So, we’re a bunch of elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt – the rich browns and the gentle beiges – in a stylish lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We then talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism.
“I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,” I say; my voice flavored with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow Baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. “A generation of parasitic sybarites,” I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle, smooth motion.
The Mini Caviar Parfaits arrive, and as we indulge, we discuss Bergman with great panache. “Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Concepts like leaving behind an alter ego, and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression like a Rorschach blot on the deepest traces of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde, Delphic flair,” I say and belch. I excuse myself immediately, and rush to the bathroom.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!” I scream, and ignore that small inner voice that says, At least it wasn’t a boisterous fart. “Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot,” I whine.
I then pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. “I need you to hook this old bastard up,” I type, and wait. In minutes, I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal and relieve myself, and return to the table and sit down. “I apologize for the inconvenience gentlemen,” I say and then boisterously fart.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)