Lola's Salon

Loud small dogs, automated answering systems, waiters who were somehow mistakenly not born into French aristocracy, the Wall Street Journal, loud small Italians, Rupert Murdoch, anyone in their twenties, and whoever pissed on his car door last night - this is a small list, by way of example, of things Trevor despised.

But nothing - nothing - filled Trevor with the level of malice he felt towards a cursor that just sat there, blinking like a ******* idiot, and not going about it's straightforward goddamned duty of leading up a parade of riveting, fresh, and imaginative words.

Throwing his head back with a tortured groan, he cursed the day he was born and figured his profession the worst choice he could have made. "Well, no, that's an exaggeration," Trevor said aloud to no one, "I could be Margaret Thatcher's gynecologist."

The thought oddly cheered him, and he pushed himself up from the chair at Lola's desk, thinking to search out a book from her collection. Though, in fact, only part of the library had come from Lola's last house on Ibeza, the entire west wall here had been left by the last owner, one Ronsford Dobson-Smith. Trevor went over to that wall and began searching titles.

As he pulled one after another out, his amazement grew. Everything here seemed to be first editions, and most of them signed. There were volumes here going back to the 1700s. Suddenly, one book, lower down on the shelves caught his eye, seeming to stand apart from the rest. A closer look revealed the book to be oldly shiny on the top of its binding. The title too somehow didn't fit this collection - "The Randy Plowman". Trevor put his hand to the book and pulled. With a startling creak, the entire wall of books began to move.

Happily returning from a romp in the park with Jack (super Border Collie), PaL hangs her coat on the coat rack by the front door and heads down the hallway towards the living room. Just as she is passing the expensive-looking vase on the tall thin stand, it starts shaking ever so slightly. PaL stops, reaching out to steady the stand. Earthquake? No, it doesn't feel like an earthquake. Actually, it feels like part of the house is moving. As if a wall is moving. PaL thinks to herself, "curious." The shaking stops, PaL realigns the vase on the stand, and then continues toward the living room, still thinking, "humm, curious".

Stradee sits comfortably - sipping after-dinner liquor from elegant crystal, chatting with friends, when PAL enters asking "Did you guys feel an earthquake"? "Something rather odd happened in the hallway, near the Library, and Blatham seems to have disappeared".

Hmmm ~ we all know he's been working rather feverishly lately ~ He may have stepped out for fresh air. Let's check out the library.

Entering the room, nothing seemed amiss, then PAL and Stradee noticed a shadow where one of the corner bookshelves stood. On further investigation the shadow was not a reflection at all, but instead an open panel ~ a doorway!

Stairs leaned precariously, creaking and winding narrowly, the walls of Gothic design that seemed to grow with every turn as the light shown an eerie gray dancing from rough exterior to smooth leaded windows bearing no kindness, instead, spires welded at strange angles, laughing at gargoyles perched from their eternal ledges.

PAL and Stradee jump at the sound of laughter emitting from the abyss ~ ~ standing very still, they wait.

jespah wakes to the sound of mournful violin music. She pads over to the front door and grabs the Sunday Times. Hmm, I wonder what the crossword theme is? she thinks as a small bit of plaster dust shakes itself loose from the ceiling and lands on her hair. "Huh?"

Withers comes in. "Oh, I see you have the paper. I'll be needing the Sunday Styles section." Withers stares a little more closely at jes's head. "Madam, do you have dandruff?"

Following closely behind P&L and Stradee, Diane hears odd laughter followed by mournful violin playing.

Nearing the bottom of the dark, twisting stairway, she almost stumbles upon the other two women. They all stare in wonder at a large and comfortable room, furnished in heavy Victorian sofas and deep chairs, with richly colored carpets on the hardwood floors, heavy velvet draperies covering the windowless walls. The room is softly lit with candelabra and sconces, with a cheerful fire in the massive fireplace.

Blatham is seated in one of the large chairs, his feet resting on an ottoman. Facing him is a middle-aged man, putting his violin in an ornate case before sitting down at a large writing desk where he picks up a pipe and indulges in the ritual of tamping and lighting so well known to pipe smokers.

There is something ethereal about the man, he seems almost translucent as he gracefully crosses his legs and settles in with his pipe. "Yes, I've lived here for the past hundred and fifty years, quite comfortably I might add. I do hope you will respect my privacy, although it is quite pleasant to have company. It has been at least fifty years since my last guest. Let me replenish your sherry, it seems to have calmed you considerably after the first shock of meeting me."

Blatham, pale, but obviously interested in his surroundings, nods in agreement that he is feeling much better and apologizes for his hysterical bout of laughter earlier. "Really, this has been most enjoyable. Granted, I was shocked at first, but your graciousness and charming hospitality put me at my ease almost immediately."

Just then, Diane bumps into Stradee and tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle a cry of surprise……

P&L and Stradee step toward the landing where a light shines on the corridor.

Just as they reach the landing, a scuffle of feet are heard from the darkend
stairway and suddenly Diane appears, bumps into Stradee pushing all three
women through the open doorway where Blatham sits ~ seemingly conversing with a pipe.

Steve,

Artistic standards have definately improved here.....we're not all hung up on the words themselves, but rather how they're used. Good to see you. Would you like a drink?

Lola

Would love a drink. Thanks. Nice cuppa rosy.

Or gin and french. To rhyme with wench.

Hope I've not upset anyone by pretending to be shocked by the ******* f word!

Lola, happy to see Jespah, Stradee, LW and Steve (Diane had to leave for a while), sits with them to have some tea when she notices a little white dust in Jespah's hair.

"Jes, what is this stuff in your hair?" asks Lola "Has the sky been falling?"

Jespah reaches up to brush away the dust and signs as a beautiful melody is heard from the library.

"Listen to that melody," says Stradee as she looks toward the source of the music.

Lola seems to be under the influence of a trance when she sees a little old man, with a white beard, carrying a tray of brownies. Smiling, as he places the tray on the table, the man says, "did I hear someone mention magic brownies?"

Wow! says Steve. Fantastic service round here. Are these like magic mushrooms? Must admit there was nothing very magical about the hospital A&E last time I tried those.

However, on this occasion, I don't mind if I do, thanks.

The white powder in Jespah's hair is taking on an almost surreal quality.

Hey little old man with the white beard! Some more magic brownies please, and a bottle of head and shoulders for my friend.

(Only a cheap joke Jes, we all know you have the most lustrous and beautiful hair in the whole of hairdom).

LW enters the room and asks Jespah if the white power means she's trying out for a part in "The Sopranos." There, the "f" word is used in the common vocabulary, almost as prevelant as any other verb.

The f word is a verb, it's true, but it can also be a noun as in the Sopranos, as in "you fat f---!"

Lola is very tired and must be off to bed. Good night all, until tomorrow.

Withers, his feet just a little more sore than normal, sees the last merry guest out the door into the brisk late evening, turns the lock and retires happily to his quarters, leaving Lola to the care of Fifi and Trevor to his own independent devices.

Trevor leans back in the big chair and basks in the warmth of the library fireplace. We hear a contented sigh. He turns towards us.

"Gentlemen...ladies...please, come in. You'll find an exquisite sherry on the bureau there, help yourselves. I've asked you here this evening, with our host's blessing of course, to discuss the matter of my recently published work. As you're undoubtedly aware, it gained a certain noteriety - not due, unfortunately, to any sales, imminent movie contract, or award nominations, but rather to its promiscuous use of the copulative verb. Why, thank you, Madam, it is my favorite verb too. You...are finding the sherry agreeable, I trust? Fine. That is, if I may be bold, an entrancing wrap you are wearing. It quite sets off the blue of your eyes. As I was saying, some small degree of consternation followed upon this aspect of the work, and I wanted to take this opportunity to speak to you all. I have been, this very day, in contact with my kind and generous publishers. They received me, as always, with graciousness, and though the office where we normally meet was occupied, the broom closet proved quite comfortable for a discussion of this sort. Seredipity, yes? And, as it happens, we also, most fortuitously, chanced upon a fur coat and some intimate items belonging to our hostess which had been missing for some time. Perhaps it was the comfortable ambiance of this setting, but our meeting proved most agreeable to all parties. Future work - you particularly madam, should know - may well include your favorite verb, but, like a kiss on the neck, only when the moment seems right. Now, as Withers has retired, may I have the pleasure myself of gathering up your coats. Thank you for coming. Madam, if you are not in some great hurry to fly of to Rio, might I show you around Lola's salon?

Trevor calms down, having stated his fancies. Leaning back in reflection he focuses his vision on the front door. Without a sound the door slowly creeps open and a tall dark girl emerges, it is too dark to see her face. The others notice Trevor's squint as he begins to lean forward, eyes locked on this mysteriously quiet shadow. She can see their attention focus on her. But I was so quiet! she thinks. The door wedges up against her shoe, sending a squeeking echo through the salon. She's going to have to speak. "Um, sorry, excuse me, Hi, I'm a ..." she can hear trembling, fear in her voice as she tries to remember that it's immature to care what they think. "I'm, ahh, looking for my mother, Lola." When she spoke, she watched their faces very carefully. She wonders if they know her name, she definitely knows theirs. "She invited me here, has she gone to bed already? I guess it is awfully late ... it's alright, don't bother with me, I'll just curl up in the other room with my kittens." She holds her bag up to her face and mummbles to her kittens. The others in the room are speaking, most probably to her. She takes the kitty bag from in front of her face and looks startled. She tunes out the whole world sometimes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm Stella ... Blue. And in here are Tarzana and Barstow. We have an early appointment tomorrow, so we must say goodnight. Tell my mother, if you happen upon her, that I am here, safe and sound, I look straight and clean, no new tattoos, got rid of the tongue ring finally, she'll be glad to hear that, and, well, that's sort of a lot, isn't it? Sorry. Uhh," she gets nervous like this sometimes, she knows she must look flushed! Oh, how embarassing. Deep breath. "I'm sorry, just tell her not to worry, I don't need money and I'm only staying for a week or so. Goodnight." She rushes into the shadows, silently. She wanders for a little while, feeling and smelling her way only through the dark. This is one of her favorite games. She finds a soft arm chair and curls up in her always comforting blanket of darkness.

Lola awakens with a start. Sitting up in her bed, Lola wonders why she has so suddenly become alert.

"Did I have a bad dream?" she thinks.

Slipping out of bed, she slides her feet into black slippers and wraps herself in her fluffly robe. She looks at the clock, it's terribly early for Lola, 7:30 AM.

As Lola decends the staircase, she sees a small light in the living room. "Withers must have missed something. How unlike him," she thinks. But as she enters the room, she sees Stella sleeping in Lola's chair in the corner, beside the fireplace. Lola smiles and, kissing Stella on the cheek, she touches her daughter's arm and says, "Hi there, I see you made it afterall. Come on, Stella, I'll get you to your room. Withers made sure the upstairs maid, Prudy made your bed fresh in case you made it tonight."

Stella stands, very sleepy, hardly awake, and climbs the stairs with Lola to her room. Kittens comfortably released from their carrier and snuggled in next to Stella on the comforter at her feet, Lola returns downstairs to the library.

There, on the sofa she finds Trevor, asleep with his shoes on. On the desk is his work. As she sits down to read, Trevor stirs, but does not awaken. After a short while, Withers comes in to check the fire and brings a blanket for Trevor. Lola helps Withers take Trevor's shoes off. And Trevor holds the blanket closer to him. She kisses Trevor on the cheek and returns to her room to dream a bit longer.

Who knows how these things start. A loon cries and the air is changed. Starlight, falling a million million years, touches a snow crystal and shatters. Like shivering soldiers, the fraile echoes spread out over James Bay. Their numbers increase. New territory is taken. Winter begins its campaign in here my country. Manhattan will soon fall.

Trevor is not awakened by Wither's quiet entry or exit. A new log begins to catch in the fireplace.

The soft sandpaper tongue touches Stella's cheek and her dream changes to accomodate the sensation. Her arms wrap tightly around the tall man as their chestnut mare leaps a fallen tree. His broadsword slaps loudly against the mare's side as they gallop and his fine black hair brushes her cheek in the cold air of the Moors.

Fifi sets the coffee tray beside Lola's bed and turns the heat up. Fifi wonders briefly if Lola is even in there under all the pillows and soft blankets.

jes starts up the griddle. "Pancakes! Pancakes for everyone! Quick, Fifi, hand me those imported blueberries!" jes starts making a mess, clouds of flour flying in all directions.

The chef, Sabine, comes in, flustered, "But Mizz Zhespah! I am ze one who makes ze pancakes! Le flour, she is, how you say, all wrong!"

jes concedes to Sabine and leaves the kitchen, but pops a blueberry in her mouth while the Parisienne's back is turned.

Jack squeezes through the kitchen door just before it closes. Sabine's face lights up and she says, "Oh Mon Cherie". Jack wags his tail and gently leans against Sabine's leg. He knows who holds the food!!

Lola, enjoying her dreams, is awakened by the sudden sensation of a creature pouncing on the pillow covering her head. Startled, Lola laughs and reaches for Barstow......or is it Tarzana? Rubbing her eyes, Lola looks to see what the twirling bit of scuffling is all about at the end of her bed. The kittens, full of each other are tussling, Barstow suddenly jumping into the air and pouncing on Tarzana's tail. In return Tarzana aims for Bar's neck, back feet flying into mid air. And there at the end of Lola's bed is a sleepy Stella, laughing.

Lola reaches for her daughter and Stella gives her mother a hug.

"Do I smell pancakes?" asks Stella.

"I think you're right," say Lola. As they both make a run for the kitchen.

Fifi shakes her head as she picks up the tray beside Lola's bed and follows the two to the kitchen. "I guess she can drink her coffee in the kitchen today." But with all Fifi's annoyance, she is also glad to see Stella home.