There is a magnetic corner of the globe, somewhere south of here and north of there, that is visible only from within. There are those who are unconsciously attracted to this land, others may guilelessly chance upon it. Some however, are abductees from abroad held captive as mere chattels, skivvy’s and such like, marooned in the service of the better off citizens. It is thus that any and all would do well to take heed of my warning that in this place not everything is as it first seems. There is no movable feast in an unvarnished Hell cleverly disguised as vestal dreamland.
To the inept eye all is possible in this impossible corner boasting, as it does, a society built on unlikely ‘either/or’ bedfellow foundations born of frailty and virtue, namely, malice and benevolence. As to which of those twins holds sway at any given time is dependent upon the capricious pendulum of fate. Once when eavesdropping, I heard tell that after ‘The Book of Impossible Things’ – a tome all citizens once held dear – was unwittingly ‘misplaced’ nothing was ever the same. Needless to say ‘malice’ reigns supreme pro tem.
During my ill-fated stay here I have concluded any native tongue is understood by one and all in their own mother language and vice versa. Those peopling this most cosmopolitan of places are much varied. Black, white and a painter’s pallet mix of pigmentations in between, effectively chronicling the allsorts assortment that is mankind.
Being of tropical clime, the season never changes. An unremitting summer persists, trapped as she is under the prevailing rainforest canopy. Additionally, daytime is forever overbearingly hot and sticky, humid, intolerable, yet beyond the witching hour the swelter remains much the same only scarcely less so.
I was delivered up by unenviable circumstance and am now a much altered version of former self. The revenant me longs to be homeward bound, to the place from whence I began. However, since she, the one I covertly call Lucrezia, for I am not privy to her real name, robbed me of my station in time and claimed me as her glorified bondservant I have been lost to the virtuous world.
I am now known by just a number, 107345. That is all there is, ‘que sera, sera’ as the fatalist might say.