PIERRE
AND GUINEVERE
A
Tale Of Tail, In A Pseudo-Russian Folksy Style That May Lend Itself To A Movie
Script, If Only I Could Write A
Movie Script. Its Complexity Of Names
And Stations Boggled Me. I Think, And
Feel, It Could Be Finished With A More Dramatic Ending Than I Have Conceived, Thus
Far. Perhaps A Sequel, And/Or A Prequel,
Would Be Warranted. Perhaps I Need To
Stage The Death Of One Or Other Of The Main Characters To Make The Ending More
Dramatic, Eh? Perhaps The Accidental
Detonation Of A Russian Missile, Would Be Warranted.
By
Izzy Ess Of Happiness
In
Anivlostok, Russia, there did live Pierre and Guinevere, who had been quite
inspired by Russian Revolutionary notions of Freedom and the Commune style of
living, including Free Love and Co-operative Farming. Guinevere was British and she’d met Pierre on
a holiday vacation to Marseilles, last year.
They’d been in love with love and each other and had had a child
together, La Petite Maria Pirouette, a flower child and free spirit of the new
frontier. Pierre had never had a job, as
such, while he had worked his father’s vineyard in the south of France, between
Marseilles and La Ville en Rose. He had
thus learned to gather grapes and make good wine from them which he had drunk
and sold in local markets in the spring and summertime. He met his Guinevere when she had stopped at
his quaint modest booth A La Place du Market, in the older section of the old Marseilles. She thought that he was tall and handsome and
he thought that she was beautiful and statuesque. They’d shared two bottles of his wine and his
small bed in D’hôtel du Richelieu, in town, just after dancing in the streets,
in a day in May, in 1919. C’était romantique
et la conception embryonique de La Petite Maria Pirouette.
The
trio did arrive in Anivlostok, Russia, with an hundred other French
enthusiastic Communists. They were
assigned to jobs immediately. Guinevere
was put to work as a tractor driver in a farm commune of many immigrants from
North and South America, Africa, Central America, Europa, China and the
Philippines. Free love abounded and many
embryonic communists were thus begun.
Guinevere took lots of young men on atop her tractor while it was
humming. Our Pierre was sent to central
offices to type and organize the published pamphlets of the USSR huge regime
and he did his share of free loving underneath his old oak desk in his old
musty office with the office staff of pretty and the not so pretty newly
organized young female communists. He
was later catalogued as having started more than hundred embryos that later
were the younger sets of communists.
Everything was catalogued and recorded for posterity, including the
great size of his proud manhood which had done a yeoman’s job for
Communism. He headed a small harem of
the loving women with whom he worked and with whom he didn’t work. He even serviced his own special Guinevere
and was a possible real sire of her next child, a healthy bouncing boy which
she delivered on her tractor, which she continued driving, and kept humming,
every day.
Within
the year, a youthful Commissar had organized a day care centre for all the
children who would grow to be good communists.
He’s seen the statuesque and sexy Guinevere and had her transferred to
his immense old office in the old Moskva suburb of new Trotskva. He exercised his free love privileges
underneath his own oaken desk, in his old office, each and every day. He shooed away all competition by free lovers
who would have liked a chance to have our Guinevere underneath a desk, or two,
and protected his new offspring, too. It
was a healthy bouncing baby girl, named Olga Sophie Trotsky, in honour of a
Russian charter member of The Party of new Communists. Olga was a charter member of the Youth group
which originated in old Trotskva.
In
the meantime, our Pierre was being groomed for party leadership by a youthful
Commissar who worked in his huge old office right in Moskva. The youthful Commissar was a lovely woman who
had spotted our Pierre in a convention setting that occurred just months ago
when our Pierre and other workers were brought into Moskva for a grand parade
of weapons and to get a hug from leading Communists for his productive
work. Sophia was the Commissar in charge
of buying tractors and she had a big old office in the Moskva complex of the
Kremlin. She phenagled our Pierre’s new
job just right beside herself, in the old office as her secretary. Our Pierre was quick to learn some typing,
bookkeeping and how to love his new boss, freely, in the comfort of her walk-in
closet next to her huge walnut desk.
Despite the rules, Pierre and Sophia fell in love and were secretly just
married after Sophia pre-arranged a secret old divorce betwixt Pierre and
Guinevere. Guinevere was happy with her
station and was not informed of her fast-changing situation with regard to her
Pierre. Sophia pre-arranged her
satellite new office in Saint Petersburg and pre-arranged a job for her Pierre
beside her in a tiny bed and sitting room adjoining her new office. Pierre and his Sophia were inseparable and
they freely loved each other in the antique bed, that she’d appropriated, for
the many months, for two whole years.
Sophia needed all that time to fudge divorce proceedings from her not so
youthful husband, who had married her, when she was only fourteen years of age
and pregnant due to dalliance with her childhood lover, Vlad.
So,
everything was peachy keen for our Pierre and his new paramour, Sophia, while
things were so exciting for his ex-wife, Guinevere, who was about to be
promoted for the exalting, secret job of oft free-loving a new Commissar in
Siberia, Fyodor Surawicz.
I
beg forgiveness, my dear readers for this detailed, short account of what was
happening to my two characters who met in Old Marseilles. I am reminded that the two books that I put
aside before completion in my life were Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Michener’s
Poland because the unfamiliar Russian names just bogged me down. The movie Doctor Zivago, made me realize that
with the actions of the handsome actor and the gorgeous actress, names did not so
bog me down. So, perhaps I have to write
a movie script to keep the interest in everybody sharply focussed. Perhaps some one of you, dear readers is
adept at writing movie scripts and can help me out. I thank you, in advance, for considering this
opportunity, with the proviso that my copyrights are honoured. I do understand now why Omar Sharif just
often stared for many minutes at the Russian winter wonderland, and then he died
of some frustration, because he had to always keep in mind the myriad of
Russian characters, which lived a very complicated life just getting through
the days and names of characters of their own complicated lives. Perhaps a break with my own cooking, a half a
flavoured cigarillo, and my home-made Muscatel non-vintage wine, will help me
to continue. I’d like to get one or
other couple in a troika in the snow, but that is not original. If there is to be a movie made, I’d like to
think my voice-over talents, would make a good narrator of the tale…
I
got it, my dear readers! I am outward
bound to take a Welland public bus and visit my good friend this morning for an
hour or two. It will refresh me, so I’ll
end this now so easily and return to it someday, when my mind is cleansed of
complicated names and situations.
THE
END
AMEN AND HALLELUJAH!
© Izzy Sommers, MD
Welland, Canada
November 13, 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment