An Exquisite Way to Fall

I imagine you imagine I’m at the pinnacle. I gather mushrooms and berries (no idea why) for the princess. Meanwhile, the appointed corporal watches sideways as she’s fallen from her horse. They’ve rolled out a red carpet for her, and she must pose to keep the burgh on edge. The cobblestones and the grass are made of pure cotton—she couldn’t possibly hurt herself. Nor scream louder than decorum allows. In truth, the princess remains in her bubble bath, sipping chocolate freshly imported from Ireland.

They’ve used a double. I know it by the absurd way she holds her glass. Nobility must have an exquisite manner in everything they do. Thus, the newspaper (owned by the royal family) has published a lengthy article about the princess potentially earning her own private box, starting from the very bottom—so low you can feel the chill of those who live under death’s shadow on the streets. We have no water. Light doesn’t matter either. What matters are the finished portraits of the princess. Meanwhile, I count the two hundred and fifty-third wheelbarrow of concrete for the day. I can only dream—but even that brings no comfort. The brain must be used for something. I lay, rearrange, and glue down cobblestones, crafted from cotton and rubber, for next Sunday’s staging, when the princess is meant to fall from an Arabian horse that cost two million three hundred thousand rubles.

In the afternoon, the princess arrived—or rather, her double did. They closed all stables within a one-kilometer radius. She “fell” three times onto the grass, and they edited the background color with high-quality lighting. The message is subliminal—unsuitable for builders or bookkeepers, not recommended for elderly carpenters devoted to the noble craft of making clogs.

Opinions aren’t allowed. We’ve seen a two percent increase in disappearances. One man reappeared with his tongue cut out; only two nuns crossed themselves upon seeing him. “Heavenly Father, protect us and bring your mercy to these lands.”

“They are not men of God,” one can hear in the silence of so many sheep. “Which of this flock may we sacrifice? Does it even matter?”

I push my wheelbarrow and haul sand. I can think whatever I please—imagine the princess naked—and I’ll sketch in great detail what I perceive while hauling cement. I secure lamps and paste royal family posters anonymously. I sell smuggled bottles of drinking water on the side. Anyway, the water factories merely sell us plastic bottles—they don’t actually make water; they take ours, so it’s no longer ours but theirs, and then they sell it back to us. I belong to the wheelbarrow. My life has welded itself to it—I wake near it and have bills to pay. Tomorrow’s the big day, and artificial shrubs will swarm the place. Stray dogs have been rerouted to the zoo.

They bring Arabian sweets—made in China, priced like royalty. On Sundays, I’m granted six hours to detach myself from the wheelbarrow and go to the park—to feel, if only briefly, that I don’t belong to it, that I am free.

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