The Prize of Dysprosium

Chapter XV: Sophistication + System = Savage

Mrs. Thelonious' strawberry hair is piled up on top of her head underneath a blue hat, but for once she doesn't have a scarf wrapped around her neck. Instead she's clenching a handbag between her gloved hands.

"Hello Mr. Canner," she says with a polite smile. I don't recall ever being called Mr. Canner before, but I don't even notice because I've been distracted by the weirdest thing. I know Mrs. Thelonious and Anton share no genes whatsoever, but in this moment, I can swear they have the exact same smile. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The first wife would like to buy a session," Barooba says, not without sending curious glances at me. "If you're up for it."

I nod absentmindedly and walk down the rest of the stairs, immediately feeling underdressed and dirty compared to this sophisticated woman, but she just smiles at me as if she actually likes me although she's never officially met me.

"I was thinking you might have a room?" she asks. "Preferably one under four eyes?"

"Room 5 is free," Barooba says. "Noah, would you show our guest downstairs?"

I nod again and begin descending the staircase to the basement. Behind me I can hear Mrs. Thelonious thank Barooba and then her practical heels following me. Should I say something? Tell her about the Cave? Talk about Anton? Ask her why she's here, because I have no idea at all.

We make it to room 5 which is free and where I push open the door and let her inside first. She smiles as she enters the room which main color scheme is purple and yellow. There are lights in the ceiling with bulbs in different shades of those two, casting a fairytale glow across the bed with red rosebuds spread across the sheets. I hear a relieved sigh escape the first wife.

"This is nice," she says. I can imagine she has been thinking that the Cave is a place where everything is happening according to the head of Father George, a place filled with nightmares instead of dreams.

"It's a good room," I say and shut the door behind me. "Would you, uhm, like to sit?" I ask, and she smiles and walks to the bed where she sinks down into the soft madras.

"You should sit too," she says. And I do, slowly walk to the bed and take a seat opposite her, as far as I can to not make her uncomfortable, but close enough I can smell her perfume and a faint scent of whiskey. Judging from the way she clenches her handbag it's probably a little liquid courage to get her here. I don't know what she wants – answers to questions, secrets, a promise to stay away from her son. The thought that she wants sex crosses my mind and I don't know if I'll be able to go through with that.

But then she starts talking. And she doesn't stop.

In the beginning, I sit and listen silently with my knees under my chin without saying a word. As the talk drags out, I have to shift position to crossed legs, and when they begin sleeping I have to lie down. My body is still fatigued and tired, but I can't keep my eyes from the first wife. Hera Thelonious sits as stiffly as ever, not even turning hoarse as she talks secrets across the pillows in the dead of the night. It becomes obvious that she knows a lot more than me, having been a silent watcher since she married the Potentate and has been expected to keep all of his secrets ever since. She talks all night, she talks until early morning where she stands up and brushes off her skirt as if she hasn't been talking for hours. By now it has become apparent that she knows I am the one who told the nation about her husband, and I'm sure she has also paired the starving girls with Governor Raze and the bestiality with Minister Jacques.

"Mrs. Thelonious," I say as she is about to leave, her handbag still clutched as if she's not sure somebody won't snatch it away from her on her way out.