The Dinner Party

At the Dinner Party we employ all manner of entertainments. We lounge around the roaring fire chatting of rape and pillage. Rachel is back among us again and her conversation sparkles with brightness and wit. Yet what brooding heartache does she nurse behind such masks of animation? The Beast behaves badly—lumping and bumping about against the thick perimeter walls. ‘More Château Magnifique,’ we call loudly, ‘more soup of the day.’ We slip a discreet note to the conductor of the orchestra. He is a close personal friend on a good salary. ‘Fortissimo!’ the note demands. ‘Fortississimo!!’ Still the Beast’s yowls and growls reverberate along the distant hallways. The guests are disconcerted. They perch on the edge of their cushions, gnaw tentatively on their hunks of spit-roasted reindeer. Those that dare venture to the bathroom return with faces white as powder. We rush to comfort them with small sexual favours of their own choosing. When the time comes for their (early) departures the Beast hangs about under the drawbridge swiping irritably at their carriage wheels. ‘Don’t worry, he just wants to play. It means he likes you.’ We call such things as page 67 their lanterns jolt into the darkness. ‘Oh Beast,’ we sigh, and lovingly hurl bricks. The conductor is shackled in the dungeon.