www.philipquinn.ca
"Writer "
The Bearded Mirror published in Lichen journal Spring/Summer 2005
page 3
I
do not trust the father. At first, I mistook him for a simple man. But I saw
him go into a tavern with an army colonel that I knew in Russia. After the
revolution, he became a pimp servicing the new masters with whores drawn
from the families of the former aristocrats. Now I have heard he owns a
traveling circus.
I am afraid for my little dog boy and I must take steps to protect
him.
I know a man who will take him to Finland and make sure he receives a
good schooling. But of course money is required. I have hastened the
coughing. Forcing it at night, until I bleed.
But I must outlast that insufferable
Peter Carl Fabergé. Somehow I have to balance these conflicting demands.
The
old man cut my hair today. He said he had to see what was underneath. He sat
me on his bed and started with my fingers.
"Hold still. I will not hurt you."
After he was through shaving my arms, I stretched them out and was
surprised by their pinkness.
"Uncle...I feel funny this way."
"Don't worry."
He started to shave the rest of me, his razor collecting clumps of
hair that he cleaned off after every stroke. He sharpened his blade on a
strap that he had tied to the bedpost.
When he showed me my new face in his mirror, it caused me to shy
away.
"Don’t fear your reflection. You are a fine-looking boy, handsome
like the Czar himself."
Later, my parents said nothing about the change but that is their
way. In two days, the hair was back, in a week, there was no difference.
"Don't worry, boy. I have plans for you. A way of keeping you free."
My
day has at last arrived. I read in the newspaper that Fabergé died last
night. Oh that man. How he took credit for so much. Even his famous
designers such as Michael Perchin I did not mind. But Fabergé. He thwarted
my plans for the most brilliant eggs and what he didn't frustrate he gave
credit to himself or to one of his favourites. He simply didn't like me. And
I learned to hate him. Now the eggs are known by his name and I breathe out
the dust of the long hours I spent in that shop transforming my pencil
sketches into something approaching beauty.
But he is dead. I swore I would have that victory. Now I can attend
to the needs of the boy. Then I will die with some peace.
The
old man said I would be going on a trip soon.
"But where uncle?"
"It is a good, safe place where you will receive a proper education.
Some here wish ill of you.”
"Who uncle?"
"Whom uncle? That is the correct way to speak and besides it is
better for you not to know."
