Joelle “Snow” White [pt.IV]


Two months thereafter when the surgeon hauls from moribund Angela’s uterus her adorable baby you can only begin to imagine the kind of  momentary disappointement Nicholas White experiences when he finds out that it will not be a potentially muscular, gun-slinging, , autorities-blackmailing, crotch-scratching male successor to the throne and scepter and ball of the narcotic underground but instead an empathic, cosmetics-applying, morally overpowering, possibly anorexic, multi-tasking female…. Princess. One ill-advised underling’s remark concerning Queen Elizabeth I of England as signifying supreme power/splendor plus political sagesse sends this minion scrambling to the nearest clinic guts in hand.

But then instead anyway, what flows forward from some hidden internal space of King unto Princess is true paternal love: care which asks for absolutely zero in return, which cannot even conceive of its self-sacrifice in association with anything like reciprocity or return on investment. Many a minion is non-plussed to see the infinite chasm of a difference between K.W.’s treatment of insubordinates as opposed to  his own, increasingly lovely, flesh and blood.

From such fatherly succor Joelle “Snow” White grows up to become an exceedingly comely young damsel with interests in modern African literature, volleyball, the Origami oeuvre of Anselm Arslanian and, how else could it be, the bio-chemistry of crack/cocaine hoping to aid and improve her father’s ruby reign over Altra Luna. While J. “Snow” White reciprocates her father’s limitless loving and speaks only in the highest tones of his business savvy, there is mutually on each end of the familial dyad a secret being scrupulously guarded: Nicholas White has no knowledge of his daughter’s infatuation with llallo and mirror-wise, adolescent Joelle is wholly innocent of her daddy’s reputation as an unrelentingly blood-thirsty kingpin whose name alone rings bells of terror. This fragile, secretive balance is maintained for a long time and even the groveling subalterns have a vested interest in maintaining this state of affairs given the unpredictable tantrums the King is likely to throw if and when he finds out that the skin of his Joelle is not the only thing about her that is snow white.

Nevertheless, at long last when his princessely daughter one afternoon has declared her intentions to attend an Arslanian exhibit ( “Bifoldar”) but has to return early because the place is just absolutely sold out, she enters the capacious warehouse underneath their penthouse complex at the exact moment that her father, dressed up in mock-up vermilion regalia, runs a 1.2m sword replica sideways through the neck of a back-stabbing trafficker. Code Of The Street: no snitching, no double-crossing, never ever. But this pusher has been suicidal/stupid enough to try to also cut deals with Don Giovanni Maffick [even The Most Crazy, it is rumored]. Maffick is an imbecile of a capo if ever there was one.

J.S.W.’s screech at witnessing the decapitation spiderly splinters a number of transomed, sooty, industrial-age windowpanes and occasions the only moment in her life when she has nine different brands of guns pointed at her. Cocked and loaded, mind you. That same afternoon when her father finally runs out of patience and has the door to her barricaded room, from which high volume sobs issue for the longest, nerve-wrecking time, has it rammed down for reasons of paternal worry, he cannot help notice the white residue below his daughter’s nostrils. This powdery substance proves to be, his right-hand man Guselmano assures him, what Nicholas White most fears it would be.

After this follows a fortnight of mutual disaffection, glum reflection on the relative value of honesty and a flagging of general interest in both King White and Princess Joelle. With him this shows as an absence of cruelty and in her case presents as hiatus from Volleyball/African literature/aesthetically folded paper. More painfully, there is a cooling of the dyadic hearth.


Soon enough King White, at a millionair extra-vaganza in a gambling hell out-of-town makes the aquaintance of a fresh, not-to-be-fucked-with, cunningly intelligent 10, name of Henriette Trefoil. Whom he weds. She is a beautiful woman, but proud and haughty and she cannot bear that anyone else should surpass her in beauty.  The new stepqueen is jealous in the extreme as concerns the King’s lovely daughter in who she see a most dangerous rival for affection. H. Trefoil is the type of unexpected negative influence in somebody’s life that sends an entire biography sliding south at once.


About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Reply disabled

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s