It began, as all great mysteries do, with an empty bottle and a room full of suspects.
The Brighton Arts Club was hosting its Evening of the Green Fairy, a semi-regular celebration of absinthe, poetry, and questionable decision-making. The tables were adorned with sugar cubes and spoons, the air heavy with aniseed and ambition. I, as hostess, had taken it upon myself to oversee the proceedings, dressed in a gown of emerald silk that rustled with every regal step.
All was well until the great cry arose: "The absinthe is gone!"
Pandemonium ensued. Artists, poets, and musicians clamored around the bar, each protesting their innocence while clutching suspiciously green-stained glasses. One particularly zealous playwright accused the sculptor of siphoning the last of the bottle for a private toast. The sculptor retaliated by claiming the playwright had been “overly familiar with the fairy all evening.”
As arbiter of all things chaotic, I stepped forward, tapping my fan against a wineglass to call for order. “We shall investigate this as we would a great work of art,” I declared. “With equal parts deduction and flamboyance!”
The Interrogations
First, I questioned the bartender, a wiry lad with a penchant for riddles. “I served all in good measure,” he said, shrugging. “But the absinthe bottle? It vanished like a muse at dawn.”
Next, I turned to Madame Fantasma, the clairvoyant painter known for her eccentricities and impressive capacity for liquor. She was seated at a corner table, furiously sketching what she claimed was the “spirit of the absinthe” itself—a swirling mass of green mist with suspiciously human features.
“Did you take the bottle, Madame?” I asked.
She looked up, wide-eyed. “The absinthe chose me, Countess. I am but its vessel!”
I decided she was too far gone to be a reliable witness and moved on.
The Discovery
It was only after much debate and theatrical finger-pointing that the true culprit emerged: a bassoonist from the orchestra, who had tucked the bottle beneath his chair for safekeeping.
“Why hoard it?” I asked, baffled.
He blushed. “I feared it would run dry before the finale of our performance,” he confessed. “The piece I’m playing tonight demands… lubrication of the soul.”
Though his actions were dubious, his honesty won him a reprieve. The absinthe was returned to its rightful place, and the evening resumed its merry course.
Reflections on Libertine Logic
Later, as the revellers dwindled and the candles burned low, I pondered the strange logic of our Libertine lives. What other community could transform an empty bottle into an epic tale or elevate an absinthe theft into a parable of human frailty?
In our world, chaos is not a failing but a virtue—a source of inspiration, laughter, and, above all, stories. And as I sat amidst the remnants of the evening’s revelry, I realized that I would not trade this absurd, brilliant life for all the order in the world.
©2024 Sarnia de la Maré
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