Seashore Essays

The Queen leaves the palace when it is still night but close to dawn. For a long time she paces the gardens: she passes the beds of thick-petalled roses and lilies, dense and colourless, circles around the adorned pomegranate trees in the orchard, and disappears behind the black wings of towering hedges to follow the paths of her private labyrinth.

Eventually, behind a pointed cypress she changes all her clothes and puts a long cloak on. Then she opens the gate and steps outside; the gravel shifts lightly under her feet. At this moment, the first light begins to clear the sky, unburdening the blue shoulders of a new landscape. In the chilly air, the confused noises, the smells of unexotic plants take her fancy, and she forgets.

Although she looks the same as she always did, she knows that nobody will recognise her outside of the palace, because nobody has ever seen her in person before. As she walks on, slowly, she looks around and smiles at the first swift early-risers going past her unaware. Suddenly she stops her walk. Just now, the beauty of the palace – its sparkle, comforts – paint her memory. She was never taught how to live outside of it.

Lowering her eyes, she catches the movement of something very small: a bird picking seeds from the ground, a bird of a different kind from the white-plumed peacocks that inhabit her park. Beautiful, too, and trusting that nobody will threaten his life while he roams the soil. With a jerk, the shiny pin of his eye seizes the hem of the dark cloak of the Queen, who quite incredulously (and yet!) perceives the bird holds everything; oh everything, she believes, holding her breath.