From the very beginning, they'll start superciliously rubbing coins in your face. Once you've been introduced, they will seem friendly and humane, and start sending you invitations to their parties. You will reject the first few because you don't want to impose, but they will keep insisting until you finally break (which you will). A car will be sent to pick you up at six o'clock, earlier than the expected time of arrival of their other guests, so they can give you a tour of their abode, their lair. And when you arrive, they will make you wait at the door, while the butler fetches them and while you admire their foyer. The grand double staircase and crystal chandeliers, that precious vase in the corner, this glittering marble floor, and over there, and more there, everywhere! the walls are covered with paintings of old. Some of their arts are unknown to you, yet you have an inkling that they are just as unknown to their owners.
Down the staircase they come, with their heels and jewels that glint in the chandelier light. You wonder for a moment about the jewels in their vault, and you imagine a great octopus swimming in the underwater trove with its suckers nesting diamonds the size of your fist. You greet each other. Their tour ensues and you immense yourself in this alien den. With each step, you melt into their waxy floors. You start walking like them, trying to match their graceful gait. You upturn your nose, curious about the ceiling that seems to glow.
The other guests arrive and dinner is served. Classical music is played by a small orchestra in the back. You sit by the head of the table. You are a guest-of-honour, they say. Because of your inscrutable intelligence, you survive the dinner talk with your mouth full. They vibrate in their velvet seats when you start your talk of beauty within. Only the clinks of china against silver cutlery are heard when they cease the inquiries of daylight robberies. After dinner, you take your leave, graciously thanking them for the invitation. They invite you again, but you say maybe. They blink at you and have the door shut when you turn away.
I might be on the street, you say, but my life is not ennuied and worth the fight to keep. Goodbye. Farewell, you bourgeoisie. This shall be the last your tentacles see of me.
(photo via my-wardrobe.com)
