Free Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson Page B

you want can’t exist.’
    ‘It must exist,’ insisted the prince, ‘because I want it.’
    ‘You’ll die first,’ shrugged the goose, about to go back to her feeding tray.
    ‘Not before you,’ spat the prince, and chopped off her head.
    Three more years passed, and the prince began to write a book to pass the time. It was called
The Holy Mystery of Perfection
. He divided it into three sections.
    Part one: the philosophy of perfection. The Holy Grail, the unblemished life, the final aspiration on Mount Carmel. Saint Teresa and the Interior Castle.
    Part two: the impossibility of perfection. The restless search in this life, the pain, the majority who opt for second best. Their spreading corruption. The importance of being earnest.
    Part three: the need to produce a world full of perfect beings. The possibility thereby of a heaven on earth. A perfect race. An exhortation to single-mindedness.
    The prince was very pleased with his book, and had a copy given to all his advisors, so that they should not waste his time with the merely second-best. One of them took it with him to a distant corner of the forest, where he could read in peace. He wasn’t academic, and the prince had a very dense prose style.
    While he was lying under a tree, he heard the sound of singing coming from somewhere on the left. Curious, and amusic lover, he got up to find out who was making the noise. In a clearing, there was a woman spinning thread and accompanying herself with a song.
    The advisor thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
    ‘And she can sew,’ he thought.
    He went up to her, bowing as he came.
    ‘Fair maid,’ he began.
    ‘If you want to chat,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to come back later, I’m working to a deadline.’
    The advisor was very shocked.
    ‘But I am royal,’ he told her.
    ‘And I’m working to a deadline,’ she told him. ‘Come for lunch if you want.’
    ‘I’ll be back at noon,’ he answered stiffly and marched off.
    Meantime, the advisor questioned whoever he met about the woman. How old was she? Who were her family? Did she have any dependants? Was she clever?
    ‘Clever?’ snorted one old man. ‘She’s perfect.’
    ‘Did you say perfect?’ urged the advisor, shaking the old man by the shoulders.
    ‘Yes,’ cried he, ‘I said perfect.’
    As soon as it was noon the advisor banged on the door of the woman’s home.
    ‘It’s cheese soup,’ she said, as she let him in.
    ‘Never mind that,’ he retorted, ‘we’ve got to get moving, I’m taking you to the prince.’
    ‘What for?’ asked the woman, ladling out her own soup.
    ‘He might want to marry you,’
    ‘I’m not getting married,’ she said.
    The advisor turned to her in horror. ‘Why not?’
    ‘It’s not something I’m very interested in. Now do you want this soup or don’t you?’
    ‘No,’ shouted the young man. ‘But I’ll be back.’
    Three days later, there was a great commotion in the forest. The prince and his retinue were arriving. The prince himself had lost the use of his legs from sitting still so long, and had to be carried in a litter. At the sight of the woman, who was sitting spinning, just as before, he leapt from his pallet,crying, ‘I’m cured, she must be perfect.’ And he fell on his knees and begged her to marry him.
    The court turned to one another, smiling. They could stop all this nonsense now, and live happily ever after.
    The woman smiled down on the kneeling price and stroked his hair.
    ‘You’re very sweet, but I don’t want to marry you.’
    There was a gasp of horror from the gathered court.
    Then silence.
    The prince struggled to his feet, and pulled a copy of his book from out of his pocket.
    ‘But you must, I’ve written all about you.’
    Again the woman smiled, and read the title. Then she frowned, and motioning to the prince, pulled him inside her home.
    For three days and three nights the court camped in fear. No sound came from the hut. Then on the fourth