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Did she want her 'baby pictures,' Nana asks herself? Does a photographic record of her AMBIGUOUS GENITALIA indeed exist? O’Rourke may have quoted a document, not looked at tangible images. Chances were, however, he had managed to unearth both. By contrast, Nana’s information on her origins has been mostly speculative. The evidence she has found (online primarily) is sketchy and indirect. Suddenly she envies him who eyeballed actual artifacts that attest to her nativity—such as it had been, born of some unfortunate creature’s trauma, her womb criminally commandeered. Yet Alexandra Albright’s role is of passing interest only. What Nana yearns to know is from whom she had been bred. Or spawned? Or cloned? Did she have a mother and a father, or parentage less conventional? Answers ultimately lay with Stuyvesant Fink, her alleged progenitor—him who she is less than shocked to learn was a DIAGNOSED SCHIZOPHRENIC.

Nana’s bifurcated sculpture, once she is back in front of it, confirms her weird clairvoyance. How could she have known, projected onto her work its subject's double nature? Still, the features left and right, resist her efforts to render them identical, this despite her using one as a prototype for realizing the other; neither face is based on anything verifiable. Why had Dad O’Rourke omitted their prime suspect’s portrait? A yearbook picture, an identity card, a driver’s license, a passport; had nothing come to light? Surely someone somewhere could produce a rough facsimile, an accurate facsimile; no one, even a quarter century ago, escaped surveillance; cameras were ubiquitous—at airports, shopping malls, campuses, inside hospitals (especially those with experimental labs).

Itching with impatience since she hired the private investigator, Nana wants to see concrete results. Including, she admits, depictions of her 'anomaly'—curious as to how it looked at birth.

"Here you are!"

The Prince Himself addresses (in Arabic) His truant ward.

Nana turns to embrace Him with her forearms, careful not to besmirch His immaculate white burnoose, pressing her flimsy smock against His midriff, V of flesh exposed, hem round back (in response to the Prince's hug) hiked up inadvertently, derrière denuded—testifying to the Rule of Ready Access Royal Paramours must observe (willingly; malcontents are free to take their leave).

“Did I miss Your summons?’

"Worry not. It is more fun to hunt you down. This, my nonpareil, is a most eccentric piece."

Releasing her, the Prince refers to Nana’s sculpture, circumnavigating the platform to admire from several angles, moving closer, then farther to absorb the work’s effect.

"Like Prometheus unbound, or testing his chains at least, pulling out of himself to escape Zeus’s punishment? Or..."

He considers the work with a grin.

"... a plasticene salute to Eng and Chang?"

Nana pulls a face.

"Do not mock me so; I have only just begun. Who are Chang and Eng?"

"Appropriate, your inverting their names, for the two were interchangeable, Chang and Eng being archetypes for the term Siamese twins."

"Oh. In that case, I will accept your comment as a compliment."

Nana, still impressed by what she regards as precognition with respect to her foretelling Stuyvesant’s twofold character, welcomes any input that corroborates said duality.

The Prince, his nose to the nose face-left, inspects what little of the visage has thus far been portrayed; no one at the Palace is brought to mind.

"Anyone we know?"

Nana, beside face-right, leans to place her cheek against the oil clay.

"My father."

The Prince, head cocked askew, compares them at a glance.

"Not a trace of resemblance."

Nana, purposely cryptic, responds.

"My thoughts precisely."

*

A golden langur bounds onto an overhead skylight, peering in and down at the studio’s sole occupants, entranced, it would appear, by antics underway:

 

male pursuing female with upright urge to mate, both tailless, one with sparing fur, the other bare totally (neck downward) now that both have curiously shed and fled their outer hides, his in a heap, hers flapping from behind as she waves it for distraction; caught, she shrieks and wriggles out of his grasp before he can sniff her naked hind parts; milk dugs jouncing to and fro, she dodges again; he shags her empty carapace, bites it, soaks it in saliva, runs with it limply dangling like an elder’s hoary beard; sweat emerging from the couple’s straining muscles shimmers in the sunshine; panting sounds, more gnashing and flashing of teeth, hers open and shut, his likewise as he drops the soggy pelt; mouths collide—in a mutual effort to chew, maybe eat one another's lips, gums, and tongues; calming down, not a drop of blood drawn, neither injured, arms and legs relax, collapse in unison, conducted to the floor in a molten-motion swoon, him on top, her underneath face upward, elbows flared, knees akimbo, ankles locked around his animated haunches to allow no escape, entered, as she evidently is, despite their breast to chest position; grunting, groaning, plumes of fertile pheromones rise above the fray, his an acrid smell of starch, hers more aquatic, the combination pungent; rank enough to penetrate the glass that partitions their observer—finely tuned to fellow primates linked in an age-old fit of estrus, sympathetic responses triggered in the ape, crimson member rigid like the male's, though the female's, too, grows stiffly perpendicular, his diminishing, hers grown more erect, licks and sucks and energetic slurping done by him to her, provoking imitation, actions staged by the frisky pair below, by the watchful monkey mimed, jaws distended, mouth engulfing phallus, spurting climax quaffed... glass between them dappled with sultry condensation.
 

"The shadow on your brow is like a bruise to my esteem. Are you unhappy with our congress, Prince?"

"Self-conscious."

"Oh?"

“Your semen."

"Was it not tasty? I ate no garlic. Should I...?"

"No; the taste was fine."

"But?"

"I have qualms about my fondness for the deed itself."

"Because it is forbidden by your Faith?"

"By my Faith and by my masculinity, too. Do you notice how I cup your breasts whenever I imbibe? It reassures me you are first and foremost female. Were your nether parts conventional..."

"You would love me even more?"

"Already, you are my favorite. I request your presence often; more than often. To the detriment of others, I prefer your special favors. Were my love to pass the bounds I set to ensure a stress-free household, envy might breed enmity. The jealous might revolt. Harm might come to you, to me, to all who live in peace here. But this is less at issue than my manly pride itself. Sex with you has given rise to doubts. None of them your fault, to be sure; you are as Allah made you."

"I am as I was made; the hand of Man took equal part."

"The hand of Man does naught except by Allah’s leave."

Disinclined to argue, Nana struggles with the fact that she has caused the Prince a pang which could erode the very root of their relations. Tactfully, she tucks her shrunken member out of sight (concealed within the folds of her scrotum-anchored labia), then shifts beneath the Prince, guiding his troubled brow from genitals to armpit, situating his cheek near her spheroid breast, hoping its proximity will dispel his reservations, wishing it could nurture and restore his mental health, grateful when his lips enclose the pacifying nipple— poised to reinstate His Royal equanimity.

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