City planners are all men, a feminist once quipped. She was referring to the peculiarity that adjoins the red-light district with the esplanade of gourmet restaurants – an epicurean haven for bon viveurs where they’re pampered by both courtesans and Michelin star masterchefs.
I saunter along the esplanade and ponder over my births. My mind, unlike Belkis’s, doesn’t manoeuvre nimbly around esotery and prefers precise concepts. But the question remains. Will I navigate my Moses basket bravely and fulfil my destiny?
‘Did you enjoy your third birth?’
It’s Belkis and Childe Asher.
‘You heard?’
‘I saw.’
‘You saw?’
‘Couldn’t resist the temptation.’
Embarrassed, I look at Childe Asher. ‘Did you, too?’
He demurs as if accused of indiscretion. ‘I was having an ice-cream with Moni and Phral.’
Belkis grins mischievously. ‘So how was it?’
‘Cathartic.’
‘Like most births.’
‘You … weren’t jealous?’
‘A little.’
‘You’ve no cause.’
‘I know. I was just being human.’
A demonstration, led by two floats, enters the esplanade.
On the first, festooned with flowers and wreaths, a group of prominent actors, writers and artists are reciting Amador’s poems.
On the second, chart-topping popstars are singing songs composed from some of the odes Amador wrote for his wife and children.
I turn to Belkis. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ll hold a wake for Amador. In Elysian Fields.’
Elysian Fields is the famous cemetery for our ‘greats’.
‘They’re burying him already?’
‘No. Nor is he allowed to be buried there. Numen just pronounced Amador “a scatological balladmonger whose remains would desecrate the cemetery”.’
I scrutinise the crowd. Everybody’s wearing a Tshirt imprinted with Amador’s portrait and the caption, “I am Amador!”
I’m heartened that such an impressive gathering has assembled in a matter of hours. ‘Well done the people! Do his wife and children know?’
‘They’re at the head of the floats.’
‘Do you like my new shirt, Dad?’
Childe Asher, wearing an ‘I am Amador’ shirt, is pulling at my sleeve. Why didn’t I notice him wearing it? And unforgivably, why didn’t I gather him in my arms when he appeared? ‘It’s great!’
‘Want one?’
‘Sure.’
‘Won’t be a sec.’
He runs off and a moment later returns with a shirt. ‘Might be tight on you. You’re too big.’
I put on the shirt. It’s tight indeed. ‘A bit of a straitjacket …’
Childe Asher giggles as he scrutinises me critically. ‘But makes you charismatic. You could be taken for King Arthur trying on Percival’s armour.’
I hug him. A mere tot, yet so extraordinary. But then he’s from Belkis’s womb. He has the fig.
As usual Belkis reads my mind. ‘He’s you and me, my Oric. A blessing. Yet … Remember when we …?’
Childe Asher pulls her. ‘We don’t have time to waste.’
Belkis nods. ‘Right.’
And they vanish.
I yell after them. ‘Of course I remember. How can I forget?’