A bump, a scuffle and a giggle suppressed, to these Fru Budde was accustomed.
The smuggling of a girl and Fru Budde an excise man, with telescope she was lying in wait, servant of good Queen Anne, ready to board the sloop in the black night. To knock, and suggest that the lady should not remain past another ten minutes, thank you.
Yet this occurrence, she had not detected. Looking like a gruesome murder had been done, or a dismemberment, something far above those minor misdemeanours.
—At the time I wondered whether I should contact the authorities. The wall paper was nothing unusual. The pattern? I can scarcely bring it to mind: floral, I’m sure, sprays of roses.
And ever afterwards, the great man, lionised by all, constantly on Fru Budde’s mind,
Whenever she saw the posters, she thought, should I confront him, a gulp, Tonight in Copenhaven, and find out what happened all those years ago…
—Tell me of the blood, Direktør, the blood of 1932.
A man of achievement would be toppled, the sins of his youth coming back,
—Ah no, the blood! Not the blood!
And would blurt out whatever sordid deed had caused it, before crumpling in god-forsaken sadness. On the Dirigent’s podium, in plain view, a rattle of bassoons, a crash of cymbals.
The man had been without limp, scar or birthmark, or other visible impediment. The man had looked strange, or had a strange expression on his face.
It was only something like 20 years later that she remembered him and connected, on that very morning, while she was still in midst of deciding what to do,
And she trying to see past her down the corridor A penetration of the sanctum,
Appearing at her front door, Selling cleaning products, or so he said. but she had been in such a daze,
Had he really said “Good for blood”?
Or was something she herself had later applied?
Had he said “Good for guilt,”
And the young music student would be washed clean, surely and securely.
Scrubbing brushes, fine and pliant to avoid damage, of bristle firm enough. Mops, hand towels, rubber gloves, Furniture polish dark light, brass polish, silver polish, Disinfectants microbial, soap carbolic, bleach.
Washed in the blood of Jesus is a well-known phrase, poetic, but of a fault, as Dr. Johnson would suggest.
These suitcases represent the world according to Tulse Luper
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Tulse Luper by Hannah Shilling is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.