PLEASE CALL ME SERVANT by MILENA ODA (books you need to read TXT) 📖

Part I: MY NAME IS SERVANT


My name is servant.
And I request you to address me as such; I am Servant and am called Servant. An individual does not, as people imagine, require a first and second name. My name is Servant. When people persist in asking ‘what are your first and second names?’ I turn away and refuse to listen. The gentlefolk claim not to comprehend me? How else should servants indicate their servitude? They are astonished, shake their heads, stare at me and still will not understand. ‘I cannot assist you with an answer sir.’ They ask me again, trying to unnerve me. ‘Your name is Steven Servant?’ No, my name is Servant. I have no answer to questions such as ‘Why do you call yourself Servant?’ It pains me that I must hear words such as ‘unfortunate’ and ‘pitiable’, must continually point out my vocation. You do not see a Servant? You have not noticed my resplendent livery? People rely on patterns, and if they are missing, the world dims around them. Servant is neither a Christian- nor a surname; my name might have been Footman, Valet or Right Hand Man. I could also be called Aide, Adjunct, Attendant or Lackey, but no word better describes my character, always ready to serve, than Servant. I have always been the quiet accompaniment to the loud melody: chestnut seller, newspaper deliverer, keeper at the military museum, porter, doorman. I began as a lackey and I wish to finish as one.
I am enthralled by subordinance, its self-effacing constraints. My sense of self is insufficient (a servant’s sense of self) and I cannot and will not live in liberty. Independence is unbearable to me. I shy away from freedom and free time. I panic when I don’t know what I have to do. I can only do what is required of me. I seek release from the burden of individuality and willingly put myself on a lead. I want to be available to my master day and night like an object, for the master is incapable of basic tasks and only the Servant can fulfil them for him, only he wants to. The Servant is air, his master’s air, who needs it to breathe. Only a good master knows how to treat the servant; if you wish to show your Servant consideration you must allow him to sense your superiority and you must never release him from your sphere of influence.
I am always dressed in my livery (except during my morning and evening ablutions) so I believe there is no reason (any more) to call me Leonard. I require a lengthy pause for breath when I hear the word ‘Leonard’ or must speak it. If I deliberately call myself Leonard, it means I wish to leave a long, deep scar in my body. I have to leave something there, someone indeed, who I wish to be... so I am disparaging about myself. There really is no-one left to whom I am Leonard. And certainly not when I face people in my livery. I stand before him in my livery and call him, ‘my master’! He knows full well what it means – to me – to wait patiently by someone with the obedient composure of a servant.
I advocate traditional serving values. I am the embodiment of a court attendant’s courtesy. The searching gaze of my wide-spaced eyes betrays my innate servility. ‘Alongside your utter obsequiousness there’s also a certain honesty to your plucky little cross-eyed face,’ the mother used to tease me. My eyes are wet and bulbous, and I have ‘water on the brain’ with a broad forehead and protruding ears. She called me ‘my baboon’. I have large ears – an unmistakable sign of a congenital developmental disorder. My colourless hair points to a serious degeneracy. Nature made me ugly. When I open my mouth I reveal a cleft between my two front teeth. I think of this repugnant gap every time I have to speak; I would rather use sign language. I stutter over the simplest greetings. Uttering even a brisk ‘Good morning’ is difficult. I have no desire to wish anyone except my master a good day or a good evening. It is required of the Servant that he exchange words only with his master. Forcing me to speak has a crushing effect. My stutter consciously restrains me from contact. I maintain distance from anyone not interested in me as a Servant. I like to serve in company where I can genuinely be of service. I deploy every resource of my soul to uphold my servant psyche.
In the morning I look in the tiny mirror with one eye closed, in order not to see more than my chin and jaw while shaving. Leonard never looks in the large mirror when he is naked. Only the naked man is called Leonard. How inept this Leonard is. I abhor Leonard’s degenerate masculinity. A hideous individual. I am overcome by a ghastly angst if forced to see myself without my livery. I detest the asymmetry of my body. It is ten years since I last saw my deformed frame exposed in a mirror. This grotesque sight causes me pain and embarrassment. When I see myself naked, I beat and tear and hate myself. Leonard’s ugly physicality is a mixture of the ridiculous and the merciless; nature made a joke at his expense when she begat him. How damned similar he is to a poor cripple in every detail of his own wounded, malformed appearance! How disgusting to be like such people! I am precisely like them. A vile hound. Naked and debased, Leonard barks helpless on his lead.
If I put on my finest livery and pull on the exquisite white silken gloves, the bland individual Leonard becomes a snappy, dapper Servant. Then I stand in front of the tall mirror and admire the allure of the attractive Servant before me. What release: an unleashed dog’s euphoric cry! The moment each morning when I see myself in the delightful livery is a vision of style, a feeling of joy. I begin my service with renewed courage and resolve.
And I do not answer the question, ‘why do you wear your livery outside of your working hours?’ I remain silent in line with Rule 8. I, the Servant, wear livery day and night, and this livery is my skin, my ego. The livery allows me to call myself I, raises my status. It is the highest honour to wear the livery constantly, and to be clothed in it in the presence of a master. This is dictated by the most important rule, Rule 1.


My Serving Rules

My rules are my be-all and end-all, my religion. Every day is shaped by my master’s needs. I examine his (my) list of instructions and amend it with the latest orders. Every day I practice what I have not fully mastered. I reflect on each new instruction he gives me and thus determine new rules; I am not permitted to miss a day. When he commends me as ‘praiseworthy’ or ‘admirable’, the childish Servant is delighted. Only thing one matters to the Servant: my every action must be performed with flawless ceremony.
My rules and principles govern my behaviour. I do nothing which does not appear in my serving rules. I am the Servant the rules are to guide, therefore nothing can go askew, nor should it ever. I believe in a regulated service. Only thanks to the serving rules (and the Servant’s nature) can I achieve truly perfect service. My daily engagement with the intricacies of my rules fills me with satisfaction; I continually practice them, with stony rigidity, expanding them as necessary. They soothe and gratify my servant’s soul. Every regulation I have devised receives a privileged place in my book of rules. I strive never to break a rule. The rules are my law, guaranteeing respectability and order, honouring these ideals.

Rule 1: My name is Servant. I serve with restrained zeal and composure and I always wear (clean) livery.
In accordance with Rule 1, I wear the livery – my grand and glorious livery – all the time (the lowly one allows himself to stipulate this condition), even in my sleep, because like the dog I am a creature of both day and night, cheerful and loyal throughout, ready at any moment to leap up and serve in my livery. I do not wish to wear everyday clothes. What desolation, master, if you allow me to serve in civilian, normal clothing! I am not lonely however; I have a master and belong to the fraternity of the servants, although they have not adopted me, despite my achievements.
What worth this livery lends me! I have hung a sign in each of my rooms: As servant in the livery I feel I am a substantial and valuable I, heeding his duties and always prepared to stand in his livery in the service of the other, doggedly loyal and obedient! I repeat: I feel better in uniform than in civilian clothing. I hate normal trousers, normal pullovers. I suffocate. I suffer from a bacterial allergy when I wear normal clothes! My livery is the completion of my self! The English servants wear their livery at all times, within as well as outside of The Palace. On the streets, accusing bystanders ask, ‘Why such embarrassing extravagance?’ What impertinent lines of inquiry some strangers follow. Their questions make me furious and fearful. I cannot be of service to you with an answer sir, I say. Or I remain silent and walk on loftily in my sortie-livery. I do not wish to justify myself to any man. Their curiosity does not touch my heart, my servant’s heart; I do not wish to be Leonard again, not in the slightest. The majority of normal people do not appreciate my skills, what it means to me to appear before them, the finest of servants.
If only I had been born in one of the wonderful lands of service! There, no-one shakes their heads in amazement when I project myself as an assiduous servant – and call myself Servant. There they really understand the servant’s soul.
My liveries are my most prized possessions. I own three, all glorious, unique crossbreeds, as am I. Today I am serving in the scarlet and black one: a black tailcoat with golden buttons, modelled on a Danish servant’s dress coat, broad gold seams and gold trims around each arm, and green stripes, a millimetre wide, reaching down from the jacket’s breast to the waistband; every livery button, engraved with the words Numquam servari, is rubbed sparkling every morning; scarlet Dutch trousers, a white shirt, scarlet bow tie, blossom-white gloves. Scarlet socks complete the ensemble, rendering me fit for service – how inventive this tiny detail is. ‘Your imagination delights me Servant,’ my master flatters me, always ready with a word of praise for his devoted servant. A fine master!
I had my champagne-coloured sortie-livery tailored on the model of a Spanish manservant’s dress; Spanish liveries deploy leisurely, nuanced colours, with garnishments to the cuffs, the shoulders and trouser hems which verge on the seductive. This warm, Mediterranean feeling buoys me up and gives me courage. A further feature, Norwegian, is the discrete, silver ornament at the end of the sleeves. The champagne-coloured livery lends my figure the impression of relaxed playfulness, combining favourably with the ascetic features innate to servants. Despite emulating diverse livery styles, I aspire to the manners, behaviour and gait of an English servant, and present myself clearly as an English royal valet. The royal motifs on my English livery – which is chiefly anthracite-blue