Paris in Wonderland (ONGOING)

I - BEHIND THE PURPLE DRAPES

I — BEHIND THE PURPLE DRAPES

          Paris was getting tired of listening to her brother talk about Charlie Chaplin and his obsession with film, the camera verite, the dolly shot, and whatever else he's saying. Once Prince made her watch an old black and white silent film but that just made her frown, "and where is the entertainment in this," Paris thought, "without color or sound in it?"

          So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could for she was getting really bored with Prince's enthusiastic speeches about angles and contrasts), whether drawing a new design of a sunflower will better suit the pale skin on her forearm and be worth the bother of getting up and getting a marker, when suddenly Blanket, donning a bunny onesie, appeared in front of her.

          There was nothing so very remarkable in that, nor did Paris think it so very much out of the way to hear her baby brother say to himself, "Oh no! No no no no no! I'm going to be too late!" But when Blanket actually took a whistle out of his furry secret pocket, put in between his lips, blew it and then hurried on, Paris started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that that whistle really blew her eardrums and she couldn't let Blanket get away with it and, giddy with playful revenge, she ran across the green green grass of the Neverland Ranch after the swift, fur-clad brother of hers heading to the theater and was just in time to see him get up on the slippery, polished stage and disappear behind the ornate purple curtains. In another moment, ahead went Paris after him!

•••

          The purple path went straight and billowing on like a passage for some way and then curved suddenly to the left, so suddenly that Paris had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself lost and confused in what seemed to be a disorienting maze of silk sheets.

　　 Either the theatre stage was that wide or her mind seem to drift in a slower pace, for she had plenty of time, as she trudged, to look about her. She asked herself if this place was specifically designed to be like this because she doesn't remember the stage to be this spacious. First, she tried to make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she looked at the sides of the curtains and noticed that they were decorated with familiar images; here and there she saw outlines, scenes and pictures embossed on every fold. She passed her hand over one image as she passed. It was the iconic pose of a "man on his toes". The man, she realized, but, to her great disappointment, it was imperfect; the weaving incomplete.

         She did not like the strange sting she felt at the back of her throat, so she managed to avert her eyes from the tapestry as she walked past it.

•••

　　North, east, west! Would the curtains never open a way out? There was nothing else to do, so Paris soon began talking to herself. "I wonder if Prince had noticed I've escaped his boring lessons," she thought, "though I think maybe he is still transfixed in watching his Charlie Chaplin films." She smiled at the thought and then sighed in longing. "Oh what the heck! I wish he were here with me, though."

         Paris felt that she was dozing off, when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the blind traipse was finally over.

•••

　      Paris was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up in a moment. She looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another long passage and the rabbit Blanket was still in sight, hurrying down it. There was not a moment to be lost. Away went Paris like the wind and was just in time to hear her brother say, as he turned a corner, "Oh, candies and lollys, how late it's getting!" She was close behind the furry little mass when she turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen.

         She found herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all 'round the hall, but they were all locked; and when Paris had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.

         Suddenly she came upon a little table, all made of solid glass. There was nothing on it but a tiny golden key with a handle shaped like a king's crown, and Paris' first idea was that this might belong to one of the doors of the hall; but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small, but, at any rate, it would not open any of them.

         However, on the second time around, she came upon a low, glittery curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high. She tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight, it fitted!

        Paris opened the door and found that it led to another locked door, this one made of steel and much smaller than the first one but enough for her to crouch on all fours and pass through it; she knelt down and looked through the gap on the hinges into the brightest road you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall and enjoy the company of the laughter of red-lipped vixens, those flashing lights of smiley photographers, and dance to the exciting beat of the music in the background, but she could not even get her head through the doorway. "Damn it," said Paris, "I wish there was some way to break this thing. I think I could, if I only had like, super strength or something."

　　 Paris went back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at any rate, a hammer to break the only obstruction from her going to the other side. This time she found a little bottle on it ("which certainly was not here before," said Paris), and tied around the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words "DRINK ME" beautifully printed on it in large letters.

　    "Nah, I ain't drinking any appearing-out-of-thin-air bottle filled with shimmery, pink liquid," she said, "this might even be propofol or some shit, God only knows," for she had never forgotten that, if you ingest or take uncertain fluid (like from a suspicious bottle), it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later. "Who knows if this was hideously placed here for serial killers or rapists to prey on inauspicious girls?", she thought.

         However, this bottle was not marked "poison" or "painkiller" or "cyanide" so Paris was slightly tempted to taste it out of curiosity, but she fought the temptation and only pushed herself to go only as far as to sniff the vial, finding that its content smelled very nice (it had a sort of mixed flavor of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, butter beer, toffy and pink wine), she very soon finished it off...or that's what stupid white girls do in movies (which she wasn't, since she's half-Black and all), so instead of finishing the bottle of magic drink, she took it in her hand and with the strength of a baseball pitcher threw it dead center the small metal door.

          And she was grateful for her common sense because as the glass shattered, it turned out that the pink liquid was able to melt the hard surface of the door, opening up the path to the other side. "Acid," Paris muttered, "I knew it."

•••

N E X T:

II - WONDER NOVICE