Lemon tree very pretty
And the lemon flower sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon
Is impossible to eat
~Will Holt
The Lemon: Longevity, Purification, Love, Innocence
My devotchka was getting starry. She was going on three years now.
We were goolying about town, dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt with a like scarf tucked in. At this time too it was the heighth of fashion for nadsat ones to have long hair and wear malenky dresses just above their knees, with ruffles and flowers and embroideries of cats and dogs and sunshines. Angel's hair had never been shive and it grew so long she could sit on the merzky blonde stuff.
Cutter wasn't coming in often as Your Humble Narrator was not rabbiting often. He was fagged, more so than he had ever been. Angel was much more high-maintenance than a regular malenky devotchka should be. And I eventually put together this was because, as mentioned, sweet Angel's luscious glory was too damn long. It shvatted forever and a day to comb out.
So Little Alex took it upon to himself shive it for her. I didn't ask her if she wanted this-I was certain she would answer no.
I sat her sharries down on a chair and gave her some crackers to munch on while I went about my rabbit. I had never been one much inclined to the styling of one's hair, as anyone could tell rather obviously. Mine was nothing more than a blonde mass resembling a mop sitting atop my gulliver. It appeared both of outs grew
"What?" she skazzed, curiously glancing at the scissors in my rooker.
My devotchka had learned many slovoees since the blessed day she first govoreeted. I've always had faith in her, I have, I have. She's what they call like a, "Late bloomer," or some cal like that.
"This is what." I skvatted a fistful of her hair and held it in her litso, making her glazzies cross. "It's razz-" I corrected myself, brothers, "time it went away for good. Back to the stinking depths of-"
Angel screeched. And did so many a more time during the process, but Little Alex was beyond used to the gloopy screams and whines, they no longer deterred him. Had he not spent countless nights slooshying to her platches, bitvaing to keep awake?
For days after, all that was govoreeted about between the two of us was her snuffed-or, excuse me, my brothers, her deadhair. No matter the attempts I diligently made to prove otherwise, that what was not alive to nachinat with, Little Angel was horribly nadmenny. What she believed was law and that was that. I was left on my oddy-knocky to believe what I did, and my devotchka what she did. Three years nadsat and she was already more shoomy than her Em.
Ah, Charolette. Just the messel of her lovely eeyma made me shiver with emotions I like could not describe now, nor ever. If my devotchka was an angel, Charlotte was the Em of all angels created. It would always be shilarny for where she may be. After all, not all of the malchicks in this land have changed as I have. Then a horrorshow feeling of happiness, for if not for her, I would be more alone than ever, without my malenky devotchka. Always these two were followed by a sadness that skvatted my tick-toker and crushed it with strength even I did not know I possessed.
Angel and I sat together, munching on chocolate cake my dear old Pee and Em had delivered earlier that day. Though I hated to skaz it, it was not the bolshiest cake I had ever tasted, but I had no right to say so.
Angel, through a rotfull of the chocolaty stuff, told me she wanted to play opposites. It was an eegra we had invented some time ago, when she was just learning how to govoreet.
"Cake," sayith my girl, in her funny way of speaking without hardly moving her goobers. Perhaps my slooshying had not left me.
For the life of me, I could not messel of anything that would hold the opposite meaning of cake. "Happy," I skazzed instead.
"Sad," Angel said. She didn't have the most zammechat memory…Cake was flown out the okno. So we went on this way until the late hours of the nochy, and she had fallen skorry, skorry asleep, her little gulliver resting on Your Humble Narrator's noga.
Little Alex placed his rooker on her forehead and pushed her blonde hair back over and over. It was all that was left of my starry zheena. All else belonged to me. Blue glazzies. Even the same-shaped morder, which never ceased to make me smile like a gloopy nazz. Too young, too, too young. That's what she viddied. The reality that Angel would be coming out of her any day was pooglying enough to send her away, even after she had held her devotchka in her rockers, bouncing her to sleep.
How would I ever be able to explain to my dear than her Em did not wish to be with her? That she would give a stracky cringe when holding her, always passing her off to her Pee? That she had vidded right at him and skazzed, I can't do this. I can't keep her?
I shook my gulliver, as if ridding myself of any unpleasant messels.
Three. Three was a nadsat age, o my friends, an interessovatting, nadsat age where not much mattered just yet. Such matters wouldn't come to rassoodock until they had to, when no choices were ookadetted.
