Mornings came through a little lamp
Georgie said it was dangerous to wake up into the purple rain
Sour fountains in her eyes deluded her sense of breathing
She meant nothing at all
She looked skyward
The other night my ghost Georgie told me a story about Madame Bombon. She was an extraordinary and rather peculiar character. People like Madame Bombon were usually born during purple rains and porridge mornings mixed with orange sunset smell. At first Georgie was watching her from the distance, sitting on the tree. The shutters of her windows were wide open. Madame Bombon was an exhibitionist, she’d never been shy or embarrassed of her mainly inappropriate and scandalous actions, which were probably the only decent things she owned, Madame Bombon used to say. She’d always get dressed and undressed in front of the windows with unexpected innocent expression on her face. She couldn’t live without the audience and if there wasn’t one she’d turn down a little bit inside. Madame Bombon avoided people; they made her uncomfortable, tired and bored. She was too impatient an uninterested to listen to the problems or stories other than hers. She knew she was absolutely absorbed in herself and her undesirable destiny but she didn’t mind. Georgie as a ten year old was utterly fascinated by her. The rumours about her being an ex cabaret singer and flapper idol for many people, left him in awe.
Sometimes when she got marshmallow cravings and had to go to the shop, she’d put on her oversized glasses and hat and went to the streets. Madame Bombon got hysterical and insanely mad when a lovely innocent looking sales assistant offered her a sample of anti-aged cream. Since then Georgie remembered: Do not offer the anti-age creams to any woman unless she asks for it. Poor sales assistant didn’t know how to react on the unexpected rage of Madame Bombon. Georgie just took her hand and asked her politely if they could take a walk?
Madame Bombon loved the smell of lavender and rose petals. She would sprinkle then everywhere she went for a dramatic effect. She claimed that in the past men used to do it. She always slept with her make- up on. ‘You don’t know who could visit you at nights. Even an innocent burglary could turn into a passionate night,’ she used to say. It was hard to tell what were her face features with so many layers of foundation. Despite that she was somehow almost absolutely stunning and peculiarly beautiful. She carried elegance and all the spices of the world. Madame Bombon hated the idea of not wearing make-up when one stayed home. She despised wearing casual clothes, trainers made her whinge and the socks gave her headaches.
Working at the 20s flapper bar was the only source of income she had. She scarcely left that place. The red dimmed lights, cigarette smoke, colognes and perfumes mixed with desire, hope and pleasure was her world. The outside world was killing her. There was too much light and lack of glamour. She knew she was born into the right time. Madame Bombon couldn’t imagine living at different time. She loved to be loved and admired, that was who she was. And then, the flapper time was over, she got older and the worst of the worst: Madame Bombon fell in love!