Snake eyes.  
Sister: There are two ways of rolling a three;  
Oriana: A one and a two or a two and a one.  
Sister: And three ways of rolling a four;  
Oriana: Two twos: like a ballerina. Or a three and a one.  
Sister: Or a one and three.  
Oriana: Then how many ways can we come up with five?  
Sister: Lets see. A one and a four, vica versa.  
Oriana: A two and a three. Versa vica.  
Sister: With my vica versa and your verca vica  
Oriana: That's four to make five on a dica.

Sister: And we already know there are five possibilities of chucking a six like I have.

Oriana: Let me get this straight:

there are no ways to make one, one to make two, two to make three, three to make four, four to make five and five to make six.  
Sister: When throwing two dice there are fifteen ways to score six or less as we've found.  
Oriana: But that's less than half of the thirty six ways you can cast two dice on the ground.  
Sister: Too true! That makes twenty-one ways you can beat me. More than half of a chance!

Oriana: (rolls a three and a four)

That's profound!

Tom rushes into the courtyard.

Tom: Errrr, I's some news for 'ee young lady.  
Oriana: Good news, I hope?  
Tom: The news, ladies, is difficult for me to understand, and thereby me can't place such unusual scrapings in the barrel o' good or bad.  
Sister: Well out with it, Tom!

Tom: Well, the long an short of it is, they refuse the monies you sent.

Oriana: Refuse the monies we sent!  
Sister: In consternation!  
Tom: Aye, I'm consternated also, allow me to use the rest room if you please.  
Sister: That's not what consternated means but its this way, Tom.  
Oriana: Aye, Tom, the rest rooms that'a'way as you follows ma petite soeur.

(Exit sis and Tom)

How?

Oh bright and beautiful stars, that shine upon me, with soft pricking lights! Fair as you are, how chance you should help me this night?  
'Cos I has done my darnedest, in this tired; this lonely old fight.

Oh and the stage grows dim.
Chapter 27

The chill in Paris is beginning to lift. The air is still pre-natal. But my breath no longer fogs in front of my face.

My writing affords me little time at present; little time for anything else. My patience and persistent efforts are beginning to yield a little fruit: at least I have work; that's enough!

Oriana too has her work cut out.

The scene opens in court.

Judge/Magistrate: The next case we have The Flour Merchant of East Paris vs Ms Oriana.  
Sister: Where is the witness box?  
Assistant to the judge: Ahem, there is no witness box, young one, this is a civil case, and there are two equal parties.  
Sister: A tad disappointed but I suppose that's a relief for you eh, sis? With your fear of public speakin' an' all.  
Oriana: Maybe all three of us should consider ourselves of one party.

(Turns to judge)

Ahem, excuse me Mr Magistrate, I should let you know that it is not Oriana they stand against, but the Patisserie of East Paris, of which I am chief baker, manager, founder and owner.

(Points to her neighbour and her sister)

And these are my associates.

Judge: I'll justify your comments lady, miss. Patisserie of Paris: so it is.  
Lady Neighbour:

(Eyes Judge)

How exciting!

Assistant: Proceedings begin.  
Sister: Right, and about time..  
Judge: Settle down, it is my turn to speak.  
Assistant: The judge shall now speak.  
Judge: Ahem. Let us first hear from the Flour Merchant of East Paris. Who is their representative?

A man steps forward.

Man: It is I.  
Assistant begins to address the man, but the magistrate interdicts  
Judge: And who is I?  
Assistant: The only 'I' in the room is the judge. You must introduce yourself properly, monsieur.  
Man: My name is Francois du Cathaye.  
Assistant: And your position?

(Silent pause)

Assistant: Ahem your position, s'il vous plait, monsieur.

(Another pause)

Judge: Monsieur: speak!  
Man: I am a representative, at the Flour Merchant.  
Assistant: At the Flour Merchant of East Paris?

(Man nods)

Judge: mmm, very well.  
Assistant: And the complainant whom you represent, what is their complaint, for the court?  
Man: There is the matter..of an outstanding..payment.  
Sister and (Neighbour):That is a lie. (That's rubbish). No truth in these allegations. (We paid every penny you miser). What a scumbag!  
Assistant speaks and judge interdicts: Silence!  
Assistant: There's not a one here is a ahem, scumbag, and please the defendant shall have a chance to speak, although might I suggest each one in turn.

(Sister eyes assistant)

Judge: Let the young lady speak her piece.  
Oriana (Stands): Ahem, may't please the court. Your honour we have paid this amount in full, down to the last penny. So how can the Flour Merchant call us to court in payment of a once paid debt?

Assistant: The papers, submitted by the defendant, do offer as much, your honour.

(Assistant hands judge the paperwork - the judge peruses)

Judge: What say you to this Mr du Cathaye?  
Francois du Cathaye: My client refused this payment.  
Assistant (to FdC): (your honour)  
FdC: My client refused this payment, honour.  
Judge: Do you have a problem with the procedures at court, Mr du Cathaye?  
FdC: No problem, your honour.  
Assistant: All good. Why did your client refuse payment?  
FdC: The payment was late..your honour.  
Judge: Hmmm, so are your manners, Monsieur du Cathaye. Very tardy indeed.  
Assistant: A break.

The three put their heads together to decide on some kind of strategy.

Sister: I think the assistant fancies me.  
Lady Neighbour: And I think I fancy the judge.  
Oriana: And I think the rep from the flour merchant is mysterious.  
Lady Neighbour: Enigmatic?  
Oriana: No, just mysterious.  
Sister: Shady.  
Oriana: Right well I think we all know what's coming ladies.  
Assistant: Shall we resume proceedings?

(All three turn around from the huddle, with lipstick on)

Assistant: I, well,..yes, let's proceed.  
Lady neighbour: Did you have something to say there?  
Assistant: No I,..Let's proceed.  
Judge: Let's get on with it!  
Assistant: Let me question if you please, the lady on the left. Who is..  
Lady Neighbour: My name is Daphne.  
Assistant: Ok Daphne. What is your relationship to Ms Oriana and what is your place in the Patisserie of Paris?  
Daphne: My relationship to my friend is self evident and my place is one of servitude and mild sober gentliness.  
Assistant: I see.  
Judge: And you, the younger on the right.  
Sis: My name is Arabella. I am Oriana's sister.  
Judge: So do I see.

The Judge and the assistant have each of course been distracted by coy glances from Daphne and Arabella and now its Oriana's turn to strike.

Oriana: So please the magistrate. Find the true identity of this, my opponent, the representative of the Flour Merchant.  
Judge (enchanted by Daphne):  
Yes, yes. Somebody reveal that man's true identity.  
Oriana: Pardon. So you know who he is?  
Judge: Well of course he was sent by one of my associates. The real representative was delayed.  
Oriana: I hope the court recorder is getting all this.  
Recorder: Every word, lady.  
Oriana: So who is this?  
FdC (to the assistant): Do something. This was not our arrangement.  
Assistant: Yes of course the judge is not himself.  
Arabella (smiling sweetly): Tell the truth if you want to please me.  
Assistant: Yes well, this isn't uncommon in these parts. There are often arrangements to protect the larger merchants.  
Oriana: Arrangements? In consternation! I demand a fair hearing.

Man from the back leaps up:

And a fair hearing you shall have. Or this is going straight to the local press!

So a new judge is put in place, and Tom emerges.

Tom: I was gagged! Cos I knew that man weren't from the merchant.  
Oriana: Where is the REAL representative from the Flour Merchant?

The real representative arrives from the back.

New Judge: Why did the Flour Merchant of East Paris refuse the payment of a debt?  
New Rep: We refused because the payment was not to our liking.  
New Judge: Not to your liking? How so?  
New Rep: It was all in small coins, poured out on the desk. We prefer cheque.  
Judge: I hate to be the one to have to tell you, but the refusal of legal tender in settlement of a standing debt is illegal. That's that.  
Assistant: The judge has ruled in favour of Oria..  
Oriana: Ahem..

Assistant: ..in favour of the Patisserie of Paris.

You shall receive all your expenses.  
Judge (to REP): And you shall meet them. And in future, do not refuse these hard pennies.  
REP: Yes your honour.  
Assistant: All rise.

The magistrate leaves.

Oriana and her two companions jump up and down clapping.

Sister: We won, we won, I can't believe we won.  
Lady Neighbour: Let's hope we can get on with business now eh, Ori?  
Oriana: I feel very good. And thank you both for comin' along. But me feels a bit sorrowful too.  
Sis: Sis?  
Oriana: I 'as the melancholies of success.
Chapter 28

The fronds of time do trickle then run dry. We have a mere week to finish the first draft of our play.

The middle must be done today.

Oriana: My maladies a bright one: The cause of my complain  
Is that I have no nothing less than a highway clear and straight  
Stretched underneath me from my toes to yonder and to great  
Yes how can I complain? I've had success of late.

Sis: I'm going out to play today.  
Oriana: Well in that case, tell that friend of mine to come on over.  
Sis: Friend? Which one?  
Oriana: The one who lives just round the corner.

(Sis skips off)

After several moments, one of Oriana's companions strides into the yard.

Her name is:

Jasmine Ching: I have brought for you wontons.

Oriana: Thank you, Jaz. How is your delivery job keeping you?  
Jaz: I have plenty of wontons. But I would like more.  
Oriana: Is it just wontons you're out for?  
Jaz: Just wontons. I eat only wontons.  
Oriana: Well you picked the right place for wontons, working at Ying's.  
Jaz: Ying's make good wontons. Yang's make better. I apply for position there.  
Oriana: And did you..?  
Jaz: Get job? No. They give to person more experience.  
Oriana: More experienced than you? Sounds unlikely.  
Jaz: I know.  
Oriana: Now, Jaz, I has a job for you.  
Jaz: Job? I do job.  
Oriana: I want to deliver my baked goods around the locality.  
Jaz: I do, no problem. I deliver for you, then I deliver for Ying.  
Oriana: Won't Mr Ying mind you having two jobs?  
Jaz: Ying? No. He is old man.  
Oriana: Ok. I did some leafleting last night. I have several orders.  
Jaz: You pay me wontons?  
Oriana: I pay you wontons from Yangs. Deal?  
Jaz: Is deal.

(Jas takes a basket of fresh baked goods)

Oriana: I don't have to tell you to deliver them warm, do I?  
Jaz: You just did. I'm off.

How can I be so sad? Oh Ori! O me! The greatest challenge may just be to make you happy.

Her court case behind her, our heroine's focus turns to capitalising on her good fortune. In Jaz, she has hired the best delivery partner in town, but her other friends she has not seen for a few days. In celebration of recent events, Oriana decides to host a gathering, in her very own yard.

Oriana: Tell the ticket man I've a soiree this ce soir.  
Tom: I moonlight as a ticket man, an I heard the ticker ma'am.  
Oriana: I've always wondered what you do after dark. Spread the word.

This party is going to be magical. Oriana will invite the whole neighbourhood; her friends and familiar faces will congregate under moonlight. There will be merriment and drinking and feasting. There will be no melodrama. All the women shall wear frocks; all gentlemen leave their hats at the door. Oh it will be such a night! That I promise.

Oriana (addressing the crowd): On this the day after the triumph of the Patisserie of Paris in Court, (though lets not here talk of the court), I have invited the neighbourhood round to share the festivities.  
Sis: Decorate your frocks, one an all.  
Oriana: And be no drudges tonight. Lets dance.

Sis sings a song: Sing, if you're winning tonight  
Sing, if you're sinning in sight  
Of the moons special face  
Of the velvet and lace  
That runs down the length of my leg  
To the on-its-side barrel and keg  
With an elbow on knee  
I'll sing sensibly  
And win many a man's heart  
With the arrows and darts  
From my glances and dances  
and dye.

Oriana: Have a drink, sis.

Sis: We'll be drinking champagne tonight  
The bubbles will fleckle the light  
That shines through the glass  
Onto my bright impasse:  
my features, my face  
My effortless grace  
But the better the drop  
the faster I'll pop  
With a grin  
And the glass on my chin.

Daphne: That's enough from you, you're eleven! Now serve these drinks.

Jaz, Stella and Pal gather and make remarks:

Jaz: What you do for this party? I bring wontons.  
Stella: I made the punch.  
Pal: I am providing the entertainment.  
Stella: You and your fire dancing, flame throwing ways.  
Pal: This punch has me just so on edge, Stella.  
Jaz: I also bring fortune cookie.  
Stella: Our fortunes are better told with tea.  
Jaz: No..fortune cookie.  
Pal: Well my show is about to start. Why don't you read my fortunes in tea, Stella, and you break my fortunes with a cookie, Jaz. And as we're all pals of old Ori, let's make the fortunes fair.  
Stella: As I'm down to the dregs, there is danger for sure in the task.

Oh surely, you could die!

Jaz: But what says this fortune of mine, as I munch?  
Pal: I'll read my own fortune. As surely as eights in the sky: so lucky this charm; never die!  
Daphne: And now, our very own fire breather.  
Pal: I'm up.

Stella and Jaz: Go pal. Light up the sky.

Pal performs to those gathered.

In the next pass, Oriana, being much drunk on punch, delivers the following lines:

Oriana: Those gathered, one and all. Friends and acquaintances, relatives and neighbours, how are we to eat in the dust?  
Sis: We shall never eat in the dust!  
Oriana: Right sis. And now for my next trick, my good friend Jaz shall deliver the grub.  
Jiffy: Not more wontons!  
Oriana: None but the best from Yings!  
Jaz: Delivery for Oriana!

Jaz arrives on a bike, basket full of tasty treats.

Daphne: The ever punctual Jaz.

Sis: Lead me to the shrimp. And the Hoi sin.  
Daphne: What will you have Ori?  
Oriana: Help yourselves and I'll have what's left.  
Daphne: By my left arm you will. Here, have some sweet and sour soup for starters.  
Stella: Great balls of fire.  
Pal: Thanks mate.  
Stella: I was referring to the Pork.

The players are huddled round eating their Chinese.

Daphne: Lets show our very gratefulness to our host for this very great night.  
Sis: Yeah thanks Ori.  
All: Thanks  
Daphne: That was dispirited.  
Stella: Our spirited thanks were muffled but our nodding chins should let Old Ori feel our profound gratitude.  
Oriana: Oh Old Ori feels it alright. I feels the mood in the yard. Of any who enters my yard.  
Sis: I were upset when I was nine. And Old Ori knew that then.  
Daphne: But are you better now?  
Stella: She's better. By the look of her.  
Jaz and Pal: An so she is.  
Stella: You fixed 'er up good then Ori.  
Oriana: With the help of your medicine, mate.  
Stella: Old songs of Old Ori; and many tales untold.  
Jaz and Pal: Many songs; and tales tinged with gold.

Jaz: In the middle of the night when the moon is bright  
Pal: And the cats walk underneath it stare  
Jaz: When the dog bark echoes and the free prosecco  
Pal: bottles strewn about the yard without a care  
Jaz: All have gone to bed, just to rest their weary head  
Pal: But who's that with the black bag in the yard?  
Jaz and Pal: Yes who's that with a broom and a headscarf?

Jaz: When the house is quiet and the street lamps light  
Pal: Comes streaming through the window on the floor  
Jaz: When the darkness settles on the Irish Setter  
Pal: And the cats are in their cradle at the door.  
Jaz: When a mouse wakes the cats, and the cats wake the dog  
Pal: And they chase around the table and the chairs  
Jaz and Pal: Guess who's in the middle standing on a chair?

Jaz: When the rooftops glisten in a wintry bliss  
Pal: and the still air is crispy at the dawn  
Jaz: When the snow-topped hills and the window sills  
Pal: Make a pretty picture with a wreath laid at the door  
Jaz: And when the postman crawls in his overalls  
Pal: up the drive and prizes open every frozen letterbox  
Jaz and Pal: Who's there to offer pairs of woolly socks?

Ori: A song in my honour? My gratitude mes amis.  
Stella: The night is all around us. Let me light a lamp.  
Sis: And oooh, can we tell ghost stories?  
Ori: If we must.

Stella lights a lamp.

Sis: I have one. It is the middle of the night and three friends are sleeping under a tree.  
Ori: I am shivering with fear already.  
Sis: One friend says to another, I think our friend may be a ghost.  
Ori: The suspense.  
Sis: The other friend replies, 'Why do you suspect our friend is a ghost?'  
Ori: She seems reasonable.

I must stop calling her 'sis' and call her by her name; Arabella, or Ara for shorthand.

Ara: 'Because,' replies the first, 'She is pale and walks floatily.'  
Ori: This would not seem sufficient to suspect ones pal of being a ghost.  
Ara: The second replies, 'You know, I have noticed it too'

Arabella pauses deliberately

Ori: Well?  
Ara: 'Hmmm, where is our friend,' wonders the first.  
Ori: Well, where is she?  
Ara: She's the one telling a story about her two deceased friends!

Lights go out.

Whooooooooooooooooh!

Ori: You don't scare me. Where's the light?

Lights go on and Ara is comically poised with arms stretched above her head over the others, who look scared.

Pathetic, all of you. That's enough of ghost stories..  
Ara: Oh please, can't we have just one more?  
Ori: Just one more. Who's going to tell it?  
Ara: Who's the queen of ghost stories?  
Pal: There's only one person's ever truly scared me  
Jaz: And only one who can hold my attention.  
Ori: It must be..  
Ara: Stella! Stella, Stella. Tell us a story Stella.  
Stella: Gather round. Hand me the light.

Ara hands over the light, with which Stella illuminates her round face.

Stella: Hushhhhhhhh.

There once was a young woman, and a young man.  
The young man was tall and thin, but handsome.  
His features were sharp and the young woman was very much held in thrall to his gaze.  
The woman herself was not unbecoming.  
Her cheeks were high and her skin was pale and soft to the touch.  
The man had blazing sunken eyes, while the woman's face glowed in its cool elegance.  
Yes, the pair were very much in love.  
But one day, at the onset of winter and under a new moon, the young man announced his intention to leave.  
'I am leaving, my love,' sayeth he, 'And I may not return many moons.'  
But the force of their bond was fierce in the young woman.  
'I'll wait for thee love,' sayeth she, 'Though the moon be full twenty times.'  
So the man left.  
And the young woman waited. And waited and waited.  
Until when one hundred moons had passed the maid sat and sighed and wept.  
'Where is my love? Will he never return?' sayeth the maiden.  
Then an old crone saw the maids distress, as she wept in the folds of her dress.  
'There, my child,' sayeth the crone, 'I've a raven perched on my thumb, and he's clever, by gum, he's smart.'  
'Oh what I would give for news of my love, even if just to know he's alive.'  
'Shall I send my feathered companion, to find what's become of your mate? Though be warned, my child, the news may not be as you please.'  
'Even if my love's heart has grown cold or fell for another fair maid, I'll know it.'  
'Very good, my child,' sayeth the crone, 'This smart feathered bird shall return with news, good or ill, at the light of the next silver moon. And in the middle of the midnight moor.'  
'Must it be in such a dark place?' sayeth the maiden, 'at night, in the cold, as the frost starts to set on the ground?'  
'My companion will not give his secrets, in any place but.'  
So the maiden set out on the moor, as the moon strode across the sky.  
The wind did howl that night and the maiden shivered, even beneath her heavy-weave cloak.  
But for news of her love she would brave even this.  
The girl stood on the moor. As if to break her defiance the wind picked up and it started to snow and was white all around.  
As the gale whirled about her, the young woman stood in the face of the elements, so sure was her lingering love.  
At last, as if conceding the match, the wind died away and the last flake fell on the young woman's face.  
And then in the clear, the sound of a raven was heard on the moor. Flapping, with a message grasped in its beak, it landed on the young woman's hand.

Ara: Oooh, I can't bear it, what does it say, what does..?  
Jaz and Pal: Shhhhh!

Stella: The raven's eye twinkled as the girl took the leaf from its beak. The bird flew off.

The message read: 'All's fair my love. Thy love is no more. But his ghost is the raven.... on the ravenous moor!'

Daphne (Teary): Oh Stella. That was..  
Ara (Gazing): Sooo beautiful..  
Pal: ..yet tragic..  
Jaz: ..and the delivery was flawless..  
Ori: In short, a proper ghost story. Thanks for that, Stella mon amie.  
Ara: Where did you learn it Stella?  
Stella: When I was young.  
Ara: Oh. I see.  
Pal: How old are you, Stella?  
Ori: Don't go there Pal. Right, anyone for a nightcap?  
Daphne: I'll need something hard and soft at the same time.  
Ori: How about Irish cream stirred into hot frothy milk?  
Daphne: In one!  
Ara, Pal and Jaz: All round.  
Ori: Don't say I never treat.
Chapter 29

A song and a dance, dare I say, can be made of much of nothing. If a song is made for a dance, and a dance is dedicated and matched to the song, then what can we learn from nothing? Why, nothing much at all. Just a song and a dance. Oh idle times that makes a theme much matched to idle tunes.

Then I shall make no profit from a dance and an idle song. But play me then like a harp: for I shall play; that play shall play; like the sweetest cacophony; like a symphony.

Jiffy, who was at the party, awakes during the night.

Jiffy: I see these slumbering giants, huddled here for warmth. Lets tiptoe in between their limbs spread-eagled on the ground. That one will wake with a snarl: an if I've bated with my breath on a bare cheek that one'll growl. Oh what gentle mischief can a clown draw under the moon?

(Produces a pen from his pocket and draws on all their faces)

In the Morning:

Ori: Oh what preposterous features, to make even I, a serious woman, laugh.  
Ara: You would be well advised, fair sister, to make check in the mirror, or look in the well to see your own enormous ears stretched about your cheeks before making a spectacle of me!

(Arabella has enormous glasses drawn on her face)

Stella (sporting a thick moustache):  
Oh but look how absurd you all appear! Pal and Jaz have yet to wake, but there are posies drawn not well across their brow, and snails stroking their chins.  
Daphne: Ha. I'd think twice about stroking your chin, Stella, for fear you might chance upon an prehistoric slug!  
Ori: Well you're one to talk, fair queen, or should we say, ugly old crone with a witches nose?

Tom (marching into the yard dragging Jiffy by the ear):  
Here's the culprit, here's the night-time hound. I caught a glimpse of 'im right afore he dealt me the same unfortunate...fate, if you will fair ladies.  
By the way you all have pen on your faces.  
Ori: What other mischief has this jester conceived, as if this wasn't enough?  
Tom: You mean you aren't awares? Well I don't has the 'eart to say..  
Ori: Out with it Tom.  
Tom: Well.. like I says I 'asn't the 'eart, but..  
All: Well?  
Tom: He 'as taken pictures of yourselves in this merry state down to the local.  
Ori: The local?  
Tom: Yeah miss, the old factory, the table and chairs, the cricket ground whatever you wants to call it.  
Ara: Are these euphemisms Tom? For the Pub?  
Tom: Well, I wouldn't put it in such exact words but..  
Ori: So how many people have seen this..picture..Jiffy?

(Jiffy looks sheepish)

Tom: You shows it to one an' they've all seen it.  
Ara: Seen what exactly, Jiffy?

A photo falls out of Jiffy's back pocket and floats onto the floor.

Ara: Oh, my! How embarrassing.

All gather round and stare at the photograph.

Daphne: What's that bit in the corner?  
Stella: No! Never!  
Ori: Jiffy.  
Jiffy: Ahem, yes my queen?  
Ori: Pray tell, who was that pal of yours at the party last night? The one wearing a mask.

(Jiffy gulps)

Jiffy: Just a clown.  
Ori: Just a clown indeed.

So to the villain. Oriana's past returns to haunt us. This time, Oriana's reputation and livelihood are at stake. The thief avoids direct confrontation, instead choosing subversive means.

But old Ori has her wits about her. This act of villainy will not stand.

Ori: Tom, take me down to the pub if you please.  
Tom: The floorboards, if that's your meaning, miss, won't be open at this time. An ain't no place for young ladies.  
Ori: Well its well enough a place for young lads, with fake IDs. I'll go dressed as a young lad.  
Tom: As you say. For what reason, miss if you don't mind?  
Ori: Pure investigation, Tom. If you'll assist, we'll get to the truth of this.  
Tom: Tonight at the Shepherd's Kiss. In vino's sweet red lips.  
Ori: If the truth of this in vino is, how sweet the lingering kiss.

Dilemma: we have set the whole play thus far in the yard (excepting the unavoidable court scene), and now Oriana has resolved to go to the local ale barn, the Shepherd's Kiss. Our options are numbered:

I. Go to the pub and move the scenery around (takes time; costs money; got neither)  
II. Have Oriana and Tom come into the yard after leaving the pub in the next scene and relating the happenings there (possible and much more convenient from a staging point of view but may leave the audience dissatisfied)  
III. Do the pub scene with only Oriana and Tom lit so that we don't have to reorganise the whole stage  
IV. Something else entirely

Due to the pressing deadline and my own lack of imagination we settle on number three.

Oriana and Tom sit in the pub, only their faces lit, at a crowded table.

Ori: Well its nice to be out for a change. Thanks for bringing me Tom.

Tom: Beg pardon, but there are nicer palaces in Paris, you know.  
Ori: I knows a little of palaces, having briefly staffed one summer, but I lives in me own yard.  
Tom: An' I knows a little of palaces, having delivered to one when I used to do the other rounds. But as surely as you live in the yard, and I passes each an every morning even in winter, I'm a postman.  
Ori: Oh Tom.  
Tom: Mindin' my manners lady, but what has you purposed for this trip to the afternoon post office.  
Ori: But Tom there is no afternoon post office..Oh you mean the pub, where we are now.  
Tom: To put it blunt.  
Ori: Well, as you ask, and as we are in disguise, I has donned a moustache..  
Tom: An I 'as removed mine  
Ori: Yes exactly, so as now we are unrecognisable, lets dip into the local pool of information.  
Tom: Is that wise?  
Ori: You said it yourself, Tom. One's seen it; they've all seen it. One knows it; they all knows it.  
Tom: Aye, Ori, aye, speak as fair as any of these idle clowns.  
Ori: Well the world owes us nothing else, dear friend, other than perchance a few poets.  
Tom: Poets, miss?  
Ori: Aye, poets. Just a few bright poets among the midnight clowns.  
Tom: Poets miss? How do you know a poet, from a clown?  
Ori: They're like lanterns that go on the ground.  
Tom: Don't they talk with a stutter and walk with a limp?  
Oriana: What they have is the letter profound. Ce n'est qu'il manque la debonaire, mais ce qu'il a: savoir-faire.  
Tom: Ori, I just spotted somat, out the corner of me eye.  
Oriana: Ok Tom, here's the plan.

In the next scene, Oriana and Tom return to the yard.

Ara: What news sister sweet, what news?  
Daphne: Do we know who the perpetrator is?  
Stella: Or what lads now think of the Patisserie?  
Tom: No lasting damage, thanks to Ori's quick wit.  
Ori: And to Tom's reliable nature.  
Ara: So what happened, Sister so sweet?  
Ori: The lads might well think the Patisserie, is a place for the parlour cross hound. But we've served up a slice of our reputation, to the men in the..  
Tom: In the new shiny building. The counting house. The rose garden.  
Ori: ..in the public ale house.  
Stella: Ah so they knows what we really do now.  
Ori: What we really do is make bread. And tasty treats. The men'll come crawlin' for nothin' else now.  
Stella: Oh sterling Ori. But what of the thief at midnight?  
Ori: Old Tom spotted that one.  
Stella: Oh.  
Ori: Well while I were still in disguise, I sneaked somethin' inside his pocket.

Stella: Uhuh. What did you sneak inside 'is pocket?  
Ori: An invitation.  
Stella: An inviwhat?  
Ori: Well 'im still thinks I's a parlour maid.  
Stella: But you're a lady now Ori.  
Ori: I am. And that he'll discover right soon.
Chapter 30

Oriana stands in her patisserie, making dough for her croissant array. A vat of freshly made crème pâtissière stands by her side.

Oriana: When the dough is formed I'll make one third savoury, for my croissants, one third semi-sweet for my other croissants, and one third sweet-as-can-be to fill with crème-pâtissière.

Regardez-vous: I teach you savoir-faire.

Arabella and Daphne sit on the floor, watching Oriana.

Oriana: See, this is how to roll a crescent moon; otherwise known, in France and abroad, as a croissant moon.

Arabella sniggers silently

Oriana: And here with the aid of a spoon, lets dance in the light of the moon.

Oriana twirls pastry around a spoon to make beautiful cone shapes, and gracefully slides them into a hot oven.

Oriana: Regardez! The previous batch are done!

Arabella and Daphne rub hands together and lick lips.

Oriana: Here a square of material; there a dollop of white. Tie at the top; snip at the base; and pipe into cones of glory.  
Arabella: The sheer majesty of those cones, Ori.

Arabella and Daphne get up off the floor and approach the worktop.

Oriana: Aback! These cones shall go in the window!  
Daphne: Oh we dreamt of those cones last night.  
Oriana: Aye, then dream on!

Arabella: Come on, Daphne, I'm going to play with teddy.

Oriana continues to make pastry.

Oriana: Ooh! Said the dude who'd fallen on his side. Now observe the many layers of my millefeuille.

Not too many layers mind you, but not too few either. Oh! I have some apple tart at the base of the oven. The frangipane by now ought to be..

Oriana turns around, to find a figure stood in front of her.

Figure: Do you need a hand with that, sweet little girl?

Oriana: The only hand you'll be needing is the hand of Midas, which shall find itself challenged when it meets its rival for the turning of soft things to solid gold.  
Figure: That is well. And good you are that girl: as good as gold.  
Oriana: I see that you have received my invitation.  
Figure: Well received.  
Oriana: Then how do you reply? Speak with a fair tongue, and keep it in your head, because you're in the habit of drooling, while staring at my sweets.  
Figure: May I try one?  
Oriana: Not before I have wrapped in a parcel, your sworn sweet savoured rapprochement.  
Figure: I swear.  
Oriana: You swear? In an oath? Bound as a book?  
Figure: Bound. Governed. Grace upon my lady.  
Oriana: And who is your lady?  
Figure: My lady is the sweet one Grace.  
Oriana: She'll make a sweet one, aye?  
Figure: Sweet as a candy floss fair, say I.  
Oriana: Aye, now, dog, go fetch a bone.

Oriana throws a parcel off stage.

Figure: Aye, I'll bark and beat upon a sweet and juicy four eyed bone.

Figure runs offstage, Ara re-enters.

Ara: Who was that?  
Ori: Never you mind.  
Ara: I can't sleep.  
Ori: Sit on the side, I'll fix ya up.

Oriana sets about making a hot drink.

Ara: What am I having?  
Ori: Boiled bones broth.  
Ara: Ewwww. That will give me nightmares, not send me to sleep.  
Ori: All right then. Have this.  
Ara: Its hot, its frothy, its..hot chicken soup.  
Ori: An I boiled the bones to make the broth.  
Ara: its silky, for soup.  
Ori: Well its mild. Now, off to bed, sleepy head.  
Ara: I want to stay up. Who was that stranger?  
Ori: It..  
Ara: Sis..?  
Ori: It was just a customer..  
Ara: Oh. Did he buy anything?  
Ori: He just wanted to try my crème pâtissière.  
Ara: Good for him.

Ori: Good for me, sis.

Oriana scoops a large finger of crème and twirls as she licks her finger and disappears offstage.
Chapter 31

The ending of the last scene left questions hanging over our heads. It seems that Oriana let her adversary off the hook. Is it clear why? Does she seek another meeting or a chance to deliver more meaningful retribution? Is she playing for time? Whatever is going on inside our heroine's head, she's playing a dangerous game. Those close to her are becoming suspicious. And she will need to keep them on side if she is to prevail. And above all, what did she write on that note – that made her enemy smart for just a filled case of pastry?

What does our enemy want, above all? Power? Too great. Money? Too much. Pleasure? Too simple. Our young fiend wants what we all want, just doesn't get it in the same way. And what do we all want? Why its simple: entertainment; and crème pâtissière.

Oriana's gives 'im one; and promises 'im t'other: that buys a sweet second so as she can do her hair; now that's called savoir-faire.

Chapter 32

Ok the moment we have all been dreading. Time to hand the script to my esteemed companion. Lets see what he can do.

All hereon-in shall be script.

Stars 1, 2, 3 and 4:

_Star 1: On wings of fold; we are Stallion_

_Star 2: With snorting breath; we are set._

_Star 3: With our two twin hooves: we are steed; with a hero on_

_Star 4: And our main is a-quiver on our neck._

_Star 1: In burnished bronze; we are bravery_

_Star 2: In shining silver: we are shut._

_Star 3: In Jewel set gold, we are deeds untold_

_Star 4: And our eyes are a shimmering cup._

_Star 1: But one of our number is turncoat_

_Star 2: And is leaving the Pegasus Square_

_Star 3: To smile on_ _Andromeda's_ _helmet_

_Star 4: And peel from Bellerophon's Chair._

_Star 1: So sing my sweet sisters in situe_

_Star 2: Tell me what can your prominence bear?_

_Star3: By the power of your star, and in golden hue_

_Star 4: Did you find better providence there?_

_Star 1: Oh for heavens sake! Be Constant!_

_Star 2: Be a luminous stout set-square_

_Star 3: Be a scansion; hero's mansion_

_Star 4: But my stars! Let me shine, anywhere._

Daphne: Having known Ori, and Ara, for some seventeen, and eleven, years, I am perfectly poised as their guardian. Am I an angel: set with wings and broad shoulders? Or a fallen angel perhaps; with tarnished feathers and a weary gold chain? Do I dance on the cloud tops; or fall cross limbed among the shrubs of the ground? Am I fearless? A patient warrior? I am in doubt about a great many things: there can be no doubt about that!

Arabella: Daphne! Oh Daphne! Are you there?

Daphne: Sweetest. Dearest. Little child my darling. Wander into my arms.

Arabella: Oh Daphne! I worry in my heart.

Daphne: Tell me all your troubles; your worries little sweet one.

Arabella: I worry about my sister, Oriana.

Daphne: Never worry. Ne'er do fret. Be careless like a child should.

Arabella: But she has shut herself away and is crying.

Daphne: With trembling lip, tears, shut long behind steel traps, like a damned up river, pour suddenly forth.

Arabella: To describe my sister's state, you would need binoculars of the heart.

Daphne: Oh! Sweet child! You are wise beyond your tender years.

(Stella arrives on the scene)

Stella: Knock, knock!

Arabella: Who's there?

Stella: Stella

Arabella: Stella who?

Stella: Stella who-do-ya-think.

Arabella: Hudiafink? That's an unusual last name!

Stella: Don't you recognise me?

Arabella: Let's see. I knows one Stella – she's a hell-of-a-son-of-a-gun.

Stella: Ahellufasunufagun? That is a strange foreign name!

Arabella: What would happen if the two were married?

Stella: Then we'd be supping at the wedding of a Hudiafink-Ahellufasunufagun.

Arabella: Oh Stella. It is you. Come on in.

Stella: Daphne.

Daphne: Stella.

Arabella: Inasmuch as you pair are acquainted with my sister, be at one.

Stella: I am largely Oriana's friend; and very small her guardian.

Daphne: And I am much her guardian; and not as much her friend.

Arabella: And I, her sister; am neither.

Stella: Well said.

Daphne: Well spoken.

Arabella: As I articulated upon your coming, we are three heads with this in common: our sights are trained upon one.

Daphne: And her sights are trained upon biscuits.

Stella: Her lofty sights upon lofty biscuits.

Arabella: She's in the business of biscuits: on that we all agree.

Daphne: Aye.

Stella: Aye.

Arabella: Then let's swear, and softly, lets swear.

Stella: Aye, lets swear.

Daphne: What shall we swear, before she sneers?

Arabella: That we are in the business of biscuits, too.

Stella: I'll swear.

Daphne: And I. I'll swear.

Arabella: Aye. Then we all swear.

Stella: Here comes Ori.

Daphne: Hey there, stranger.

Ori: Stranger you.

Daphne: Stranger me?

Ori: I am no stranger in my own yard, frontin' onto my own Patisserie.

Daphne: I also live close by. That's why I cry, 'stranger'.

Ori: I've had business to attend to.

Arabella: O Ori, where've you been?

Stella: Ara, your beloved sister and a mate of mine, lives in not one but two states, depending on her frame of mind.

Daphne: It more depends on Ori.

Stella: Aye. If Ara knows where Ori is, she smiles.

Daphne: If Ara knows not where Ori is, she guesses where she's gone, and cries.

Stella: So are her salt-sweet tears a barometer for the particle state of Oriana.

Oriana: I am no particle mates, although I whizz around.

Stella: And as for your sister?

Oriana: Daphne, Tom, Jaz and Pal all look out for her, and don't tell me she escapes your gaze, Stella.

Stella: All true. But are you with us in the yard?

Ori: I am here.

Stella: Here: near.

Daphne: Near, and yet..

Arabella: And yet so far, Ori! Galaxies we are apart.

_Alpheratz (Andromeda – the damsel):_

_Adrift in a starry sky;_

_Set loose in an empty sea;_

_That's me; that's me._

_Scheat: Be all good. There._

_We're one less;_

_But none the less for that._

_Markab: Shimmering delight._

_Algenib: Toasty warm supper._

_Scheat: See how we do pay each other compliments?_

_Markab: Each taking note of the others fine apparel._

_Algenib: Are we all wearing tailored suits tonight?_

_Scheat: All, save our lady._

_Markab: Who's tied to a rock in dress._

Oriana:

I am a working woman am I;  
A business lady with the best.  
A bright-one button;  
An unchained love'un  
An' I'm in the mix  
With better biscuits  
Now.

Oh if they could only see what drives me.

I want to be set like a jewel in the night sky.

Lofty like a lantern.

Shinin' like the sun.

Twinkling and winking with one eye; –

So far away from where I came,

Say I.

Arabella creeps onstage

Arabella:

In a minor key  
I'll sing of my sweet sister's fame.  
With bended knee,  
I'll shy away from the same.  
Like a lightbulb she glows  
As her name becomes known  
In the streets at least five miles away.  
In the soggiest cellar  
Her flame is ablaze;  
In the foggiest weather  
She draws out the day.  
But I'll starve if she sings not to me:  
Like when she was nine;  
I was three.

I'll sleep underneath this bright lantern,

Just to see if she notices me.

(In the morning)

Stella: As Ori's nowhere down, Daphne's asleep, and Ara's I don't know where, let's add a few things to this batch of bread: bananas from la Côte d'Ivoire; nuts from Brazil; Walnuts from anywhere but the Welsh ones are best; Coffee from Kenya and the high Andes too; A chestnut puree from my back garden (and my kitchen); Hawaii for a bit of sweet spice; and flavoursome leaves from China, steamed before added.

This is a world bread, if e'er one existed. I hope Ori's pleased with it. Here she comes.

Ori: Hey, Stella. Your up early. The morning mist is still around.

Stella: Ori, I'm glad you're here. But your wits aren't. You oughtta know I wake early.

Ori: Oh Stella, I'm preoccupied. I can't hide from you.

Stella: You can try.

(Daphne comes down in her gown)

Daphne: You two are up early.

Stella: Its convenient for getting work done, Daph. Here Ori, what do you think of my latest creation?

(Stella pulls at her dough)

Ori: We'll see when it comes out the oven. In the meantime, I'm popping out to see Jaz.

(Stella and Daphne are left in the yard)

Stella: Say, Daphne don't ya think Oriana seems kinda outta sorts?

Daphne: I ought to know, seen as I live close by.

Stella: I like you, Daphne. But the question is, who's the keenest observer of our Ori?

Daphne: I like you too, Stella, but that's a question in the round.

Stella: What do you mean by that?

Daphne: I sees Oriana from the window. But you Stella, you walk in at the door. And then your around.

Stella: I am a Round. Proud as can be.

Daphne: Oh ha ha! Oh deep! Oh profound! Oh marvellous, Stella Round.

Stella: Aye; you has me in one. But you're an enigma, Daphne; but a soupçon is my suspicion.

Daphne: Doubt you me Stella?

Stella: You wish Oriana not such success?

Daphne: Where have you got that from?

Stella: Nowhere but your demeanour, Daphne. Would you wish back the past for this girl?

Daphne: I am not in retrospect, Stella.

Stella: Come quick! You're a retrograde doubling patsy!

Daphne: A dou.. well I never, Stella. I am no rogue.

Stella: Right, you are no rogue. Be then an angel, bequeathed with a new pair of eyes!

Stella pulls her bread from the oven

Here comes Ori with Jaz.

Oriana: Oh, Stella. See how high the dough has risen. Quick Jaz, do you think you could get this out?

Jaz: Out and about.

Set the bread on trays and I will deliver.

(Stella, Daphne and Ori set about the task)

Tom enters.

Tom: Ladies, ladies, ladies.

Stella: Its as though you has eyes to see Tom. What terror in the town?

Tom: Terror, Stella? The terror is mine. I've been looking all over, for Arabella.

In another patch of the sky

_Aldebaran (Taurus – the bull):_

_Gold is my gory eye_

_Two great horns._

_Broad be the back_

_Of this haunch on high._

_Shallow be the hooves_

_Under wide-spread girth._

_Strong as a cart ox_

_Set in the sky._

_Pleiades: Seven singing sisters_

_Set in the sky._

_Keep a safe distance_

_With your gory eye._

_Mirphak (Perseus – the Hero):_

_Peace!_

_In the right_

_I'm a gleaming sword_

_Still._

_In the left_

_I'm Medusa's head._

_See!_

_In the head_

_Is a winking eye._

_Never stop and stare_

_That's a gory eye!_

_Pleiades: Scintillating stars of your sword on high!_

_Never stop and stare at the gory eye._

_Aldebaran: Round and round_

_Is my star to stare._

_Zounds and zounds_

_In the winter air._

_Gold and Silver_

_Set a-shiver there._

_Swimming in the ocean_

_Ever in motion_

_Round sisters fair._

_Pleiades: Lo! We are more than seven-so-fair._

_Even-so, Heaven-so, Seven-so fair._

_Hyades/Pleiades:_

_We are seven stars_

_In glorious pair._

_Hyades-Pleiades_

_Seven-seven, there._

Stella: Oh, the children. Will the stars not think of the children?

Daphne: In all seriousness, Stella, was she not on your watch?

Stella: I cede, there. That she was.

Ori: Well let's hope Jaz spots here on her rounds.

Daphne: Or Tom.

Tom: Aye, or Tom. Or old Tom.

Tom and Jaz leave.

Ori, despondent with hunched shoulders.

Ori: Stella and Daphne; Daphne and Stella.

(Daphne and Stella stand one on each shoulder)

What a life I've lead.

Stella: And your only seventeen.

Ori: I'll be eighteen for 'ere long.

Daphne: Winter makes way for spring, bright young'un.

Stella: And spring, summer.

Ori: And yet me feels autumnal as the leaf blown ground.

Stella: Yes, that's a fair comparison, dear with your red hair floating on your brow.

Ori: Not how I look, Stella; how I feel.

Stella: How you look belies how you feel.

Daphne: That may sound sour: but its true.

Stella: When a girl wears her heart on her sleeve

Daphne: her sleeve starts shimmering blue

Stella: and when she says she may feel autumnal,

Daphne: her hair starts burning with an auburn hue.

Stella: And then she sighs with her great grey eyes

Daphne: girl a-bluster

Stella: all in auburn-blue.

Oriana: So what you're saying is that if I wear bright orange I'll feel happy?

Daphne: Not quite..

Stella: But nice try Ori.

Tom and Jaz re-enter the yard supporting Arabella on their shoulders.

Ori: And where have..

(Oriana realises Arabella is unconscious.)

Ara is laid on the ground by Tom and Jazz.

Tom: We found her lying underneath Yang's Chinese lantern in the next quarter.

Ori: And is she..

Tom: Alive? Yes. Healthy? Not sure. Happy? It would seem..

Daphne: Doubtful. Very Doubtful.

Stella: How did she slip our nets?

Ori: We were much enamoured in the morning, of Stella's new bread.

Daphne: That makes it all our fault.

Ori: It does. Stella?

Stella: Ori?

Ori: We have need of your medicine, mate.

Stella: Bring this young one close. And fetch me my bag.

Tom: Stars! I've ever only seen Stella's bag once before.

Daphne: When was that?

Tom: Thirty-eight years to the day.

Daphne: I am thirty-eight tomorrow.

Tom: And on the day of your birth, Daphne, Stella's bag saved your life. Though your Mother was only thirteen, and the next day left you to the neighbour, who raised and fed you, 'im an 'is wife.

Daphne: How old is Stella?

Tom: I've no idea. But she's been around.

Daphne: Oh, by my life, I was not aware. This is a strange development in our history. Why do you throw this gauntlet now, Tom?

Tom: Stella and I have been talking and we think it is time Ori and Ara know.

Daphne: What's it got to do with Ori and Ara?

Tom: Your mother's their mother: that's a middle child of Oriana made.

Daphne: Heavens! This is new news Tom.

Tom: That's just news, Daph.

_Mirphak: Now I've dealt with bull,_

_What new Monster dares defy_

_my dagger?_

_Alpheratz: Hark! Hark!_

_Hark on high!_

_Chained to a rock_

_In dress and I_

_Fear what lurks_

_In the Ocean deep;_

_The Ocean of stars_

_Makes a marvel of me._

_Markab: Dream. Drool,_

_Dreamy eyed stars_

_Shrill in the night_

_Our companions part_

_Scheat: Fades, falls,_

_Fools; we smart._

_Shimmering light_

_We are bleeding hearts._

_Algenib: Lo! Look!_

_Lofty heights!_

_Leading the pack_

_In silver light._

_Markab: These are bright stars_

_In heavenly fight._

_Scheat: While our sister sings_

_In the cold midnight._

_Algenib: High be the sword_

_Of this Gorgonite._

Daphne: Well have I wondered all my life what draws me to this pair of girls. I knew their mother;- now I find their mother was mine.

_Thuban (Draco – The dragon in the sky):_

_Breeeeeeeeaaaathe._

_Flame on the clustered_

_Sskyyy._

_Bright, sssshhhinnning_

_Ffflames, against a dark_

_velvet black._

_Oh, I am laaargee, and_

_so cumberssssome._

_My tail dragsss_

_around._

_I am in debt to no man,_

_and the ssstarss they_

_roar, but I draw breath and_

_fly...._

Daphne:

This is a strange valediction.  
Tomorrow, on the day of my coming,  
I shall leave.  
These Persian streets have tales to tell,  
and though I have been stapled in this yard;  
I feel, I think, I know  
and do not doubt,  
that I will walk no further  
standing still, and  
knowledge of that star befits me ill.

_Omicron Mira (Cetus - The Whale):_

_The belly of the beast_

_Is changing eye._

_The deeps unknown to some,_

_But known to I._

_Once in a while,_

_I'll rise and break above;_

_The Ocean waves_

_white gleaming as I sigh._

_And flare one open nostril_

_Of the deep._

_And seep its holdings_

_To the lofty sky._

Daphne: Be sure, young friends, it was not my intention to be late.

You've set the table well enough and I was sure to never miss this date.

Ori: Sit down, Daphne.

Stella: Come on Daph. Look at the spread.

Daphne: Where's Arabella?

Stella: She'll be down soon. She's resting.

Daphne: Oh. Well, in that case..

(Dons a party hat and sits)

Jaz: New thing at Ying's. Chinese salad. Very healthy. Eat.

Pal: All this Chinese food. I want some tasty tapas.

Jaz: I will tell Ying.

Pal: In the meantime, lets sing.

Jaz: Happy Birthday to you  
Pal: Happy Birthday to you.  
Jaz & Pal: Happy Biiirthdaaay dear Daphneeeeee.........

Arabella: Happy birthday to you.

Daphne: Hip, Hip

All: Hooray!

Daphne: Oh Arabella, my darling little angel. Come here at once!

Stella: Now, there are matters to discuss.

Ori: Of course, but let us discuss them as we eat. Please..

(They all sit and eat)

Ori: I have been wanton to my bonded oath, to see my sisters welfare trodden in; not downtrodden, but rich in time and youth, and all that comes withal, she should have all that merry happenstance elects for one as innocent as this. Yet in my need to see her needs well met, I did neglect the one she needed most: a softly winnow in a midnight ear, that waked for fear of what dark corners hide and sought comfort by a cheek so dear, to chase away the spectres after dark; that creep, like doubts, through eyes and into hearts, and though imagined, they do think them real; and take for dreams what some can touch and feel. So who was I to counteract the stars: who set such vivid eyes in this young one? And how did I imagine, in my pride, that I was just in going on and on? I'll leave it there, for I am want and woe. And misery is never-mine, til Arabella say me yay; or say no never no.

Arabella: Sister, have a heart. To speak so of yourself Is to deny your patient part. Since we were young you've woken early to the task of seeing out the harm that walks about these smoky streets. In fits and starts you've often raged at me when I made double-hard the task of keeping far apart calamity and me. And then, for my part, I was dilapidated, all-apart, because my sustenance in song was borrowed by the things that troubled all our lives and taxed our smarts. And though my teddy comforts me, and I have many friends, the ground seemed good to me to settle there. Though cold comes creeping from the ground and finds its way into your bones, as I discovered there. And how I gently slept upon a pillow, dreaming; slipping into visions of the sky, and shining vestibules of river-reeds that open to the sea. I am ashamed that I was bought unfeeling back to base. Let now my tears be muted and my fears be flying out; I'll be less independent 'til my years are beyond doubt.

_Omicron: Agape, this ghastly toothsome_

_crater of whale flesh. White_

_teeth gleam in the might of_

_muscle power._

_Keen senses sharpened_

_by the hunger setting in._

_Lean body writhing in the waves_

_and challenging the tumbling_

_surface-mares._

_O circling: I am on the hunt._

_In the fiercest chill-set of biting_

_winter wind. Into a whirl_

_the hunt it rages on, up to a_

_spindle peak. There legs._

_There bosom in a sodden-clinging_

_robe. There desire._

Daphne: I too have a prologue.

I am unsettled by recent events. I've lived close by for eleven of Arabella's years, seventeen of Oriana's, Jasmine and Palamino's, thirty-eight of Tom's and I dare say of peculiar Stella's too. I'm touched to my very soul to be among you all and dare not dream this party was thrown solely for my day. But I am in commotion: yesterday it was revealed; to me, by Tom, that Ori, Ara, sister pair, are not just two, but three. I am that elder sister, but before you wonder more; to me there's little difference, from what is now, to what went by before. The facts are straight: I cannot bear that harm befell this girl; it shakes the core of my existence as a guardian of the world. My stops arrived. I'll alight here. Though right before I leave, I'll educate my sisters: be not simple; nor too sweet; nor dine with rulers, that is for a powerful elite. Repeat: be sweet; not simple; be ever so replete.

_Alperatz: In beauty, I am bold_

_In manners, I am meek._

_In stardust I am manifold_

_And manifestly me._

_I'm crazy as the ocean;_

_I'm dark on a ledge_

_in the sunset sea;_

_My manicures and lotions_

_won't save me from this Marlin of the deep, blue, sea._

_Mirphak:_

_Through many fields of golden wheat_

_did in my youth I scythe._

_On trodden tracks of clay-red earth_

_did I bestride the time._

_When I was thirty years old_

_and masculine and bold;_

_I rescued stars and damsels_

_and many tales were plaid and fold._

Stella: If that were prologue, Daph, I'll be great: now with the epilogue.

Three sisters intertwined in great deeds in the street. Their shapely forms made silhouette against the backdrop of the city heap.

They lived and laughed together: in triumph fell apart; See how sweet disaster made for merry hearts.

And who am I? I'm Stella. An' I tell those tales of yore. I'm only one of Ori's mates – I'll be around, at ten to eight; or twenty-two to four.

I watched this gentle courtyard in Paris outer spills.  
Its seen the hour of poverty: of time still standing; and time standing still.  
Of crime committed here (we won't revisit that).  
Of industry; prosperity; of time a-running straight over a hill.

Then in amongst prosperity, calamity came quick. Regarding our great fortune with jealous eyes, and "Oh, you make me sick."

It struck at once and threatened all that live here in the yard.  
It bore its fangs and spited and made our fortunes fool us into thinking we were smart.

It struck us down.

It almost took us out.

But with three brave orations these three sisters played their parts, and I'm the intermission, before the clouds break and the pouring starts.

_Omicron: Lashing rain,_

_stings the cuts scratched_

_around my cheeks and jowls._

_The sea level is rising._

_Patiently, I prey upon_

_the helpless dame._

_Obnoxiously, I hang in wait_

_for more. The clapping_

_thunder lights alive_

_what gleams in my eye._

_The seas unstable;_

_hoary; deep. And up above_

_the waves, my powerful_

_tail snaps and lets me leap._

_Alpheratz: Waaaaiiiiilllll!!!_

_Oh sshrill! Hear the cry_

_of the damsel_

_in simpering garb._

_My dress is now in tatters._

_My flesh as torn_

_and on display for all._

_To see out this misty_

_night is not at all_

_assured. The prospect_

_of the ocean is upon me._

_Omicron: Graphic art – how choice_

_to see the lady on the rocks._

_Up one and ho! I almost_

_licked her heel._

_Alpheratz: Foreigner! Faint_

_am I at sea._

_I would the dawn would wake_

_to see me now._

_Omicron: The shining one is the other side_

_of the seas._

_Oceanic mystery: tempest in the_

_night._

_Dripping with crustaceans:_

_These keepsakes hang like necklaces;_

_or anklets around the maiden's_

_frozen feet._

_Tsih (Cassiopeia – The Queen):_

_Play the lyre,_

_Play the flute._

_Bring me a brush and a mirror._

_Fill these silver cups_

_with candles scented like forest fruits._

_This work is weary,_

_the skies are drab,_

_but I am a changing Queen;_

_my daughter is the only one as beautiful as me._

_Mirphak: Emerging from the Delta of the Nile,_

_I have crossed three galaxies as_

_quick; as the time it takes these_

_shallow crocodiles to slice,_

_with teeth like daggers,_

_through an ancient ram._

_Oh, who is that?_

_Reclining on a water-river-boat;_

_Queen Cleopatra_

_was not one to dote_

_upon her beauty quite like that!_

_Crichet (Pisces – the fish):_

_Seven silver flashes in the ocean:_

_Seven silver fish in the sea._

_Swimming in a strange commotion_

_Hunted by the Monster:_

_Omicron: That's me!_

_Altair (Aquila – The Eagle):_

_Thunderstorm and lightning._

_Arrows from up above the clouds:_

_Flinch and you miss them;_

_Stare if you dare._

_I have carried thunderbolts_

_across great leagues before._

_But woe! if I drop them:_

_It is not my anger_

_that makes the skies roar._

_Thuban: I used to ruuuule_

_thesssse night_

_skiiieesss. Many long_

_millennia agooo._

_Breeeeeeaaak out on the tip of my tongue._

_Fffffflaame all acrossssss the_

_ssskkkkyyyyy._

_Polaris: My life is one run-around_

_and chasing my own tail._

_How quaint: the Great White Dragon goes_

_around my fingernail._

_Thuban: Curse!!_

_Curse these skieesss._

_Watch for my_

_wrathhhhh....._

_Vega (Lyra – the harp):_

_Gentle-gentle-sweet-gentle-sweet._

_These mysterious strings gently bleat._

_Shining in the very darkest place._

_Softening this other worldly race._

_Bringing out the beauty of the stars._

_Rasalgethi (Hercules – the giant):_

_Orpheus! Keep playing on that harp._

_The arrows of my creed_

_come down like I've never seen._

_The wrath of the Kings_

_may be sated by sweet things_

_and these bolts from the sky_

_and these breakers from the deep:_

_by a jewel sequenced ring_

_and those softly strucken strings;_

_may sequester and the jester_

_may breathe sigh._

_Deneb(Cygnus – The Swan):_

_Suffer me no harm, stellar wind._

_Like the eagle, I am just a messenger with wings._

_Hear the gentle wooing of my song._

_Feel the feathers flapping as cross high up above._

_See the long and graceful shape I make._

_Wonder at my distant stars:_

_Opaline; and regal; and opaque._

_Nunhi (Sagittarius – the teapot):_

_I'm a little teapot, standing out._

_Pouring tea from a silver spout._

_Heaven's constellations notice me,_

_for nought but proffering_

_oolong tea._

_Omicron: Now I've had a break,_

_and some fish._

_Turn my attention_

_back to this tasty dish._

_She's going nowhere fast I see._

_Chains hold her to the rock._

_She's exhausted, lulling off to sleep._

_Regor (Vela – the sails):_

_Here on these sails of blood I go._

_Carrying an insurgent force._

_At one time, I was a hero ship_

_ferrying the famous Jason forth._

_Then they came and cut down my mast;_

_In sequence cut apart my keel._

_Nothing more there was to say but this:_

_How stand these insurrectionists?_

_Now I'm back steaming in full blood;_

_Sails like a belly full of wine._

_I'll take any hero, where're he may go._

_Stellar Knight. On the Argo._

_Alpheratz: I am failing._

_Oh! My star is dim!_

_Deference - I will not to this beast!_

_Hang on for_

_a few minutes more._

_Surely someone's bound_

_to rescue me._

_Deneb: Far have I flown_

_cross oceans of stars,_

_bringing news of what takes place at sea._

_Altair: I can concur,_

_my eagle eyes do serve_

_me well at these times of blink and sink._

_Deneb: Fair Andromeda_

_is stranded in the sea._

_Altair: The ocean waves now lapping at her knees._

_Deneb: Cetus, the whale,_

_snaps at her heels._

_Altair: All this I have seen with my own eyes._

_Mirphak: Oh my Stars._

_Set me on a course._

_I will save this Damsel in distress._

_Deneb: She's over there_

_fraught with worry_

_drawn with care._

_Altair: Shining-wet on a rock,_

_In a torn red dress._

_Mirphak: Thank the Stars._

_Brave hearts._

_Sturdy ship._

_Set sail._

_Regor: Aye, peril in the sea._

_Is but nought to me._

_Mirphak: Boldly we go._

_Breath of the wind;_

_take us where we may show_

_Fair Andromeda_

_relief sent on the waves._

_Regor: How high the waves!_

_These are stormy seas_

_Nevermind my keel_

_shall break them all._

_Mirphak: On great steed_

_Shining on the sea_

_Mast as red_

_as blood from the gorgon's head._

_Regor: Steer true hero!_

_Standing at the wheel_

_Flinch not in the lightning_

_and the waves._

_Mirphak: I'll sally forth_

_Through it all._

_I'll tap my foot_

_and whistle in the wind._

_Regor: Praise Perseus_

_Taking on the task_

_We will see_

_Andromeda at last._

_Thuban: Darkkk_

_Skkieeessss!_

_All the sstaarss_

_sstill shiver at_

_my nnnnammmmme._

_I am the ooonnne!_

_SSShinnning and in_

_ffflaammme._

_Ddarrre the_

_sstarsss deffyyy_

_myyy ffffaaammme._

_Proxima: Hail! from the million clustered sky._

_So far you've seen more brilliant than me._

_Watching the sky is tiresome work._

_Stay awake and I'll assure, a spectacle_

_is nigh: lay back for thirty seconds,_

_re-awake and keep a watchful eye._

_Omicron: In the shadows,_

_lay in wait am I._

_This maiden grows_

_more weary as she throws_

_her last sighs and groans_

_to the vengeful sky._

_I'll pick my moment,_

_bide my time,_

_till the waters deep_

_and the stars no longer shine._

_Then I'll take the maid_

_down to my dismal lair._

_Hospitality awaits her there._

Arabella: Look Stella! Look up at the stars.

Oriana: That one looks like a ship, streaking cross the sky.

Stella: Aye, an' its tail is very, very bright.

Ara: Almost as bright as the one with us this night.

Oriana: What are you two talking about?

Stella (to Ara): Shh! bright young'un. One day she'll find out.

_Regor: Leagues!_

_of the ocean are behind._

_Straight up ahead,_

_there's a silhouette,_

_of a rock protruding_

_from the sea._

_As we approach,_

_we drop the sails,_

_grab the oars_

_from the lower deck_

_of the boat._

_Hey, heave, ho!_

_Onward we go!_

_Look what is that_

_upon the sodden rock?_

_Mirphak: I have never seen_

_such a potent dream_

_as this bedraggled_

_maiden clinging fast._

_As the oceans roar,_

_and the clouds soar_

_Hailing yellow lightning_

_blast by blast._

_Regor: Hey, Heave, Ho!_

_Onward we go._

**Mirphak** **: Andromeda!**

**Can you hear me speak?**

_Alpheratz: My eyes are full of tears._

_But I can almost hear_

_a man's voice,_

_ringing in my ears._

_Maybe the cold_

_at last has taken hold,_

_And I am hearing only_

_what I seek._

Mirphak: **Andromeda!**

**Can you hear me speak?**

_Alpheratz:_ _What? it cannot be!_

_Brave warrior_

_borne on the sea;_

_Have you come_

_to further torment me?_

Mirphak: **Hush!! Gentle Queen,**

**Busy I have been,**

**as a thousand workers**

**at the hive.**

_Alpheratz:_ _Call you that excuse?_

_I am almost puce!_

_With what my woman's day_

_has thrown at me._

Mirphak: **At least your alive.**

**Let me dry your eyes.**

**Take hold.**

**I unchain you now.**

_Thuban: Whattt takessss_

_placcccee in the_

_occceannn of sstarsss?_

_Ohhh_

_draggggonn ffffiiirrre_

_sssshallll make it_

_fffeeeeeelllllll_

_aallllliiiiiiivvvveee!!!_

_Omicron: Perseus Pride!_

_Dare you defy:_

_Kings have set_

_this sacrifice at sea._

**Mirphak:** **Serpent and I;**

**Snake of the deep.**

**Man and beast**

**at odds, in the sea.**

_Alpheratz: Oh the maiden's heart_

_Flies at a rate_

_a hundred beats per minute more_

_than when she lies in bed_

_on her pillowed head_

_Oh how this conflict_

_makes me feel I sooooaaarrrrrr!_

**Mirphak:** **Eyes shield, Maiden**

**from this gory task.**

**I must take the heart**

**from this fish.**

_Alpheratz: Fish do have a heart?_

_Tear this one's apart._

_How this monster_

_made a fool of me._

**Mirphak:** **Give me one hour**

**I will overpower.**

**Watch from the safety**

**of the rock.**

_Alpheratz: I have not one hour._

_This beast's sour_

_aspect and disgraceful breath_

_must die._

**Mirphak:** **Maiden mine**

**Beautiful and fine**

**Watch this spectacle**

**while-we-dine.**

_Thuban: Myyy ffflammmesss_

_ssssizzzllllleee_

_on the ocean._

_Myyy tail_

_makkesss many_

_wavvvvessss._

_SSattissfyy me,_

_orrr I wiiillllll_

_rroarrrrrrrrrrr_ _....._

**Mirphak** _:_ **Do you think**

**I've never slain before?**

**If this whale won't relent**

**I will have to see**

**about an alternative plan.**

_Alpheratz: Turn the whale to stone!_

_His hide; his flesh; his bones._

_Set his teeth like razor clams_

_clinging to the rock._

Thuban: In the middle

of the night.

What a ssspectaacle,

What a sight.

Ffiiinnnallly the ddraggon

showww,

hasss a rrival

down beloww.

Alpheratz: See how he struggles

in the mist.

Wrapping those arms

around the whales midriff.

He is doing this all for me.

I need my hero; my hero needs me!

Omicron: Who will win

this fight?

Perseus? or the whale

of the night?

Regulus (Leo – the Lion):

My money's on Perseus:

Hercules slew a few,

before he was grown up.

Altarf (Cancer – the Crab):

Mines on, Omicron

He's no longer a pup.

Alpheratz: Good, gashes and

stars and splashes,

this is drama:

This is very fast.

Regulus: Oh look! The Whale

leaps high, arcing

up above the sea.

Altarf: And in one motion,

The gorgon's head

is revealed, eyes rolling free.

Alpheratz: Whale! Monster

of the deep.

Turned fast to stone.

My exhaustion,

wonderfully,

must at last be done.

Mirphak: **Sleep! Master of the deep.**

**On the bottom of the sea!**

**Fair maiden: how to see**

**was our bravery?**

Alpheratz: Fair as the ocean, man:

Shining like the sunset sea.

Now you've shown some courage

by rising to the task;

But prove it by marrying me.
Chapter 33

'We have our play.'

'We have a play.'

'What now?'

'Well, we need to register with the local revue. I'll see to that.'

'And I'll see about persuading these here locals to lend a hand.'

'We'll be legal, we'll be cheap.'

'We'll be both of them and more.'

'Where are we going to stage our play? I'll have to tell them that.'

'In the yard, by the bins.'

'The bins shall have to be moved. Where will the audience sit?'

'In the rafters.'

'Glimmering in the rafters. Such a vision have I of the audience in the rafters.'

'Cheat! The vision was mine!'

'We wrote one half of this play apiece.'

'Wrote? You have written only what I gave you.'

'Is that scorn I hear? Do you mock me here in Paris?'

'Mock? I have no work but to mock. The world mocks us.'

'The world will mock us shortly, if we perform a play set drab.'

'Our play set is drab.'

'Aye, you pair shall not take credit, quite so much as you shall throw the pangs and shivers of your patrons when they see this haphazard of your plying.' The voice is not mine. Nor my companions.

'Drama, is the Queen of night. And her companion, reality, is King.'

We dare not look about us. For what is concealed in the shadows makes at once itself well known.

'I,' bows low, 'am Charlie.'

'Are you from these parts?'

'My boys. I am.'

'Then are you here to talk about the day?'

'I.. I am here to talk about your play.'

There is some shake about the man we see. Some power. Some force. Some I-don't–know–what. I've seen the man before. The difference then to now? His face is lit up.

'Give us a clue.'

'I'll give you two. One: Love. Two: Sorrow.'

'Three: justice.'

'Four: matrimony.'

'Marriage? You're a fool!'

'Matrimony. Five. A jester's court.'

'Six. Balance.'

'Seven. Ire and wrath.'

Seven. Seven themes.

'Eight. Loneliness.'

'Lastly nine. Joy. Triumph. Happiness. Call it what you will.'

'Serendipity. Fortune, triumph, joy. Anti-gravity.'

'Name it well.'

'Greek tragedy.'
Chapter 34

'Elemental, is your play. Entertain it shall. I am here to help you. Charlie; your best pal.'

'This one talks in rhyme.'

'And seems to know no bounds, of space, or even time.'

'Who are you?'

'I am Charlie.'

'But who are you man?'

'Last of a failing breed; last one, I am: Truly; authentically; pandemonium.'

'You say that you are here to help us, in our quest.'

'Aye.'

'What's in it for you?'

'In it for me? "What's in it for me?" he cries. Only the chance, to set two young men up.'

'Were we not up to begin with?'

'This play must succeed. Your companion was correct.'

'And what chance have we?'

'Small chance; it must be said.'

'Our speciality.'

'I've a twinkle in my eye for your spirit.'

'Success is known unto us less.'

'And a jay in my pocket for your scepticism.'

'Why a jay?'

'A jay inspires your play.'

Oblique is the world around us. But this man seems set at odds. The bare earth, the stone, seems not the menace it once was.

'I have one question. Have you read our play?'

'My boy, of course I have read your play. Your friend, we know, is not to be trusted, and we have taken full advantage.'

'Predictably. And what did you think? Foolish? Lumpen?'

'Not so, not so.'

'Not so, how so?'

'There is no time to waste. I have one comment, on your script.'

'I see, I see.'

'What comment will he make – I cannot wait.'

'What did she write on that note?'

'A powerful poem – called "Let." '

' "Let"? Let's hear it.'

' _Let not love be simple_

let never peace come quick

let none of our frustrations

be untangled with a stick

Let no one talk of easy joy

or long life with a smile

Let not this be over

but let it last for miles and miles and miles

Let not a workman's labour

be stopped by summers grave

but let it govern on and on

the working world's a slave

Let the show of my ambition

be a governess to spite

and make it ammunition

for those who take the metal to the fight

Let no one triumph easy

Let no man take a break

Let no assistance find the cap

of soldiers in a far-off place

Let jostling be common

and let no spine be slack

but let no common tongue

be heard among the pack.

Let our growls be multiplied

and let not growth be back

Let us all fail to inspire

leave leaderless the pack

Let not one abound

while the others hack and hack

And let us all be equal

but let not one our government attack.

Let the low ambitious

in the courtroom be not heard

Let the loveless jibe

and leave our lovers overturned

let the low be proud

for all the good it will achieve

And let us find no commonplace

fruition in our breed.

Let the songbird nay and nay

and let the bowers creak

let the bold be bold

but let the waters break

Let no true compliance

be supported once

and let our love be selfless

but let us snuff the sconce

Let us now be overwhelmed

by our planet's grief

But let us not be glorified

And let us find no sweet release.

Let us rock the world

and let us jump and pump

and let the multitudinous

defy a patient stump

Let the try and fortune

be accommodated once

but after prune the importune

give gravy to the lost

Let the streets be sounding

with the stamping foot

but let the overcoming

be stampeding on my gut

Let us walk in summer

and drive in winters rain

by droving and by bleating

be fed on power and pain

Let us once be right

if only for a time

then let my wrongs be righted just

and let us walk the line.

Let us fly aeroplanes

in a clear blue sky

Let us drive in oceans

and let us paint red lines

Let us be a trudging herd

through the thickest snow

But let our heads be bowed

Ever so below.

Let us walk in step

with the other in a line

Oh ain't it wonderful

Isn't it sublime.

Chapter 35

We begin arranging our performance. The play is now registered. Its going ahead. We show in exactly 3 weeks. That's 21 days to rehearse a play. We have 2000e. We have two players. I have an idea about two of our leads. And in fact a third, when I think of it. And a fourth. And maybe one or two more.

'We need to go on a tour.'

'Right away.'

We march silently with purpose back through the streets. First stop: the market.

'What do you hope to achieve?'

'We're going to see if Stella's around. And one other.'

'How are you going to locate them?'

'They took my bag.'

'The one you sold for 2000e?'

'2500e. Yes that one.'

'Where is the bag now?'

'With Stella.'

'What was in the bag?'

'Just the trash we picked in the morning.'

'And a lot of hot air.'

'Yes. A substantial amount of hot air.'

'How does this help?'

'If Stella's there, Stella will find us.'

'Because of what was in your bag.'

'Because of what was not in my bag.'

'What was not? What is not? And what will not be?'

'All three. A storm was made in that bag. And she'll remember me.'

We arrive at the market. It is not at the same place as before.

I see the man in black at first. I tap him on the shoulder.

He smiles slowly when he sees me.

'My man. I seek an actor, for a play. How are you fixed for now?'

'I'm fine. A middle man. And fixed: my middle name.'

'And do you know, where is this woman?'

'Ah, she can be found, standing in the round.'

'Thank you.'

We move on.

'Lets move higher, to get a better view.'

Me and my friend climb the nearest tree; I stand in it and he perches on a balcony.

Beneath us, a crowd have gathered. It swells, and congregates about a circle. In the circle, standing proud, there she is.

'Proof, man, proof. She has flummoxed them again.'

Stella seems to have triumphed in another bidding war.

'Is there no-one, who can challenge me?'

We descend from our vantage.

'You know what has to happen?'

'Uh..'

'We're going to have to challenge her.'

'We don't stand a chance.'

'Let's get back in the tree.'

We climb again.

'Right,' says my companion, 'I'll drop you in.'

'Drop?'

Whoaaaa..

I find myself in the middle of the circus. The round profound lady stands above and gazes.

''Ello, my young ting.'

'Hullo,' my response.

'Are you come to challenge me?'

'I am. With one condition.'

'No, mon, you dong mend 'dem rules.'

'If I win, you have to be..'

'Yah?'

'In our play.'

'Im you and who play?'

'Er, me and the chap in the tree.'

She looks up.

'Veery gogogood.'

'In the middle.'

A familiar face emerges from the crowd.

A bag is placed on the floor.

'Six, six, start at six.

Who'll give me six in the middle; in the mix?'

'I'll give you sixe, monsieur, den moor.'

'I'll give seven for the bag on the floor.'

'Eight. Eight. Offer me eight.'

'At the price of eight, I'll cooperate.'

'Nine, den nine den offer of mine.'

'Nine is the fine on the merchandise.'

'Ten, then ten from the point of my pen.'

'Den ten-five den offer of mine.'

'Eleven, minister, twelve if you like.'

'I'll take twelve, and yes I like.'

'Twelve den five den offer of mine.'

'Do I hear thirteen, mister one time?'

'Thirteen mystery;- thirteen five

will that effect on me this merchandise?'

'Fifteen, madam?'

'Fourteen-five.'

'Fifteen.'

'Goldmine. Fifteen five.'

'Sixteen'

'Seventeen'

'Eighteen five.'

'Nineteen is all I have on my side.'

'Minister, minister, minister Mick!

Young man name his price so quick.'

'That's a quick fire in the tigers' eyes.

Do I hear twenty, or nineteen-five?'

'Non, monsieur, you hear twenty five.'

'With the lady then who got the better of the time.

If you can't better her twenty-five.'

'I'll tell you what monsieur and mistress-mine.

Let her take the better of the merchandise.

But let me make one last offer real quick.

Now I'm feeling slinky; real, real slick.

I'll take the thin and she can have the thick.

Give her the bag, real, real quick.'

'What's in the bag, lady, if you don't mind?'

'In the bag is my mercenary find.

It's a play script and it reads like this:

"I dub thee Stella, with a walking stick." '

'Ok we have two players.'

'Where to next?'

Into Paris. With a stop along the way.

I knock on a door. It is answered by a lady.

'Ahem. We have met before, but I don't expect..'

'You are ze dirty boy.'

'Yes. That's me.'

She gives a questioning look.

'We are here to ask if you would like to be in our play?'

Another, more questioning look.

'Her name is Daphne. Here is the script.'

She takes the script and closes the door. We wait.

The door re-opens.

'Zank you. I oblige.'

'Thanks, madame.'

'That was straightforward.'

'It's the next bit that's likely to be, a bit sticky.'

We arrive at the sewer cover.

'It is necessary for us to descend into the sewer.'

'Underground it is.'

'Oh it stinks to high heaven down here.'

'It reeks. Something strange about the place though.'

'Lets split up.'

'Lets not. It is too easy to get lost. In fact..' I pull some string from my pocket, 'here use this.'

We reel along the passageways.

'Oh what a marvel, are these walls.'

'Heck, they seem so dark to me.'

'In truth they are not dark; but light. Here, hoist me to the ceiling.'

My fine companion now dangles from the rafters. Something has caught his eye.

'What have I found?'

There is a whole in the wall. My friend is perched awkwardly, peeping through it.

'Oh, friend thought you this a sewer?'

'Is it not?'

'How we have been fools. Come. Look.'

With less enthusiastic eyes, I look.

'Wow.'

There are rows and rows and rows of bottles, from the ceiling to the floor, as far as the eye can see.

'We are in an underground cave. This is a store of wonder.'

'Ouch.'

'What; what is it?'

'I have pricked my finger.'

'We have no time for maladies.'

'Lets get down there.'

My friend submerges himself and swims down a corridor. I wait.

'In here.' He emerges, and it don't look pretty.

I follow. I swim in the sewer, clinging to the twine. I emerge after.

'Right, where are we?'

'This,' my friend looks up and down the walls, 'is a stash.'

'And I think I know whose.'

There is a light at the end of the tunnel. And a witches cackle reverberates among the glass.

'Two boys. Two of you there are now. How chance you upon my lair, boys?'

'Oh, we followed our noses.'

She strides down the corridor toward us.

'Two boys. Oh my. Two boys. For me?'

'Halt there.'

'Remember, you have walked into my lair. You think I am graceful out there?'

She grabs a rope that hangs from the ceiling and swings.

She alights on light feet right between us.

'Boys.'

'Listen lady luck,' my friend starts.

'Uh, sh.' She puts one finger to his lips and he is silent. She turns to me.

'Introduce us.'

'This is my travelling companion. This is..Lady Luck.'

'I see. And have you come here looking for me?'

'In need we are, of you services.'

'My services, are not for sale.'

'That's good, because we're not paying.'

'I see.'

I motion to my companion.

'Two boys. We have one thing to show apiece.'

'I see.'

My companion produces the script.

And I a key.

Open Sesame.

'Demon! Fairy Prince!' exclaims the lady. 'Luck am I. Luck have I less. I am luckless lady luck. But..'

'But..?'

'But bravo, boys: so brave; so bashful; such daring: such pluck!'

'So you'll be in our play?'

'Hush now, don't say much. This glass holds a key of such, dazzling drama, so to clutch, something so would be clutz. Gentle, gentle, softly sound. Waste it never on the ground, rather each to take a cup, gold come down and bottoms up!'

We all drink liquid gold.

'Yeah, gentleman, count me in.'

We have our Andromeda.

'What about the young villain? What about Arabella, Jaz and Pal?'

'Yes.'

'And Tom, Jiffy the clown, and the host of minor parts.'

'Yes, yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes, we do need Arabella, Jaz, Pal, Tom, Jiffy and a host of minor characters.'

'In addition, a host of stars.'

'Leave that to me.'

'Ok, so just Arabella, Tom, Jiffy, Jaz and Pal.'

'Ahem, Lady luck?'

'yeah?'

'You wouldn't, happen to have, on the off, I don't know, an eleven year old female sibling, or some such?'

'Why, as luck would have it, I have a sister.'

'And how old is she?'

'27.'

I talk aside to my companion.

'We could, you know, do her make-up and hair and try and make her look small somehow.'

'Ahem,' back to the lady, 'me and my companion, would be delighted if you, and your..sister..would join our company.'

'Dazzling.'

Right, we need two people, one who is tall, Hispanic looking and plays the pipe, juggles fire and wields a knife and one oriental..who can ride a bike.

'Where on earth..'

Hmmm, it seems I may have got un petit peu carried away with my script and forgotten my initial concern for the practicalities.

'What about the circus?'

In desperation, I have my companion take us to the circus.

'I can't see.'

'Well, what do you expect? I had to blag our way in.'

We are stuck behind two large spectators.

'You're going to have to climb on my shoulders.'

'I will be doing no such thing. I am a grown man.'

'Well you'll be a growing man. Hoist.'

'Aha, I can see.'

Oh dream. There is a fire breather on stage. And a short Chinese girl selling popcorn on a unicycle.

I leap down.

'I have found them.'

'Time to do some talent poaching.'

We head off to lurk backstage.

Sure enough, the performers troop in after the show. One arm apiece, mine and my companions, fire out from the side and grab one target each.

'Listen pal'; are you tired, not getting the recognition you deserve? Does your boss take all the credit while you sweat and serve? Maybe its time, for a new adventure.'

'Heard it before. What makes you so special?'

'Read the script. Join us. Don't. The choice is yours.'

'Listen little one, you see my companion over there, the one with your fire breather?'

'Yes. See him.'

'Aren't you tired of letting him hog the limelight while you have to wait in the wing?'

'Maybe.'

'Well, come join our play, we have parts for all.'

'But I REALLY like popcorn.'

'Not anymore, now, you like, WOOOOOOOONNNNTOOOOOOOOOONNNNS!'

Next, Tom.

'A reliable man. One in a million. Who do we know like that?'

'I see your point.'

Sigh.

'There is one.'

'Oh yeah? Who?'

'I can't just remember his name.'

'You don't mean..'

'Oh yeah..'

'Surely not..'

'Surely..'

'Not..him?'

'Abso ipso facto lutely..'

'The Nightwatchman? You have got to be having a laugh.'

'Nope. No laugh.'

'He saw me..'

'Fast asleep on a bench?'

'In a low state.'

'All the better – he knows you, as you truly are.'

'Truly, I am a scruff. Well lets go and find the Nightwatchman.'

It is the night. The shadows creep. We have come all the way to Paris.

'Which park was it?'

'I'll know it when I see it.'

'Was it very leafy?'

'It was leafy enough.'

'Was it big?'

'It was large ish.'

'I know just the spot.'

'Here we are.' After a 2 block walk.

'Yes, this is it. How did you..?'

'There are many parks in Paris, but only three I can think of are "leafy enough". Of these, one is large, one is small and one, this one, is "large ish". So there we have it.'

There is only one way I know to locate a nightwatchmen.

'I shall be close by, do not fret about the watchman.'

'Watch and be vigilant.'

'I'll be a vigilante, ere I'm vigilant.'

'Duck.'

The nightwatchmen emergeth, from the mist.

'Vell, Vell, Vell. I have seen a pretty scene like this not many nights. Young man, cometh; Young man taketh flight.'

'Mr Night Watchmen. Born to keep in sight, vagabonds and villains, all through the night.'

'You see, correctly, young man, tonight. How far, is the park, from your bedlam site?'

'I and some criminals, dark and sour men, seek a meeting with the night, at around half ten.'

'Where are we all to share, in this deathly fare?'

'On the outskirts, of this town: be there or be square.'

One last clown. Jiffy.

'There is a sommelier, that I know of , here in Paris.'

'His name?'

'Happy.'

'Happy?'

'Happy.'

'Does he live up to his name?'

'No better fit. He's the one, for our script.'

'Happyyyy! What time do you call this and where's your tequila?' We walk into a fairly low key establishment, in the heart of Paris.

'I call it evening, mates, and my tequilas set up at the bar.'

'What's that? Three tequilas, here come from afar?

'Three wise men drink three tequilas, whether near or far.'

We sit and drink tequila in several formats and in novel ways.

'What brings you back to my den?'

'That's the hospitality I'm used to. When did I ever need a reason?'

'Are you here for spirits or for wine?'

'Spirits by the look of it. Little time for aught but the finest wine.'

'Fair enough.'

'Fare, an it's damn fine fare.'

'Damn fine fare in damn fine wares. This is a classy joint,' I offer.

'Who's your mate, man?'

'This is my prodigy.'

'If your as prodigal as this one, you're a real prodigy.'

'Two prodigious talents, and then a few more. We're looking for something special, knocking at the door.'

'What's your tipple, champagne? Gin and lime? Maybe some prosecco, or some sweet white wine.'

'All of those shall be needed, my old mate. But we don't want the canapés; we're after the plate.'

'What you mean, Master?'

'What we mean is this: we're leaving for the treizième arondiss.'

'That's the lot.'

'Not quite. May I remind you, we are in Paris – home of characters, both light..'

'..and dark.'

Last member, of the company. Who in the night shall inspire our play?

'Look around. What does the starry night, whisper in our eyes.'

'We cannot have a real villain – they would not be easy to control.'

'Nay, aye.'

'Nay or aye?'

'Nay, I agree, a villain our villain cannot be.'

'Then he must have a dark streak.'

'What about he who goes through the night?'

'Nay, he is playing shadow.'

'Who then?'

'Wait just a minute. Why didn't I think of this before? What if the villain has no form?'

'That wouldn't work. Oriana is attacked: and when attacked, punches right back.'

'I see your problem, if I might be so bold,' chimes in happy. 'I know a man on the cusp of eighteen years old. He can be formless; black as coal.'

'Where is he?'

'Sitting right there.'

'I can't see him.'

'Look closer, see the detail on the threadbare chair.'

'Oh, you mean my shadow; that's so craftily aware.'

On. Back to the Yard, for half past ten. Onward, three wise men.

It is half past ten, and the company are gathered in the yard: my companion, Charlie; the girl with the broom; Lady Luck's sister; the lady from the house; the lady from the market; the nightwatchman; the circus pair; Happy; Minister Mick; my shadow (apparently) and Lady Luck herself.

Then I see my companion has been busy. The members of the yard have brushed up. They are arranged in lines, ready to sing.

Charlie addresses the community.

'Goblins, sitting in the rafters. Look what we have prepared for you tonight. Some of you know me; some of you I've never seen before. But what nonsense, what drivel, to acknowledge stranger ties as these.

We have produced, a drama for you. Set in Paris; canopy on show.

A teenager, sweeps clouds of dust from the floor.

Her mother's well known in these parts.

But, and it's a woeful but, she has strong creditors abroad. I'll lack a day (and days I do not lack) if this is not foreboding in the streets.

Now patient Oriana; lover of the weak: braver than the strong, waits for her mother at the door.

Is she coming back? Oriana lacks, not the senses that betray these times.

Whistling at her heel, her sister: clever; less a girl of steel, and her neighbour Daphne are around.

Here comes Oriana, singing as she goes, about the days chores, like so many girls we know.

What tragedy, shall unfold underneath the stars?'

'Right, thank you Charlie, same again on the night.'

'The rest of you, learn your lines. Here, take a script apiece.'

'Oh we're one short. Jaz and Pal will have to share.'

'Our names are not Jaz and Pal!'

'Ah, yes, from now on, to assist you in donning your character's psychological apparatus, I will address you by your stage name, rather than your actuals names, which unfortunately we don't know.'

'So, Oriana.'

'Yes,' says Oriana sweetly.

'Do me a favour, and take the stage.'

'Certainly.' Curtsies.

'Do you see what a marvellous lead we have, setting an example for the others to follow? You have been very cool in your casting, lads.'

'Now Arabella, if you wouldn't mind joining your sister.'

'Good.'

'Let's try the scene in the parlour. Daphne! Where's Daphne?'

'Ahgghm,' cough's Daphne.

'Ah, Daphne. Replete upon that stool, would you?'

'Ahgghm,' repeats Daphne, and sets herself upright on the stool.

'Ok. So lets have quiet and ..'

' ''The moon as my witness..'' ' begins Daphne, ' ''the stars my judge, your question I find neither hard nor abrupt..'' '

'Hold it right there..' my companion has an objection, 'don't "the moon as my witness, the stars my judge" like your reading from the script.'

'But I am reading from the script,' Daphne enunciates.

'Yes, like that, say it like you said the last.'

' ''The moon, my witness, the stars, my judge..'' '

'Better..'

'Now change timbre and be more soft..'

' ''You're question I find neither hard; nor abrupt..'' '

'Yes, yes, we're getting going..'

'Arabella, in the centre. Now remember one thing.'

Arabella looks at us silently.

'You are 11.'

Arabella nods.

' ''If the times be bright.....'' '

' ''ho the heavens,'' ' I prompt.

' ''Ho the heavens?'' '

'Lo the heavens then,' I concede, 'we are under the stars.'

' ''Lo the heavens,  
an if the world be fair, tip and tap,  
an if the air is clear, I'm eleven.'' '

'Lo the heavens, ho the heavens. Potato, potato.'

'Ok Oriana. And do we have our fighting Frenchmen?'

Daphne and Arabella recede.

Oriana steps forward.

' ''Men of Honour, fighting..'' '

And Oriana nails it first time.

The long and short of it is, we continue to rehearse the drama for two weeks. We feel it is starting to take shape, but as ever with these endeavours, you pray for some luck on the night, and hope it'll be alright.

'Let's get weaving,' as my old nan used to say.

My companion is now fixated with his choral arrangement. It is left to me and Charlie to polish the rest.

'It is of the utmost, friends of the theatre, that you remember to stop to draw breath.'

'I concur. And to speak with clear diction. Our patrons are not ones for flaccid lips.'

'I have a question,' pipes up Palamino. 'What about our costumes?'

'That is a very good question. I must confer with my co-wright.'

'We need cash.'

'For what?'

'Costumes.'

'Too late, I have already spent 1500e on Andromeda's dress.'

'And the other 500?'

'You can have that. Here.'

'Ok, Oriana is wearing rags, we need some pretty dresses for Arabella, perhaps some earrings for Daphne. Pal and Jaz essentially need superhero outfits, and Stella assures me she has plentiful costumes of her own. That leaves just Jiffy, who needs at the very least a clown's headdress.'

'And Tom. He needs a postman's bag and overalls.'

'Indeed.'

'For 500e. I could murder that man sometimes.'

Right for goodness sake, we're going to need to make them ourselves.

First, Arabella's dresses. She is the darling of the play, and it befits her character to be smartly suited.

Daphne volunteers to make Ara's dresses.

'Thank you, Daphne.'

Next, superhero outfits.

'We have our circus costumes. The circus made us buy our own.'

Thank the stars.

'They will need to be amended. See to it, under Stella's supervision.'

Ok, Jiffy's headdress. Inspiration is needed.

'Only one place for hats.'

'Where's that Happy?'

'There's a famous place in the sixième. La Belle, la Carte et la Plage. But its gonna cost.'

'Take us there.'

Me and Happy are walking through the sixième arrondissement in Paris.

'This famous hatters, what should I expect?'

'To pay a high price, for something excellent.'

'Good. Good.'

'Messieurs.' The merchant nods as we walk in.

'We are here for a hat.'

'Monsieur?'

'We are staging a play and our clown needs a hat. With bells and whistles, if you please.'

'Monsieur.'

We take a pew.

'How long is this likely to be?'

'As long as a piece of string.'

A piece of string later, the man emerges from the back. He is carrying something concealed under a white throw.

'Messieurs.'

The concierge reveals something extraordinary: A hat, soft, so soft and velvety; with bells and whistles as per expectation.

But beyond our expectation: on closer inspection, the hat is perfectly shaped and inlaid, with a map: an intricate map, of the Streets of Paris.

'Dear, Jester, what do you think of this?'

'It's beautiful.'

'Monsieur.'

'How much?'

The merchant folds the clothe around the piece, presses the package into our hands, and walks away.

'Is he..?'

'Letting us go? It would appear so.'

'I don't understand.'

I unfold the package, just to check.

'Look, in the hat.'

'There is a message.'

The message reads: ' ''Monsieur: Pour toi. Vous ne voyez, jusqu'a vous l'avez fait.'''

We take the hat and leave.

Back at the yard, the company is restless.

'We are showing in less than one week. Look at the state of us.' Palamino, moaner-in-chief, states the players frustration.

'Worry not, fear not. You all know your lines.'

'But our costumes are a mess.'

'Right. You worry about your appearance. '

'We are anxious that we will not be seen as a serious outfit.'

Charlie steps in, 'You must, not let it get in the way, of your performance.'

He continues, 'These outfits,' holding up a dress Daphne has plied for Arabella, 'are like sails chasing after storms. Sow them, stitch them, let them hang. They will take us where we want to go. But once arrived, be not contrived, then in drama there is not much further still to go.'

The rest of the outfits are made in relative peace.

In the meantime, things are hotting up in Paris. The work of our performance leaves us time for little else, but there are vague familiar goings on. The streets are filled with new apparent warmth; only now the nights cling to their chill. Paris is lighting up once more, the bistros now refilling while guests dine. The news that once was singular, now has broadened better than before. But we know, all is not resolved that should be so: the stitch of time breaks never so false-slow.

The race is on. Many theatres, many tribes and many more brave souls, take their stance, pit their wits against the vermin crow, that seeks to stealthy-steal the crowds below. Oh haw, has the wondering bird tonight. Our defence is one delightful thing; we will make them laugh as we bellow.

'How's the performance coming along?'

'I could ask you the same question.'

'I asked it first. How's the show?'

'We will hold up our end. Permit that you may hold up yours.'

'Permit it once; you'll have to do it again. We are on song.'

We are go. Costumes ready. Lines learned. Performances polished. Crowds awakened. Buzz about the town.

'Dreams, drama; drama and dreams. Take a pinch of one and a helping of the other. You may use a measuring spoon, but a dollop on a plate is fine by me.'

'Lengthy, lurid stuff. That's the power of the sixteenth street.'

'Give me more! Lopping the head off the titan. Festival of nerves and tribulation. Carnival: butcher's delight!'

The reviews of our rivals' play come thick, fast and dripping with admiration.

'That's for the play on sixteenth is it?'

'Aye, one of Charlie's old enemies.'

'Think we stand a chance?'

'Charlie seems to think so. Though he could scarce have chosen two less qualified men.'

'Where does his confidence come from? Egoism?'

'Egotism.'

'I say egoism.'

'He's not egotistical; he is egoistical.'

'An egomaniac?'

'Too far.'

'Pinch me once.'

Pinches me.

'Are we in a dream? I did just feel a pinch.'

'Then this must be reality: there lets end this foolish jest; this private one-upmanship; this do-o'er the devil inquest.'

It is the eve of our performance. Me, Charlie and the players are gathered.

'This is no time for the fretting strings of the gut. Tonight, we should feel at ease. Our play shall be blown upon the midnight breeze.'

My companion and I steal a second outside the yard.

'Are we on song with the ensemble? Remember, of crucial importance will be the transition.'

'Its all fine.'

My companion seems too relaxed.

'Are you sure?'

'Sure.'

Nervous energy, can only be good right?

We have left the logistics of the playset to a third party. Or more accurately put, some of the yard realised that we were so engrossed in our play we had forgotten to arrange the seats and stuff.

The yard is now filling. We peak around the door.

The rafters themselves are being filled. Row upon row are stood up on the walls and the buildings that overlook the yard. They are filling up from above. When there is no more room, they will file into the yard. Let's hope we have enough room for them.

The stage itself is a circle; the patrons on all sides and stretching up above. Thank goodness we have Charlie, thawing the frosty and tempering the impatient; making one and all feel at ease.

Here we go. Charlie looks up to the stars. The night is clear above, but cloudy in the distance. The stars are on show, thank heavens.

There is a twinkle in the man's soft eyes. His hands hold the audience. The young are hypnotized. The scoundrels dare not speak at his eloquence. Touching the ground, he rubs the dust and delivers his first lines.

Oriana creeps onstage and the light is just right. She sweeps clouds of dust from the floor.

The stars twinkle coyly, throughout the first scenes, setting such a sudden atmosphere.

Here, I go. I must play the villain. Or my shadow; he, and I in tow.

' ''This girl is MINE, say I..'' '

Oriana plays her part beyond my expectations.

The devilish scene, was devilish to act. But Oriana steals the show straight after, and takes away attention, I don't like to attract.

Arabella sings under the stars.

Then I'm up again; my turn to get punched in the stomach.

Oriana sends my shadow sprawling.

I chase into the night. And my part in this drama ends.

'Was I any good?'

'Mate, you were great.'

The clouds begin to gather in the sky.

Our decision to play in three parts, gives our patrons chance to get nervous at the stars. This plays straight into our hands.

Act II starts with a clown. Jiffy's headdress is a marvel: it glows, glisters, bells and blows; whistling in the faintest wind. It converts Jiffy's part to a great one: nuanced somehow, with mirth and sorrow. Yes that was a gift rescued me.

The business gets going. Oriana builds well. She commands the stage. The other players all follow her. Stella is profound and great fun. Pal and Jaz bring new interest as the story moves along. The characters develop nicely as we get to know them.

Then the Party scene. We promised such a night. And, oh, it goes down a treat. There, it would seem, is nothing like watching theatre players eat chinese.

Then Stella's Story. Not a drop, not a shuffle, not a silent flinch, is heard when the lights drop. All eyes in the theatre light on her lighted face and every ear lands on her lips. Her tone is perfect. Not one dares answer back. In rapture telling tales of places far away, and days long past.

I was worried that the comedy would not work; but it seems to have been received well. Everyone laughs, at Stella's moustache and at Daphne's diminished pride.

Tom holds things together. Shadow plays a blinding cameo. There is no weakness in the act.

Oriana faces down her foe in a cagy scene of brilliance bringing Act II to a close.

This is where things could go wrong. My companion has rehearsed the final scenes. We have had no input as the drama segues to song.

The drama sets new paces and takes on a high-flown air. The lines between the characters and the scenes become blurred (and the script develops traits a tad absurd).

Yes, our players, perform well enough, and the final scenes are played out poignantly and well.

And one miracle does occur. Stella's epilogue, gives vent to the gathering clouds, and the skies open as she ends. Our prayers were answered: just one bit of luck; what if they had opened during Palamino's fire breathing stuff?

But now, friends, it becomes clear, to our horror what the shows about. Our companion, has lavished every effort on in fact, not his choir, but Andromeda's final act. Her dress is finely woven; but then torn to shreds. Her shrieking feels as real as the clams around her heels: bought fresh at a market in the day. Her hair is sodden wet; her eyes flowing with cosmetics not allowed to set. She is set high above the stage. Sacrificially, she titillates the whale; our audience need not imagine Argo and its sails; such is Lady Luck's total disguise. She is a feast for our eyes.

And strangely it works. The dire, unrehearsed, neglectful level of attention on the choir and verse, only elevates our starry maid. Lo and behold, she makes the whales death feel grey and cold, though no eye is fixed on aught but her. I'll tip my hat; the final act; though unrehearsed; was equal in fact, of our careful drama simply served. (And less because of him; far much more because of her).

And Charlie raps it up. The heavens timely shut. The last act was performed in the pouring rain – but not one of our audience thought once to complain. The pattering makes way to applause.

Then the players come out. We light the stage and our play is suddenly the shout, of each and every person round about. But I think they loved our actress most. Yes, Andromeda's teary-eyed rescue may have shook the globe, but what of, Oriana, steadfast; solid gold? I think its for her, they made the heavens hold, back the rain so they could sing and shout her name, and make her deeds anon that had long gone unfabled; nevermore outshone.

How we have waited long for this. The day after the performance, we buy a local paper. I sit down and open the revue.

'What does it say?'

'Ahem. "The Streets of Paris: a new play, from a new theatre company; although it is rumoured, and confirmed on the night by the presence of a certain master of ceremonies, that there was a connection to the Great Greek Dramatic and local rascal Charles Parapimpadopolou. I'll keep my review brief: Oh, lamb..'' '

