Walking
into the jaws of a lion is unlike that of being swallowed whole by a
whale.
Geppetto
and Pinocchio, if they could be consulted, would confer and agree
with that statement. For they have had one experience and I have had
the other, or a version of it, in that their occupancy in the whale's
belly was by accident, whereas mine, in the lion's, was an impulse I
obeyed.
Had
it been a real lion whose jaws I was about to enter who knows how I
would have behaved? I like to think the human instinct to slowly back
away or run would have overpowered my trance-like state, but maybe
not...surely though the sight of sharp teeth would have done it,
broken the spell I didn't know I was under...
In
this instance, however, there were no fierce teeth to provoke fear,
just two double doors, which before I even raised a fist to knock at
were opened. Silently, with no protesting creaks from the hinges, and
as if pulled on a cord tied to the handle of another unseen door or
pulled back by an invisible hand. Ahead there stood a desk with
nobody behind it; I advanced towards it. Weary from my journeying, I
jabbed impatiently at the brass bell on its counter. A little man in
a suit with a top hat and tails appeared from a room at the back and
bowed with a much-practised and well-executed flourish, 'What can we
do for you, sir?'
Amazed
at the question, thinking that by entering such an establishment it
would be obvious, and by his apparel I was blunt in my answer: 'A
room, Man!' I said.
'Certainly,
if you'll just follow me, sir.' This he uttered with some authority
though no diary was consulted or key selected from any of those
hanging up behind him, and in a clipped though not unfriendly tone.
He was all efficiency and smiles as he led me up a winding staircase
and down and around countless corridors which were strangely devoid
of doors, and asked me this and that. Where I'd come from, where I'd
been, what was I doing in this part of the world etc. I don't now
recall my responses, just the sense that I didn't think he was
listening and knew all I was telling him anyway.
Tired,
and in spite of my unease, my defences were down. I was almost asleep
on my feet by the time we came to a halt by a four-poster bed, set
all by itself, on an open landing, with wooden beams overhead and a
dormer window overlooking resplendent gardens. When had it got so
light outside, it wasn't when I arrived; it was approaching dusk, but
no sooner had this puzzling thought occurred, it left, as had the man
in the top hat and tails who just a moment ago had been beside me. I
remember mumbling to myself: 'too many corridors' as I begun to
unbutton my shirt and then I must have fallen, in a dead swoon, for I
woke up later, lying face-and-body-down across the counterpane, still
clothed and with my booted feet hanging off the side of the bed.
The
first view when I lifted my head was of a breakfast tray set on a
dressing table, which when I went to look only had on it a cup of tea
and a folded piece of paper. I'd been summoned to lunch in the
gardens and instructed to wear the clothes laid out on the chair. I
tapped my watch, it was indeed a quarter to midday. The blue
frock-coat and buff waistcoat fitted perfectly, but how to get to
these gardens?
It
was then that I saw the dormer window from before had turned into
French doors, leading onto a terrace where stone steps took you into
the gardens; and there under a tree with many trunks a table had been
set, ready for its guests. I positioned myself in a high-backed chair
with a red velvet seat because the other had craved in its back the
monogram L which I presumed was the initial of my host.
In
truth, I was half-expecting the little man from yesterday, but barely
a minute had passed when a lion appeared. A real golden lion with a
beautiful shaggy mane who nonchalantly stretched himself out
underneath and curled his tail round a leg of my chair.
It
seems by accepting their hospitality I had sealed my fate: allowed
the other man to escape and made myself the new keeper of the Lion.
Picture credit: Lion Afternoon, Jacek Yerka (source: WikiArt).
Inspired by Goethe's Italian Journey (1786-1788).
This post was penned in 2019.
