(Pearl-Embroidered, Gold-Covered)

[madscenes]

Title: Pearl-Embroidered, Gold-Covered
Comment: From a collection of stories about Naples.
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I.

What else but the gold he so desperately wanted should the poor man name his daughter after? Just as the rich man named his daughter after the pearls he had gold enough to buy, in this way we came to be called Oriana and Perla, the two of us, you and I. We are a product of our fathering loins, as well as our fathering dreams, I am not myself drawn to that which glistens, the golden things, but I am drawn to the hue of mother of pearl. In the same manner you never wear jewellery with pearls, you assign yourself to wiles, thin chains, if they’re just made of gold, look, we want each other, what a destiny’s tale there is to be found in a name, isn’t that so?

II.

Do you know the story of Augustus who vacationed at Naples - he built his palace here to prevent the local boys from taking liberties around his daughter, when she would walk with him along the beach which belongs to everybody, also the rabble. Palaces don’t belong to everybody, palaces belong to the ruling class, your father is rich, Perla, does he built palaces around you?

III.

Still I can sneak in through your bedroom window without being chased the other way by dogs, still I can lie by your side in bed without being found by anyone else than you, your hands with gold fever. Via my name in your grip you can add to your wealth, in your name I can sigh when there isn’t money enough for bread or meat, but at least I own a pearl, the pearl is mine.

IV.

My father’s dream isn’t my dream, gold is only a dilluted reflection of my face’s shape, but maybe I still have your father’s wishes in mind, I understand his cravings, because I crave the same, the milky white hue, the glow of your skin which I hope your father doesn’t desire, that I alone want to touch, want to own, want to dig out of an oyster’s soft, yielding innermost with my fingers. Also you are soft and yielding around my fingers. You aren’t missing me, gold you have, I am right here. It’s you who every morning at dawn have to embrace the distance, when I return to the life I live in Naples’ other neighbourhoods. On my way home I think about Augustus’ daughter, if she by the same routes received visitors at the palace which her father built around her figure.

V.

Both poor and rich men want pearls, they want more than they already have and no rich men are lacking gold, my love. Neither do any rich women, I can tell, they wear pearls in their names and gold in the hems of their skirts, I cling to you, I undress you with a jerk. Pull, pull, pull!

VI.

Our tale I’ve rewritten to be about ownership, about sensibilities, that kind of thing.