Ardeshir and Ramona

Shake off the Monday blues with a shake! Here’s to a mixture of kiwi, banana, and coconut milk.

That I like to tell stories is probably quite obvious by now. Whenever I have to write an article, I try to make it into a story. Once, for instance, when I met with the grand nephew of Greta Garbo, I decided to turn that interview (which centered on some photographs of the famous movie star) into a detective story. We all have stories, that’s the nature of living, but we have more power over our own stories than we sometimes realize. It all depends on how we weave the narrative fabric we’ve been given. This became very clear to me when I read this remarkable book.

Today I’m bringing you a story that is not at all anchored in reality. I hope you enjoy it.

On his daily walks, the royal poet Ardeshir sometimes had the habit of running into the daughter of Count Casimir, the lovely Ramona, dressed in silk and dangling with the most precious of pearls. When he did, Ardeshir always fell down on his knees, pressing his forehead against the cobblestones in servitude, only carefully peeking at the point of her embroidered slippers. One day it so happened that the lovely Ramona, who was taking a stroll with her servants, noticed the poet lying prostrate in front of her. She pointed an alabaster finger and asked:
“What is that?”

Ardeshir did not dare look up. But the lovely Ramona insisted:
“What is that?”

“A poet, Countess Ramona,” her slave informed her in a dismissive tone.

Ardeshir added under his breath:
“A royal poet.”

“Such a tragic little man,” the lovely Ramona said and bent her white body like a lily over Ardeshir. Her slender limbs intoxicated him with their fragrance. He lifted his trembling chin, and looked into her face. Encircled by curls of gold, her cheeks were a flushed pink and her eyes blue as the Nordic seas.

From that moment on, Ardeshir could no longer avoid her. On his frequent walks around town, he felt her following him. He tried to shake her off by entering whorehouses and mad houses but she was not easily deterred. And if he stayed in the barrel that was his home, she came with her entourage of servants and slaves, tripping ever so lightly, bending down to peek inside:

“Is Ardeshir the poet at home?”

And there he was, asleep, rolled up in his traveling rug with the woven Mandala pattern, lost in dreams. How he wished he could hide! How he wished he had a curtain to pull in front of him. But alas he could do neither; his barrel offered no such luxuries. He mumbled something and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Ardeshir the poet at Your Countess’ service,” he stuck his nose out for the world to see.

“I was wondering,” she said. “If perhaps Ardeshir the poet would be available for afternoon tea a fortnight from today at the Count’s palace?”

Ardeshir knew he wasn’t allowed to turn the lovely Ramona down. Such an offense would come with severe repercussions. He also knew that the sage never recruits his student, the student always seeks him, like the lovely Ramona was doing now. The sage asks nothing but a sincere desire to learn. Thus he blew his nose in the sleeve of his dirty caftan and in general made himself as disagreeable as he possibly could. But the more disagreeable he tried to make himself, the more she desired his knowledge. Her heart was set on him, he could feel it, and what a Countess wants a Countess gets.