Plaisir and the King of Cedars
By Afif Kraitem
There were two kings in the town called The Town. The first king was the King of Cedars; he sat comfortably in his throne room down south at Southend, and uncomfortably with his red and green robes that both cleaned his throne room floors and protected him from the piercing cold. The second king was Plaisir, a jolly-full joyful clown who lived in his circus tent up north at Northend. Plaisir loved a crowd, and he always managed to please them: he took care of the happiness of the townsfolk, a non-spirited bunch of people—who wished they weren’t people at all—and who lived in The Town, surely wishing they didn’t. They had chosen the Cedar as their king, and they wished they hadn’t, and they went to work all eight days of the week, always wishing they didn’t. And so, at the end of any working day, the people of the Town would march to Northend to Plaisir as the sun set, with all their working stench and their sadness, for Plaisir to make it all go away for a little while.
The Town was a wreck. It constantly smelled of mold, sewage, and rot. Its toxic fumes made their way into every alley, household, and cupboard in the town. It spread like a sickness that infused the citizens with despair and hopelessness, sedimenting itself in layers upon layers over the town, blocking the sunlight from seeping through save for some sunlight rays here and there. From afar, all the alleys would be seen drowned in a greenish haze, and only the throne room of the King, sitting atop the hill that oversaw the town, surrounded by musty batches of Cedar trees, had managed to save itself from the odors. Next to the hill, the King had ordered his blacksmiths to build the Factory for the people to work. The Factory was built on a small, inclined rock to the west of the King’s hill. It loomed terribly over the town, and spat all the vomitus from its funnels and pipes onto it, adding to the exotic mix. During the day, the town would be emptied as all the townspeople would make their way up to the Factory to work. The only people who stayed behind were the children inside their homes, the lordsmen who sat outside Churches and Mosques, inviting people to come in and pray like waiters luring tourists into their cheap restaurants, and the dames that roamed the narrow wobbly streets. During the night, the town would still look emptied as the townsfolk either made their way to Plaisir’s secret tent for some happy tonic, or would be too tired to make the journey and instead snored their way to the day next. Such was the circle of life in The Town: a place robbed of all kinds of light.
Back up north at Northend, Plaisir was frantically running back and forth to prepare for the sessions later that night. His ballet-dancer outfit fit him fittingly: it had multiple blotches of paint all over its white silk texture, but Plaisir always made sure his pink waist-skirt shone spectacularly. His gloves were changeable, and that was a necessity after every party preparation, which happened quite often in The Town. He had settled quite nicely here, and it was mainly because of how much the people needed cheering up. There was never any time to waste!
‘Cicero! Get me a 6-pack of tonic from the basement please!’ Howled Plaisir, his extremely pointy chin friction-rubbing on his compact chest and his extremely stretched legs pacing furiously inside his tent.
‘Got them right here Mr. Boss! You know I don’t like going down there when the sun turns its back on us.’
Plaisir stopped working, stretched his burden-bent back, fixed the many hairs that always grew off the sides of his head like visors to his pointy earlobes, and turned to Cicero, his wingman: ‘We will have none of that here Cicero, I’ve told you that. The sun will never turn its back on us. It just needs to rest during the night, just like we do during the day so that we can help your friends and family when the night comes calling. Okay?’
Young Cicero took off his herringbone hat and looked dwarfed-fully up to Plaisir’s contagious smile, all the way from the clown’s long legs which were always covered with tightly-tight tights, and nodded apologetically.
‘Now, now my boy. Thank you kindly for that six-pack! We’re just about ready. Get the stalls outside the tent ready; looks like it’s going to be a long queue tonight!’
Plaisir sneak-peeked from between the huge tent curtains to check how big the crowd was. Cicero was doing a fine job keeping everyone in check, even for a 15-year old boy. He had helped him tirelessly throughout his years at the Town, and sometimes he felt very bad for not letting him in on the services he provided for the masses; he truly deserved it. But not now, not when I’ve gone this far. For all the Samaritan that Plaisir was, he never failed to keep the nature of his work a precious, priceless secret. If anyone knew what he did, how he did it, or how he managed to be as good as he is now, his recipe would be out for everyone to use, and no one would need his services anymore! So, Plaisir adjusted his pink donut of a waist-skirt, licked his palms in order to wipe his rebellious hairs to sleep, and strode out of the tent to signal the start of his show, beckoning the first townsman to enter the tent.
The megaphones hung on each streetlamp broke out in unison at precisely 6:20 am, signaling the start of the day for the townsfolk. Mornings after a terrific show by Plaisir were, intuitively, called Plaisir mornings. The people of the town skipped and hummed their way to the Factory, sending greetings both left and right. The morning after that, they would stop skipping and would only send greetings leftwards. And on the third day, they would be back to their usual ghostly selves, necessitating an encore from Plaisir. Thus, Plaisir decided to have his shows in a tertian fashion: he made a pact with the people to perform every 3rd day, and they had put pen to paper for exactly that. However, that contract was fast becoming shortlived and he feared the townspeople would start demanding more frequent performances.
‘Build your kids’ future at the Factory! Sign up for extra hours at any King’s post today, and benefit from half a dozen extra peas in your lunch meal everyday!’
The King’s commanding voice shook streets, heads, and eardrums as it boomed through the megaphone. King Cedar’s words echoed what was written on flyers dispersed all over the alleys of The Town, some flying away with the sandy hue of the air, and others hanging loosely on brick walls. On those same brick walls, the Kingsmen had hung a bunch of “wanted” posters, with Plaisir’s elongated chin not fitting within the laminated frame. This they would do every night, along with removing the raggedy pamphlets Cicero would hang every now and then for more people to come to Plaisir’s shows. As such, The Town’s brick walls spoke vehemently about its ongoing events: it was the perfect canvas for any influencer to come and emphasize a political presence. Out of all the flyers, papers, pamphlets, and posters, 14-year-old Quinsy always looked the most quizzically at Plaisir’s. Ever since she was born, this clown’s name had incessantly come up during her conversations with her parents: he was their savior, and Quinsy saw that very clearly. She saw those endless nights when her parents would bicker and fight the second they stepped into the house after a long factory day, up until the tertian night when Plaisir would put on a show. After that, they would stop shouting. When she was younger, she used to always wonder why they would close their bedroom door on a peaceful Plaisir night, yet wouldn’t close any doors whatsoever when their shouting climaxed, finally managing to wake her up. And every time she asked them the next morning, they would say that Plaisir would make them love each other again. And so, all these years, all Quinsy would hear was this clown’s name without him helping her in any way. Because of that, Quinsy would always stand in front of a brick wall, eyeballing Plaisir all the way across the poster with inquisitively smart sky-blue eyes as she stood impatiently in one of the alleyways, her backpack slouched carelessly on the street and her body dancing until the bathroom urge would finally become unbearable.
‘I want to go to the tent tomorrow night.’ Quinsy was sitting politely at the dinner table, overlooking a slow popcorn-like argument between her parents that was just about turning the curb to become a full-blown cockpit fight. Her parents stopped their fighting and looked at her, her mother on the right adorned with her bright red flowery dress, and her father on the left with his jacket hiding his almost-torn suspenders.
‘Quin, we’ve told you it’s still too early!’ Exclaimed her mother, her father nodding in agreement with her for the first time since they last spoke about this: precisely two days ago.
‘But I want to meet the clown! I want to know what he’s like!’
‘Quin, that’s going to be a no. Now, finish your dinner and let’s head to bed. Tomorrow night we’ll go out for ice cream!’
Her father ended the debate on that note, mumbled brazenly in his wife’s ear as he sprung off his chair, finally tearing his suspenders full-length and sending his pants clumsily plummeting down to the kitchen floor.
Plaisir slouched onto the chair, exhausted from the preparations, and lit a cigarette. His white leggings and his white ballerinas were stretched onto a chair in front of him, and they appeared all blotched with dirt from all the work.
‘Oh Cicero. We have done these people well, haven’t we?’
‘Yes Mr. Boss. They love you; I wonder how that Town would look like if it weren’t for you.’
‘For us Cicero! For us. I am getting tired too quickly nowadays, and this tobacco isn’t helping at all. That’s why I’ve decided to let you in on my secret. To tell you what I do to each and every person who comes into my tent, and the reason why he goes out happy and rejuvenated’
Cicero’s eyes lit up; he couldn’t believe it. He had worked for Plaisir for as long as he could remember; he was like a father to him. He provided for him and never refused any request; none except when he came asking about Plaisir’s methods once. Plaisir had gone mad then: he had thrashed and smashed and crashed, shouting at Cicero and telling him to not ask that question ever again. And so, he had listened to Plaisir and had not gone sniffing, not even eavesdropping in the tent.
‘But, why now? I’m sure I can’t do this as good as you do.’
‘You already are very good sonny. You will, and hopefully even better than me. Now, are you ready?’
Plaisir sat up and leaned forward, his long slender fingers hugging the cigarette butt and extinguishing it onto the hand of the chair. His eyes were transfixed on Cicero’s eager yet nervous face; he licked his palms and fixed his hair as he always did, and repeated his question.
‘Are you ready, son?’
Cicero nodded quickly as Plaisir leaned further forward, rested his fingers onto Cicero’s neck, and poured his secrets into the little kid’s right ear.
The sandy weather gave The Town a yellowish shade under the sunset’s fading colors. The King and the King’s kingsmen cockily careened their way into the alleys, knowing that the time was soon coming for the townsfolk to gather themselves and head to Southend. His pale and ragged face sat unevenly upon his shoulders like ice cream on its cone, with his eyes always jealously zigzagging their way through the alleys to see how the people were preparing themselves. His unkempt beard had grown long throughout the 100-or-so years he had served as King, and he never failed to exquisitely exhume its extrusions, which consisted of an interesting mix of fleas swimming in malt beer. It was dancing left and right in the sandy breeze, but his cloak was not: it had sat so long on his shoulders that it had rotted its way into his skin, latching onto its host and sucking his soul out of him. The only thing about the Cedar that did not produce smell was his cane, which was embroidered with well-sculpted cedars all along its length in a spiral, ending at the top with a golden sphere.
All the townsfolk needed to know of the King’s visit was the gentle, asynchronous clunking of the cane on the alleys’ cobblestone streets. So, they had waited for as long as they could, until the clunking would fade, before setting foot outside their homes. Quinsy however, had managed to sneak out her bedroom window, and had flocked all the way to the horde of people making their way downhill to Plaisir’s tent. She was nervous: she had waited all her life to see what Plaisir really had to offer, but she was afraid. Plaisir had so much power, and meeting him was daunting, even for an innocent, inquisitive heroine of a 14-year-old like herself. She looked around at the people’s faces: some expressionless, others mirroring endless suicidal ideations, and others looking as if their souls had abandoned them long, long ago. Plaisir had so much power, indeed.
The townsfolk marched their way down to higher Southend, passing north of lower Northend and finally reaching Plaisir Plaza. The Tent sat square in the middle of the circular space, shining like a spike in contrast to all the dull, sheepish, and white foothills that surrounded it. The people gathered behind the fences Cicero had aligned earlier that day, like flocking Italians and tourists outside Piazza San Pietro in Vatican City on a cold, Christmas eve, waiting for the ceremonies to commence. They were waiting patiently for the show to begin. Quinsy could hear their chatter getting happier already. Quinsy made her way to the front of the commotion, and spotted a little kid, about her age, emerge from the tent’s belly. He wore a cute herringbone hat that did a fantastic job concealing his surely blonde hair, and he made his way to the townsfolk, many of which had not yet noticed him. The boy’s face and garments, Quinsy started to see, were blotched with black tar, a clear badge of a hard day’s work. His sleeves were folded halfway up his scrawny-yet-sturdy arms, and a showman’s smile reposed itself on his perfectly round face. The people were noticing him now, and so the chatter and the intermittent crunching and crashing of popcorn was dying away. Quinsy pulled at a young woman’s skirt and asked her who the kid was.
Quinsy directly saw an opportunity. She put on her charming looks (she had learnt this from the mean girls at school), cleared her throat, and approached the fence directly facing Cicero. He was just about to announce Plaisir’s arrival when Quinsy caught his eye. She had exquisitely blonde hair too, tied from both sides with white rubber bands and dangling all the way to each shoulder on each side. Her face radiated with brightness despite the overwhelming darkness that accompanied the townspeople every time they came here, and he could not but notice how clear her skin was. She looked a bit taller than him, but he didn’t care! He stood there, perplexed, taken aback by her charm, and edged closer to the fence as she extended her deep blue gaze into his. She smiled just then, revealing an entrancing set of teeth and perfectly harmonious lips.
‘You...you…you don’t have braces on!’ Was the best pickup line Cicero could muster.
Quinsy giggled from behind the fence, her two hands firmly grasping two of the fence’s bars, as if resisting the urge to get to the boy in front of her, completely under her spell now.
Quinsy had him right where she wanted him now, and she could ask anything she wanted. But as she pursed her lips to ask about Cicero’s work and what Plaisir was doing, a pot-bellied walrus of a being bulldozed himself into the frontline, knocking a couple of people over, and breaking Quinsy’s spell on Cicero.
‘Where is the clown, young boy? He has never made us wait this long, so run along and call him out already!’ The man’s voice boomed, sending droplets of spit all over, some onto Cicero’s face and others getting unluckily caught up in his uneven, tobacco-stained mustache that made no effort to spare his vermilion upper lip.
‘R-right away sir!’ Cicero shrugged off Quinsy’s spell, eyed her again the same way daddy used to eye mommy at the dinner table before they went and closed their bedroom door, and sped back to the tent.
Quinsy looked up angrily at Mr. Lazar. Mr. Lazar had been their neighbor ever since she could remember. For kids, the worst kind of neighbors were those neighbors who didn’t have kids their own age. The only exception to that rule for Quinsy was Mr. Lazar. He did not have any kids, but he was such a sweetheart that Quinsy used to spend more time at his house than at hers. After Plaisir night, he would always tell her to come by for a couple of nights in a row, and he would shower her with sweets, and they would spend the entire night playing video games. Mommy and Daddy used to be afraid of him, but he had grown on them too. Looking at him now however, he looked like a terribly different person.
Quinsy called him and waved, only to find him completely ignoring her as he disappeared back into the now-impatient crowd. Weird.
‘What happened to you my dear Cicero! I waited forever for your cue!’ Plaisir proclaimed placidly inside the tent.
‘There’s this girl, Mr. Boss. She’s outside with the rest of the people. We have to let her in! She’s beautiful.’
Dear, oh dear. Plaisir’s face darkened, dampened, and drained of all color. Cicero falling for someone meant that Plaisir’s secret would be out; all his work undone. He scolded himself for not holding this off until Cicero was older, but remained composed.
‘My boy, let’s stay focused for now and we’ll deal with her later. Bring the first person in, I’m ready to make them smile again!’
And so, the people went into the tent, single-file, and went out from behind, completely morphed back into their happy selves. The tent played gateway as it always did, ferrying people from the dark side in its front, back into the world of happiness behind it. All this happened with Quinsy watching carefully, making sure not to let Cicero spot her despite his incessant efforts oflooking eagerly into the crowd for any sign of her. At some point, she made her way around the tent, always behind the fences, to see a commotion of people practically partying provocatively behind the red-and-white tent. She even saw Mr. Lazar, who grinned childishly at her and waved, this time with her not waving back. Now, she had understood. What Plaisir was doing was terrible. He not only was giving people false hope with temporary happiness time and time again, but he now had all the townspeople in his grasp. They could not live without him, without Plaisir’s stingy sprinkles staining their sad lives with his happy tonic, always in small drops so that they would always come crawling back to his tent. But, she had an idea.
Cicero watched in awe, for the first time, as Plaisir had his way with the guests. One by one, they came in with drooped shoulders and expressionless faces and left with stupefied smiles and soulful sentiments. It was obvious what made Plaisir so good: each person had an individualized performance, tailored to make that person, and that person only, extremely happy, albeit for a short while. Yet for all the razzle and the dazzle that Plaisir displayed inside, with colors and chardonnay glasses swooning around the room, Cicero was bewitched with a different kind of magic: and that magic was standing somewhere outside, with golden locks curtaining perfectly drawn ears. It was the first time he was seeing this, yet his mind was transfixed on that girl he had seen in the crowd. Was she a dream? He had looked for her every time he went out, but had not caught another glimpse. Was he making her up? He was just about to convince himself of that when Plaisir called for the next customer.
Back outside, Quinsy had again made her way to the old spot facing the tent’s mouth. There were not many people left; in fact, the entire crowd on the bad side of the tent had dwindled down to a raggedy drunkard, a King’s guardsman who had surely snuck his way down here, and a couple of town clerics who had their voices sore from all the needless calling for the townspeople to get into their “Houses of God” so they could be happy again. She wore her charm hat again, and right on cue, the cute boy emerged from behind the tent’s devouring curtains. He was about to call for one of the clerics, who had just about finished reading from some holy book of his, when he saw her again. Her eyes locked onto his with her locks of blonde also as if grabbing him on both sides of the head as he approached the fence. Her fingers were again hugging the fence’s metal bars, and he did not hesitate to hug hers with his.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Quinsy. What’s yours?’
‘My name is-is…’ Quinsy giggled, and his grip tightened on both her hands.
‘Cicero. My name is Cicero. I work for Mr. Boss.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know, Cicero. Would you like to come with me? Far away from Mr. Boss?’
‘But, I…Mr. Boss would know I’m gone. He’s waiting for me inside.’ Their foreheads were glued to the fence now, one forehead on each side.
‘Come with me Cicero.’ He did not need to hear more. They ran, and all he could remember after that was her soft-skinned hand holding his, with his other hand clasped onto his hat from falling off, looking back as the tent grew smaller and smaller until it was out of sight between the cold mountains.
Quinsy had never seen the King’s hall before. She had not been seeing much daylight at all in fact. Cicero had been hiding in her room this entire time, and despite Plaisir’s ongoing nights when everyone returned happy, the number of people making their way south to the Plaza had shrunk significantly. Plaisir had been unable to keep up with the numbers without his assistant and confidant. It was rumored that the clown had wandered the town’s streets a couple of times, hooded and invisible, looking for Cicero. Some claim to have seen his gleaming face outside their windows for a second, only to open their windows and find only the howling wind that was now snaking its way through the Town’s alleys. Cicero was sleeping under her bed when she had left her room that night: he had not been going to the tent, and his face was starting to turn pale. His hair had turned brittle, his stomach had hardened despite her mommy’s greens that she snuck in occasionally, and his nails were turning a turbid white. Despite that, she had convinced him that Plaisir was a sickness: that all he was doing to the townsfolk was give them false hope and temporary, never-lasting happiness.
She made her way up the steps and looked back at her town from atop the king’s cliff. This place is dying, she thought to herself. The wind had brought about a desolate fog that hung over the town, as if it were a puppeteer moving his sticks to make the town look as lifeless as ever. The house roofs were a dark, dark black, and the wind was so strong—and the roofs so weak—that it was peeling them off, brick by brick. The town’s church stood the highest, headless; the wind had taken out the cross that had been on the church’s tower, too. The doors of the King’s hall gaped at her, and she stepped inside, leaving her town behind.
‘My King. I have something you have been wanting for a long, long time now. Would you like to know the clown’s secret? Would you like to know how he has been a better king than you ever were?’
The King’s eyes lit up from under tired, saggy eyebrows as he motioned for the girl to come closer. The guards were rushed to search her, and she made her way up the couple of golden steps that stood just short of the throne. He looks so much bigger up close, she gulped. His left hand was perched on his cane, and his cloak seemed to be fitting him so well it she could have sworn it was part of him. Small, silvery lines of linen had woven themselves with the skin on his back, and some had even made it all the way up to his neck.
‘Come, child,’ he motioned to her to come even closer. ‘What do you know?’
She smiled a wry smile and nodded quickly as she leaned further forward, rested her fingers onto the King’s neck, and poured Plaisir’s secrets into his right ear.
The tent was starting to smell. Plaisir had smelled it all the way up the Plaza when he came back from his late-night search. Where are you Cicero, I need you, he thought. He was getting tired, and he had developed this terrible itch on the back of his head which had produced a bright bald spot. He twitched and scratched the spot hurriedly. He can’t have betrayed me.
‘He can’t have!’ He bellowed, his voice echoing all around the tent and ricocheting its way back onto him. He fell into his chair, exhausted, and itched at his bald spot again before going into a deep motionless sleep.
At dawn of the next day, Plaisir woke up to the sound of knocking. Voices, voices everywhere, and louder than all the voices was a rhythmic knocking on the floor. He thought he was dreaming, and he raced outside his tent to find out that he was not. Plaisir Night would not be until a good 8 hours from now, yet in front of him stood what looked to be the biggest crowd he had ever seen here—possibly the entire town! In front of them bloomed the misshapen disfigured figure of their King. His cane knocked on the floor, and his beard was braided from his chin all the way to his knees. Behind him, the townsfolk did not look happy, but did not look sad either: they looked angry! Some held garden forks, others held pebbles they had picked up on their way to the Plaza, and some just held their hardened fists up in defense. Their eyes were flaring with fury, and the King made no effort to quell it. He was feeding on it: Plaisir had never seen him as energetic as he was then. Next to the king stood a pretty young girl, around dear Cicero’s age, and holding her hand was Cicero himself.
They were all there: the disheveled clerics, the penniless people of the town, and the unpaid guardsmen.
‘My…my friends! And my king,’ Plaisir bowed weakly to the King from behind the fence, making sure not to let the white robes he had covered himself with slip.
It was the first time anyone had heard the King speak. His voice was deep, and it rang around the Plaza: ‘We have come to relieve you of your duties, charlatan!’
The very foundations of the cold mountains shook from beneath as the King’s voice bellowed.
‘These people are not fans of the temporary!’
Cicero stepped forward just then, and all the chatter behind climaxed and died out quickly. Plaisir—the townsfolk witnessed for the first time—turned angry. He scratched his head from behind and reached his hand out, as if commanding Cicero to come to his side. But Cicero stood his ground.
‘You betrayed these people Mr. Boss. You gave them hope! You kept feeding into their need for happiness, yet you never wanted to give it to them. They kept coming back because they needed it, and you never gave it to them.’
‘My dear Cicero, I was just trying to help! These people are sad, and someone must help them! Look at their town, it’s crumbling. Look at their bodies, they’re crumbling too. Look—look into their eyes!’
The chatter rose again from behind Cicero and the King. Quinsy stepped forward, a pebble in her hand.
‘My mommy and daddy have not been happy for a long time. The last time I truly saw them happy, you and your stupid tent had not even been here! Back then, times were bad, but at least they knew how to make each other happy. But a temporary happiness is never the answer: short-lived pleasure is just as bad as no pleasure at all. And so, Plaisir, you must go.’
Plaisir hunched his back and looked down at his white, pointy ballerinas which had been torn and muddied out. Cicero stepped forward, cocked his hand, and threw the pebble right at Plaisir’s heart.
*
Afif Kraitem is a Lebanese resident physician currently training in Anesthesiology the United States. He was born, and lived most of his life, in chaotic Beirut, where most of his writings are inspired from. Afif has published in two local journals in Beirut, Lebanon. Although he works in the scientific field, the literary and creative writing aspect of his life is what keeps him going. Besides, Anesthesiology is just as much an art as it is a science!