Excerpt
Seven
Few mourners stood at the graveside when they laid Lydia Conrad to rest. Several more had been at the funeral home, but not all had opted to come to the cemetery on this hot August afternoon. Near the head of the grave, Corky stood with an arm around each of his children. Tyne had never seen him look so smart; his dark suit may be wrinkled, but he stood erect and steady.
Tyne, holding tightly to Morley’s hand, could not bear to let her eyes linger on the children. But she saw how Bobby held onto his father’s leg, and buried his face in the fabric of Corky’s trousers. Rachael stood straight, hands clasped in front of her, lips set, blue eyes boring into the casket that held her mother.
For the past two days, Rachael had neither cried nor spoken more than a few words to anyone. Her demeanor had been sullen. Yesterday when Tyne, hoping to involve her in activities around the house, asked her to fetch a jar of fruit from the basement, Rachael had leapt from her chair, eyes blazing.
“No, I don’t have to. You’re not my mommy.” She ran from the house, banging the door behind her.
Tyne had not been able to withhold the tears as pain settled around her heart.
Pastor Beecham said a final prayer over the casket,
Excerpt
A dark windy night. Eteocles is about three years old, Nicolas five,
and their mother as old as the worry about how to feed her children
has made her, as old as any mother who lives in the ruins of war, a
woman whose husband is on the front line. It is a windy night, and
the gaps in the doors and windows make an apocalyptic music, as if
the inhabitants of this hovel are walking through the hallways of hell.
Eteocles remembers the scene well. They are sitting around the metal
bucket their mother has made into a heating element. She burns
wood in it, and the heat reaches out perhaps a meter all around it.
They are sitting warming themselves, listening to the wrath of the
tempest just a few meters away beyond the frames of the single door
and the courageous window to the north.
Suddenly from the deadly war of the elements outside a sudden
wind floods the room as the door opens. A man stands in the frame
gazing inside. It is their father returning from the war. He stands
there for long time, not knowing what to say, how to greet them; he
hasn’t seen them for twenty-seven long months. Their mother lets
out a cry, a cry that sounds like the name of the standing man, her
husband, the man who had gone to war when Eteocles was just a few
months old. Her husband is home at last, and she gets up and calls
him inside and walks up to him and hugs him with a fierceness that
expresses the emotional volcano boiling inside her. She hugs him for
a long time, then she pulls away, and their father kneels and calls his
sons to him. Neither of them dares approach this stranger. Eteocles
doesn’t know this man at all, while Nicolas, who was three years old
when his father left his sons, perhaps has some faint memory of him.
Neither of the two dares move toward the man in soldier’s clothes
who calls them again and again until Eteocles observes his feet making
small steps toward the open arms of their father and Nicolas follows
soon after. The soldier clings tightly to them, saying words the
two brothers only feel, the soothing words of a father who has missed
his sons, a man who had gone to war without knowing if he would
ever see them again. They feel those words, and they cuddle with the
man who has come inside their house and ignore the wind that has
entered with him and turned the room into a frozen habitat in which
the small metal bucket with the burning wood cannot warm more
Armchair
The orphaned armchair designing
your body while you fathom
emptiness in the hallows of vanity
away from passion or liturgy
such as the curtain’s swaying
albeit some help from the breeze
a myth of your homecoming turns
the room’s air into pieces and shapes
of limpid alabaster yet you close
your eyes and travel to the moment
I touched your lips with my sun
your lips I touched with the sun of my youth
and the cyclamen sighed
not letting its fervid passion annul your lust
for a spring song
for the vigour and stamina of my love
Excerpt
She stopped at the Blue Bridge, paced on past the Marinsky Palace built for the Grand Duchess Marie, and caught a glimpse of what must surely be ballerinas arriving in a chauffeur- driven car at the Kirov Theatre, their graceful arms laden with costumes and carryall bags. She would attend the ballet. It would be glorious—probably Swan Lake or Giselle.
Suddenly she felt a jolt of pain, a sensation that she recognized as missing Michael. Missing him lots. Was it just missing someone to share the experience with her? Well, she would have that experience with David or Paul. That was okay. Heck, Michael didn’t even like the ballet. Yet she couldn’t help but remember one of the last times they had enjoyed each other’s company. Was it last February, March? It seemed like a million years ago. They had walked to a movie together, through an uncharacteristic sprinkle of snow over Vancouver’s Point Grey, each of them preoccupied. The sadness and distance that enveloped them had lasted all the way to the show, but once they entered, bought popcorn and seated themselves in the sticky seats, they both relaxed. It was a funny film, and he held her hand in the dark. Later, they returned to their married students’ apartment talking together with more animation about the movie, about her essay, about his thesis supervisor.
“What went wrong?” she finally asked him, knowing he would understand that she wasn’t talking about his recent lab experiment. Also knowing that he wouldn’t be able to answer. He would only shrug. In fact, it seemed that her life was very full of loved ones who wouldn’t talk to her. Still, those moments of communication: the laughter in the cinema, the caress on her hand, the discussion about her essay—they were all good. They were shared.
Jennifer continued to stride briskly, restlessly, until she had executed a broad loop which eventually brought her back to the River Moika, one of the many canals that fragmented the city into an island network.
Here, the houses hung over the water, their upper windows nearly touching the shade trees. A graceful wrought-iron bridge, the width of a footpath, led across the Moika into a neighbourhood of worn tenements. She approached it confidently.
THE GUIDE
I followed him, the one who knew the forest.
All kinds of forests,
every stone,
each spring.
I was glad I had a guide
and we hurried not to lose the light.
I’ll reach my goal with him, I thought.
After a while, not too late,
although it was late
we started walking around,
I no longer saw anything around me,
my legs went on aimlessly, stumbling,
I fell into pits, ditches, ravines,
everything seemed strange to my guide too,
we kept colliding into each other,
trees and stones stood in our way,
animals, shadows, screams of owls terrified us.
Gripped by fear and despair
I grabbed my guide’s hand
it was cold, strange,
a tree.
VIII
But what are they after, our souls, traveling
on the decks of decayed ships
crowded with pallid women and crying babies
incapable of forgetting themselves either with the flying fish
or the stars pointed by the tips of the masts?
Rubbed by gramophone records
unwillingly dedicated to inexistent pilgrimages
murmuring broken thoughts from foreign languages?
But what are they after, our souls, traveling
on rotten ships
from harbour to harbour?
Shifting broken stones, breathing
the coolness of pine with greater difficulty each day
swimming in the waters of this sea
and that sea
without a sense of touch
without people
in a homeland that is no longer ours
nor yours.
We knew that the islands were beautiful
somewhere, perhaps around here, where we grope
a bit lower or slightly higher
a very tiny space.
Excerpt
He made a pretence of covering his face with his hands. “Oh no,
please. Only my parents call me Cameron. Everyone else calls me Cam.”
“Okay, Cam. By the way, your dad said you’re here from Vancouver.
May I ask what you do there?”
“I’m a fourth year medical student at the University of British Columbia.”
Tyne’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“So you see, we have more in common than our fathers being
friends. But I’m surprised Dad didn’t tell you. He usually brags about
me to everyone he meets.”
Tyne smiled. “I’m sure he would have gotten around to it. Right
now I think he’s more concerned about losing his gall bladder than
anything else.” She smiled. “And your mother? I’ll bet she’s really
proud of you, too.”
Cam shrugged. “Well, yes and no. Mom was disappointed I didn’t
go into the priesthood. But I didn’t think I could live the celibate life.”
To Tyne’s relief, the waitress came to take their order. She had no
wish to pursue the topic which his last statement could have introduced.
She had known his father was Catholic. And no doubt Cam
knew the same about her. Well, what of it? What could such knowledge
possibly matter to two virtual strangers having a cup of coffee
for no other reason than that their fathers were friends?
The night nurse’s report on Wednesday morning at seven o’clock
revealed that Adeline Koffer’s family had not got their miracle. Their
mother died during the night surrounded by their presence and
their love. Tyne hoped they would consider the end of her suffering
the true miracle, and trust in a merciful God.
In Room 221, old Mrs. Forsyth still clung to life while her exhausted
family popped in and out of the room all day long and all
night long. And in 224, Jeannette Aubert still clutched her rosary and
prayed for the survival of her baby.
When the report had been read, Sister Mary Louise looked at Tyne.
“Mrs. Aubert’s physician has asked Dr. Jenkins to see her today. Will
you make sure he’s not disturbed while he talks to her?”
Tyne could not control her gasp. “Dr. Jenkins? The psychiatrist?
But why, Sister?”
Excerpt
She cleans up the plates and puts them in the dishwasher to get her mind
away from thoughts that will get her nowhere. Then she gets ready to go to
church for the eleven o’clock service; she hopes Jennifer will come home in the
meantime.
Talal has been up for about an hour. He did his meditating while Helena was still
in bed. He showers, puts the coffeemaker on, and is about to get her up. However,
he finds her awake when he goes into the bedroom.
“Good morning, darling,” she says.
Helena stands five foot ten, a beautiful tall, slender woman with a firm, sexy
body. Talal admires her silhouette as she walks naked to get her robe. He goes
behind her and hugs her, feeling the warmth of her body once more. She rubs
herself against him and laughs.
“Enough of this, mister; it’s time I get ready to go. I have things to do, you
know.”
He lets go of her and pours her coffee black, no sugar. She’s sweet enough. He
smiles at the thought.
They have had a great night of lovemaking; Helena is very devoted to the art
of sex and Talal loved every minute of it. Yet, a number of times during the night,
his mind traveled to an older woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, a firm
body, and a very hungry sexual appetite. He knows her husband is on his way to
work today, and after she goes to church to give the day some holiness, he’s sure
he will be able to see her the same afternoon or, at the latest, tomorrow morning.
He also wants to meet with Hakim some time today after Hakim and Uncle
Ibrahim have had their walk in the park.
Helena hops into the shower when his phone rings. It’s Emily. He doesn’t
remember having given her his phone number.
“Hello, Emily.”
“Hello. I’m sorry I’m calling you at your place.” She sounds apologetic.
“No need to be sorry, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, I’m just fine,” she utters, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” Silence
stops her.
“I’m just fine, and you are fine, so everything is fine. I’ll see you later on,
tomorrow?” he questions her.
“Yes, tomorrow, I guess.” She sounds disappointed.
“I’ll call about ten, okay?”
“Yes, ten sounds okay. Have a good day.”
“You, too.” He puts the phone down.
Excerpt
Whitish blue dawn shone
while endlessly roaming
I reached a huge gathering;
totally burning countryside
denial of everything green;
wide red shore, a burning fire
men in cassocks all around,
monks, Christians feeding it
stomping the soil rhythmically
in horrific and lustful cries.
And the fire burned black
papers, sheets of papyrus
resembling bodies, hands
and faces amid the smoke
the flames, the sparkles
a few minds flew high up
matching their flight with
the skylarks.
And further away stood
another group, presenting
noble thoughts and kind
sadness.
And I knew them,
the polytheists, persecutors
of Christians, pagans and
philosophers, dream chasers
kneeling worshippers,
of the forgotten Hellas
who observed the fire on
the holy altar as if guarding
remains gathered for
their new temple.
Watchers of the fire, what
of this fire burning here?
Manolis Aligizakis 