A conversation with the emperor

the inner critic goes outside

Dec 15, 2024

The floor is tiled, an umber and beige diamond pattern. There’s a cloying scent of sandalwood smoke. The emperor is dressed in purple, whimsically in charge, reclined in fake-relaxed. In fact he’s highly alert, ready to strike with smooth words and sharp ones.

‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ The emperor asks, ‘Isn’t there a better use of your time? What about all this stuff still on the table? You’re actually so useless. Maybe you should go back to bed,’ he says.

The emperor is male, thinish and oldish. His hair is blonde-white and curly, his face is a little flushed. He was never meant to be in charge. He rose through the ranks by being quiet and sure, whispering his way confidently to the throne. The things he says sound like truth, ‘I rule so you won’t get anything wrong, or at least less-wrong, so you won’t be hurt. You understand you could be hurt if you make a mistake?’

We are at an impasse.

I’m knelt on the floor in front of a low table painting a butterfly. I would like to leave the tiled and suffocating room where velvet curtains block the light and wind hints at the edges of the fabric.

‘I think maybe you could come out and play,’ I say.

‘I don’t play. I have serious responsibilities.’

With leftover paint I sign my initials and put the winged-being aside to dry. It’s an interpretation of a small copper, part of a series of little butterflies the size of fingernails and flying fast, tiny creatures often hidden from view in long grass. Like parts of a self.

*Small Copper,* watercolour on paper by Kirstie McKinnon

‘I’m not in need of a ruler,’ I say.

‘You only think that.’

‘I think maybe, before you became old, you needed something else, something other than power.’

‘All I know is power.’

‘Well, maybe you could think back? What did you want, before you were forced into purple by your sensible-sounding ideas?’

‘What did I want? Before?’

‘Yes.’

He goes quiet, looks down at the gilt edge of the couch, ‘I remember being hungry.’

‘You were hungry?’

‘Yes.’

‘And anything else?’

‘Bored, and a little excited. There was a visitor — I don’t know, I was excited that she was there.’

‘A visitor. And you were hungry and bored.’

‘Yes. And I made a mistake, but I don’t know what it was,’ he glances at me, a brief flash of glittering blue. Flame-light from the brazier flickers across the tiles.

‘And you were hurt because of this?’

The emperor goes silent, remembering the terror, crawling up and down the velvet chair gasping for air, waiting for punishment, ‘I was hurt,’ the emperor says, ‘no-one came to help.’

‘You did everything right from then on?’

‘Yes. That’s how I got to be in charge. It’s important not to make mistakes you know,’ he says this last with less conviction than before.

‘Did you lose anything, to be here on the throne?’

He’s quiet again, his hand drifts to the sandals resting under the couch. He plays with a strap. One tear slides down to splash on a beige tile. He doesn't want me to see the tear, pretends to scratch his nose and catches it deftly, ‘I lost my freedom,’ he says finally, ‘I’ve been old like this for as long as I can remember, ordering you about.’

‘That is sad,’ I say.

He nods.

We are quiet.

‘Would you like to go for a walk?’ I ask, ‘It’s raining, and we might get wet.’

‘I’m not sure,’ he says, ‘There’s a lot to do,’ his hand arcs in a wide gesture, and the toga falls. Underneath he’s wearing an ancient t-shirt with a faded rainbow at the centre, and a worn pair of yellow shorts. ‘Could we take a snack?’ he asks.

I nod and show him the two oranges I have in my pockets.

‘Will that be enough? Are you sure we’ll be alright?’

‘It might not be enough,’ I say, ‘We might not be alright.’

He nods. He knew this already. He slips his feet into the sandals, ‘Can we come home when we get hungry?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Okay,’ I say.

We go outside.