Day 10

The Garden of Allah


09.32 The Sublime Resuscitation
Subject: The Garden of Allah

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Upon reflection (in the mirror-lined mini faux reflecting pool with floating gardenia cup, which you so thoughtfully installed in my carnivorous chamber of utter sublimation), I agree that a long-overdue remake of the vanished, Mesozoic silent film, The Garden of Allah, must mark our initial Major Motion Picture offering (Oh, how I long to say, “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille”). The title role will be nothing less than sublime as a vehicle for your divine Mumsy, Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™, and may I propose we rejuvenate, and if necessary resuscitate La Dietrich to recreate the role she made both famous and notorious at the same time? She will, quite naturally, be overjoyed at the prospects of a comeback. For so many years, she has been lying about in what could only be called a state of utter neglect; I cannot wait to see her expression when we present her with an exclusive contract! To think she has been available for so long, and yet no one has thought once of employing her!

You notice I’m not referring to her in the familiar, as Marlene. Would I be so gauche? Perhaps with others, but never with a true immortal.

When it comes to an actor of a similarly untouchable divinity for the All Important role of the date palm, I am at a loss. I had, quite naturally, thought of the sublimely beautiful Morty Guschl, so famous as RentBoy in The Fall of the Western World, but I am given to understand he’s forsaken fame and fortune for the life of third acolyte to the Wicked Fig Princess. What a loss!

Should we plan a furtive shoot in Jeddah? It is with considerable shame that I admit I haven’t seen the original film, at least not since that singular midnight screening of its surviving fragments at the Cinèmathéque back in my student days. Or perhaps it was a photo of the doomed hotel of the same name in Hollywood. Very Gloria Swansonish, if you know what I mean. Sirens with bee-stung lips, fabulous clothes and leopards on leads. Just like my house before my computer ate me and destroyed my perfect world. But back to the film. Even if I didn’t actually see the remnants of it, I have watched Leon the Pig Farmer, Delicatessen and A Private Function within the last fifteen years or so, and have no doubt I can assemble a screenplay using diverse elements from all three. I shall, of course, be utterly obscure and obtuse in my deception, and no one will ever know the difference. Recognisable themes will, in fact, be dazzled into oblivion, a perfect state of affairs when it comes to award season (will you please commission Pininfarina to design a snapkool carriage for my prison of shame?).

Do you have any suggestions for the role of La Concierge? Someone brutally thugworthy, as well as feminine and laden with sex appeal of the wrong sort. Whoever it is should have a basso profundo voice, and be able to sing obscure art songs in a minor key. Finding her will be a challenge, but one in which we shall succeed. Please don’t let me forget. The concierge is the underpinning of le cinema très important. Do not debate me on this topic, for I have been a children’ television presenter in my time and know everything about everything. - HWISGAAOMRIU®
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10.15 Having breakfasted on my genius and nothing else
Subject: Business Matters

Dearest Darling Forsythia,


Yes, my dearest, veils within veils within veils. Is it to be that we shall actually be blessed with a holy vision of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™? Where will the blessed event transpire? When? I would give anything and everything to see it. Well, perhaps not my subscription to Men’s Vogue or my key to John Galliano’s private magazine drawer, but you know what I mean. Certainly I will sacrifice everything I don’t really need for my personal happiness, perhaps including you. Would you sacrifice yourself for me, my darling Forsythia, so that I may see a sacred vision of Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ and be saved?

How is the Crete project coming along? Why the delays? Under no circumstances may we fall behind schedule. I should not have to point out that our imaginers are already planning the openings of Bagel-in-the-Bare™ Theme Parks® and Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ Shrines® in Tahiti®, South Georgia®, Île de France® and the Vatican®. Fucking Chrimbo! What a fight we had over the latter venue! Almost as noisy and ill considered as the previous one. I simply do not comprehend the lengths some people – and countries – will go, or the depths to which they will stoop, in order to impede progress! They want a market economy? Well, it’s our market and our economy, and they can blow it out their boîtes à pâté! We have the last world and it’s a done deal. Our super deluxe Bagel Nudie-Tel® will look splendid on the sites! What a triumph of art over sentiment. Pure, unbridled maximalism. The one hundred metre tall ever-glowing statue of our beloved SOG, clad in veils within veils (a natural movie tie-in), towering over our everything-that- money-can-buy-at-twice-the-price buy-it-or-die emporiums. Pure heaven. Better than cocaine any day of the week.

Excuse my language, but what the fuck is going on in the Himalayas? I hear nothing. All day, nothing. Absofuckjing nothing. And what of our director of marketing, the distinctively UN-marketable and Un-lovely Pickles O’Day? Is it true she’s changed her name to Charmian du Fla-Fla? What sort of signal does that send? And what, pray tell, was she doing in London over the weekend, shopping in Oxford Street (of all places) for an aubergine-coloured hat at the same time as all her ventures were collapsing? I am allergic to aubergine, and am convinced she is only doing this out of spite.

She has angered me dreadfully, and I insist you tell her there will not be a role for her in our forthcoming classic blockbuster remake of The Garden of Allah®, nor will there be one in Sparticus and the Seven Rhine Maidens® or Went with the Wind Reloaded®, in which Scarlet gets a job in a potato crisp factory and gains three hundred kilos before being run over by a rhinoceros. We simply cannot allow Charmian Fla-Fla. Really, who does she think she is? I can’t stand it! Couldn’t she at least have stuck with Irmadine la Flopée de Gamins? At least with that name she might win the sympathy vote at some point in her dreadful, misbegotten life. Why does she need so many moments of folie des grandeur? She certainly can’t get away with it, not with her smile. Nobody should have a smile like hers and live.

I will have you know that in all these matters I was advised by our beloved SOG, who came to me, all wet and fluffy, during a particularly private dream. I thought you should be aware of this, especially since you seem to be disinterested in fulfilling my one and many last requests. Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ has favoured me above many, and I am in wonderment.

Reading your note carefully, I gather you have inadvertently deleted my important letter concerning ice cream flavours. Did I not instruct you to be more careful where you twaddle your digits?

How was your bath? Do I suppose correctly in thinking you haven’t got round to brewing a new pot of coffee for me? The last cup was somewhat watery. And since you will insist upon reusing the same coffee grounds for forty days and forty nights, perhaps you should not come again until the cycle begins anew. And please, may I ask that you actually heat the water first, and give it the maximum steepage possible? I would ask that you order one of the rarer blends from Fauchon, but since God used up all his miracles after the seventh day, I won’t waste my breath. Love to Whatisname and “Little Whinger” (I take it you were referring to your fresh daughter, Marjorie Benedorm and not your precious tuyau à gaz)? – Laurent (I’m too tired to remember my more sacred, anointed name. Please forgive me).