Peaces

by Helen Oyeyemi

Árpád Montague XXX: well worth staring at. Notable features include his coat of platinum fur and the exceptionally well-sculpted length of his paws and feet—the grace of those alone might convince you Nijinsky’s been reincarnated in mongoose form. Some snootiness of manner might be justified, and yet you could search the universe and fail to find a friendlier creature, or a fellow more willing to hear both sides of a story and disperse the benefit of the doubt in both directions if needed. During my more rational hours of the day—eleven in the morning, for instance, or three o’clock in the afternoon—I realise what I sound like when I talk about Árpád. I do realise it, and I know no one should listen to a word I say about him. The trouble is, I see all sorts of stories in that mongoose. He’s a friend of two hundred years and more. By which I mean that he is his very own self and also every fit of laughter his predecessors have induced in mine, every ounce of liability, bewilderment, solace, simple certainty . . . Árpád XXX, the pick of Árpád XXIX’s litter. And who was Árpád XXIX? Not only the most sardonic bosom friend of my teens and early twenties, but my mum’s favourite of Árpád XXVIII’s offspring. The twenty-eighth of our Árpáds would close his eyes and quiver ardently upon hearing certain lines of Ulysses. Tennyson’s biggest fan. Or was he?