An Introduction

The Forsythia Sagablog

(A Tale Bought From A Duck)

The Chronicler’s Confession

One morning in late February, on a day incompatible with God’s design, the chronicler found himself in the outer precincts of the Marché des Enfants Rouges. It was while strolling aimlessly through the less appealing fringes of this ancient market (close to where I routinely buy gifts for my disagreeable nephew) that I was compelled to examine a small and very ordinary cardboard box underneath a table of noisome, rotting aubergines and spinach. Seeing that the vendor was otherwise occupied with his morning coffee and cigarette, I bent over for a better, only to have my gaze returned by a very corpulent and well-dressed duck.

“Who are you and why are you staring at me,” he asked in an educated though slightly exasperated tone of voice.

“I beg your pardon,” I replied, quickly withdrawing my head from what appeared to be his personal quarters.

“You have not answered my question,” he repeated. “Who are you and why have you come unannounced”?

“Please forgive me,” I said, blushing red as a beetroot. “but I never could resist an empty box.”

The Duck interrupted my grandly. “Does this box look empty to you?” he demanded.

I apologised again, but would have none of it. “And why,” he asked, “are you staring at my personal papers? Have you got no manners at all?”

It was at that point that I noticed a thick pile of typing paper lying in one corner of the box, smudgy and befouled in a duckly fashion and neatly tied up with string. Unable to control my curiosity, I enquired if he had written his memoirs.

“Don’t be silly,” replied the Duck, rolling his eyes in what looked to be a most uncomfortable mannerism. “I am a duck. Ducks live very short and boring lives. We also have poor short-term memories. I can hardly remember this morning, let alone last Tuesday. All of my reminiscences put together would barely fill a sentence.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” I replied, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

“But since you are interested,” he continued, “and I take it you are, given your impertinence, I shall sell you the papers for a modest sum.”

It was now my time to speak up. “Why should I want to buy used typing paper, especially when it is so clearly befouled by your good self?”

He looked at me with a steely expression, his eyes narrowing and squinting in what could only be described as a baleful manner. “I shall not dignify that with an answer,” he replied, continuing, “You can have the lot for fifty euros.”

“Fifty euros?” I gasped.

“Ten, then, and pay me quickly before the vendor finishes his coffee and takes an interest in his surroundings. He has a very short fuse and will take offence if he sees you talking to me.”

Thoroughly rattled at the prospects of being attacked by an irate stallholder, especially one with his muscle tone, I gave the duck a ten-euro note and took the bundle.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what it is, now that you own it,” asked the Duck in a reasonable tone of voice.

“I thought you wanted me to leave,” I responded.

“Why should I want you to leave?” asked the Duck, all innocence and encouragement. “It’s not everyday I get to talk with a passing stranger.”

“But you said…”

“Oh, never mind what I said. That was yesterday, and it has quite left my mind.”

“But the vendor?” I asked.

“You mean the man drinking coffee and urinating against the wall?” responded the Duck. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

Ten minutes later I left the market, my purchases (a used and broken video game for my nephew, the befouled bundle for me) neatly stowed in my rucksack, and headed for home. Before my departure, however, I had managed to drag from the Duck (under the threat of a thorough neck-wringing) how he had come by the papers.

“Two drunks found them in a deserted house in the 12th arrondissement,” he’d said, hiding his neck behind a large melon, “next to a pile of garbage and a discarded computer. They swore on their mother’s grave (though as yet she hadn’t died) that there was a decaying foot sticking out of the computer, as well as a note pinned to its shoe. ‘These letters are my sole testament’ was written in a fine hand in what appeared to be either blood or poor quality red ink.”

After closer inspection, I concluded that the papers in question were a sequence of emails or blogs, most of which were damaged beyond repair. Those that could be salvaged (at least partially) are presented here in memory of an anonymous and slightly unpleasant youngish man, in daily (more or less) instalments.

There is but one clue as to his identity, and that is in his coda:

“Don’t call me Caesar; I’m a lady.”
- Elagabalus



The Saga Will Commence Tomorrow