Sadness of the Dusk The roses of the dusk bloomed again tonight golden, rosy, and purple they faded tonight shedding their leaves as I viewed them every evening and every time I drink their fragrant dew from their bloomed dawn I get intoxicated in their soft and last breath I consume each joy to its best. Yet upon gazing the dusk tonight, I thought of our love, that someday it will end and when the roses of the dusk bloomed golden, rosy, and purple as they faded tonight shedding their leaves this evening I got saddened.
The funeral home personnel took care of the dirty work of shoveling the soil over and sealing the plot. A sign with the late priest’s name was placed on top until the official headstone would be brought to the school and at that time they would place it where it belonged. It was a graciously looking day with a few scattered clouds which created the oscillating mood of sunny and bright emotions to melancholy and somber sensations suitable for a funeral. Anton and Dylan attended the funeral as did all Residential School personnel. After the ceremony Anton stepped around the grounds looking at the plots and reading the names of the dead people; he was always attracted to the numbers of a dead person’s life and he quickly calculated in his mind the year of birth and death of the person to see how old or young they had died. At one point he came across a cross signifying burial site but there was no name or any sign relating to the dead person buried in the plot. He walked to Dylan and asked him. “There is a burial plot without any name; do you know who was buried there?” Dylan walked with Anton to the burial site and upon seeing it he remarked: “This was a mass grave, for the children who died during the virus epidemic ten years ago; remember George referred to it the other day?” “Ah, yes, but how many children died that time Dylan?” “I don’t think anyone knows the exact number, son. However there were at least one hundred deaths; we buried them in bunches, it was hell, I tell you, the priests and all other personnel were overwhelmed with the deaths which occurred on a daily basis and no records were kept, detailed or accurate records, I mean.”
young woman, whom Eteo found pleasant and sociable. She was a Chinese-Canadian whose parents lived in Coquitlam. Eteo took Jonathan and drove to a pool hall at Broadway and Ontario where Jonathan had discovered they had one table of European billiards, a game at which his uncle was a master. “Will I ever win against you, uncle?” Jonathan asked after Eteo had taken the third game in a row. Eteo laughed. “You will when I let you” he answered, and Jonathan laughed too. They sipped their lattes and played again and when they had finished, Eteo drove back to the house just as the cleaning ladies were putting their things away. For dinner, Eteo suggested a visit to Mythos, a Greek spot on Lonsdale where he knew the owner and the boys always enjoyed their meals. It was a fairly new place, and Angelo had done an expert job decorating the interior since he was already a partner in another restaurant on Marine Drive. In the kitchen he had a cook whom Eteo also knew well, and whose special appetizer of mussels was what Eteo liked the most about the place. Angelo’s sister, who worked as the hostess, took them to their table. They were all hungry and fell like vultures on their appetizers of humus, calamari, and pitta bread as soon as they came. By the time the main courses arrived, they were almost full, but that only meant they had plenty to take home at the end of the evening. Early next morning, with the clock on the night table reading 4:00, Eteo still tossed and turned in bed, unable to go to sleep, his mind racing through a myriad of thoughts like a crazy monkey on a big tamarind tree jumping from branch to branch as if in desperate search for something hidden there. The bedroom was a little too warm, and his breathing was as loud and irregular as his thoughts. He often planned his next day while awake in his bed the night before, so this morning wasn’t any different from others. Fully awake now, Eteo let his eyes travel around the walls. The window was still very dark at this time in the morning. Light would come no earlier than seven, but he felt the need to talk to someone. Who would be there for him to call and talk right now? The sounds of the house were regular and steady.
“Wow!” She applauded wildly when he finished. But he didn’t stop. Ernesto left for a few moments then reappeared quietly with an enormous, half-empty box of chocolates wrapped in brown paper which he offered to her. They were old, mottled with discolouration, probably kept for his infrequent visitors, but she took one and thanked him. He left again hurriedly and this time returned with a saxophone. She settled back to listen again, a Duke Ellington number that she recognized as “C Jam Blues.” Ernesto stepped in for a few riffs on the sax then put the instrument down to take up a chair beside Jennifer and listen to Volodya play. Although he appeared to be studying the keys as he played, she felt him look up every so often, gauging her reaction. Was that simply a performer who loved an audience? Or something deeper, more demanding? She wasn’t sure and felt a slight shiver. “Are you cold?” Ernesto leaned over to her and offered another chocolate. “Even in summer this room is cool.” Volodya ignored them and continued to play. “No, thank you. It’s a wonderful room. It was once so elegant, I think.” “It was the formal dining room for the house when the bourgeoisie lived here. You see how this wall cuts off the rest of the room? When it was whole, the dining room took up 30 square meters of floor space—all for one wealthy family.” “And was the piano here then, too?” she asked. “It looks old.” Now, she noticed how the black lustre had worn down to a scuff in many places, how the legs were chipped. “You must be the one who keeps it in tune?” “Yes, I take care of it. It’s also pre-revolutionary.” Here, Ernesto smiled with pride. He might dismiss the ostentatious living quarters of the wealthy, but he obviously cherished their toys. “It’s why I can’t leave the apartment. I won’t leave without it and we can’t fit it through this door.” He laughed out loud and Volodya glanced up and smiled. “So it sat here all during the revolution and the siege of Leningrad and everything?” she asked. “I’m surprised someone didn’t burn it for firewood during those terrible winters.” “Someone loved this piano—dearly,” Ernesto replied, then he added sheepishly, “and you know I only let those play who also love the piano. Vlad is a flashy scoundrel, but he loves to play.”
Rachael didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. She had been excited to come here today when Uncle Morley and Auntie Tyne had brought them. But now she wished she could be back in the bedroom on the farm, the one she had shared with Bobby. She lay in bed, staring at the light reflected on the ceiling from the street lamp on the corner of the avenue where Auntie Ruby lived. The soft snores of her two cousins kept her wakeful, but that was better than having them fight over who would sleep on which side of the lumpy mattress, and playfully, or so she hoped, try to push her out of bed. Rachael had never shared a bed with anyone before, not even when she lived at Auntie Tyne’s house. Now she had to sleep with two squirmy girls who seemed no happier to share their bed with her than she was with them. Six-year-old Lark had not been so mean, but her older sister, Lyssa, had been especially nasty. Rachael didn’t know what she had done to make Lyssa mad. When they used to visit each other’s homes, they had usually got along. Did Lyssa think her cousin was going to take something that didn’t belong to her? Rachael would never do such a thing – her mom had taught her and Bobby never to touch anyone else’s property. Well, she hadn’t, and she wouldn’t, and she hoped Lyssa would be nicer tomorrow. Rachael thought of her new clothes that she had so…
Trap of the Castaways I don’t know what happens in the wild high mountains at night or in the middle of the day. However, I know all about the mysterious ghosts that live alone on peaks of deserted hills. I know their habits well and that they don’t distance themselves from the high places they have chosen as their residence. How the wanderer who passes close by or from afar, noon hour or evening, discerns them, sees them, sometimes fluttering like war banners, other times taking strange shapes of four pieces of wood under the cover of a thick layer of dry cypress branches, like the tents Albanian shepherds put together like the echo of a flute. Other times they travel on faraway unexplored seas, on board ancient oil tanks, yet always, under the Hellenic flag, certainly in memory of the god Pan. Thus, the simple, natural, logical, and even psychological
result is to leave the factory lights on during the night and the huge piles of garbage and empty cans in the fields. Everything in the name of Pan. Yet, the electrical lights Prove to be useless and only sometimes, here and there, light wind-stricken seashores, wooden abandoned shacks, seaweed and petrified bones of the flood animals and marble busts of emperors and poets.
Response In the tempest’s wrath I longed for a glimmer of hope in the heat of July I seek the tanned smooth body of the woman and the north wind said find your path in your ancestor’s footsteps lean and reverently lift the marble over their gravesite to feel their warmth and I asked the southwest wind where is my sunshine and it said, it hides in your heart
Now Hakim finds the opportunity to get back to the subject which has been on his mind for the past two days. “Please tell me, my uncle, what you know about Jennifer’s dad and the Admiral? What work, in particular, do they do for the CIA?” Ibrahim looks at him closely, “It is a long story,my son; however, you deserve the truth. I promise we’ll discuss that on our trip to New York; leave it alone for the time being. By the way, let me ask you a question. How do you see your relationship with young Jennifer? How do you see yourself in the next little while with her, or is she just a flirt whom you’ll leave behind when you return home? You know, you may find yourself with a lot more responsibilities than you have in mind so far.” Hakim is unprepared for such a discussion, but Ibrahim is right; he has to make up his mind regarding his relationship with Jennifer, sooner or later. He asks himself the same question sometimes and doesn’t have the answer. He’s not sure where he wants their relationship to go, not yet. “I don’t know, my uncle; I like Jennifer. I like her a lot, but I haven’t thought of anything beyond the present. She’s just a girl I see these days.” “You mean she hasn’t touched you in a special way?” Really, has she touched him in a special way? He wonders. He turns and looks deep into his uncle’s eyes, and the old man who knows life sees in Hakim’s eyes a young man in love. He smiles at him and says, “I see that she has touched you in a lot of different ways, my dear son. That being said, you are a young man, and a young woman will always be welcomed next to you. Whomever you choose to have next to you is going to be my favorite one. Remember, always remember the priority of things and devote the necessary time to each. You will learn as you go. She also has to know how far she can go with her wants, when you need to put extra time into the family business. Women are always welcome in the life of a man, particularly a young man. Our relationships with them are of a certain kind; each of us has his own way of defining that, and each of us learns from his own experience with a woman who we are and what we like in life. But always remember that you give your woman the part of you that belongs to her, and the rest of you belong to you and nobody else.” Hakim appreciates his uncle’s comments and doesn’t hesitate to let him know. “I know, my uncle, I appreciate your advice on everything. Your opinion is always most important to me. That’ll never change, I promise.” “Thank you, my dear son.” Before they part Hakim learns he has to be at the hotel the next morning at about seven, as their flight is at 10:15 a.m. and they have to be at the airport two hours earlier.
Sweat broke out on my nape and forehead. The woman watched me closely, giving me the annoying feeling that she could read my thoughts. Perhaps she was a witch. When a gourd filled with a milky beverage of uncertain origin arrived under my nose, I began to miss my countrymen. Tamanoa held it while the rest awaited my reaction. The children giggled and I smiled, raising one eyebrow at them. I took the gourd out of Tamanoa’s grasp, noticing the quizzical expression in his eyes. “It’s chicha,” he informed me. I sat down on the ground and crossed my legs, minding the Seraphic Rosary so that it rested on the cloth of my cassock stretched between my knees. I raised my eyes to heaven, as much to bless the chicha as to ask for help. Well, Salvador, if you want the dog, you’ll have to accept the fleas, I told myself, and took a gulp. It wasn’t completely unpalatable. Had I known that its fermentation was aided by the spittle of the women who concocted it, I might have been less inclined to drink it. I passed it along, fighting the urge to retch, eyes watering. Mater Dei, please tell me that gourd never covered anyone’s genitals, I prayed. The sight of another male with his foreskin neatly strangled with a cord that went about his hips, his balls—wrinkled and saggy—hanging like a cockerel’s wattles, made me regurgitate the devil-sent chicha. I kept swallowing it back until, able to escape unnoticed, I hid behind a tree and vomited my guts out.
We neared Nueva Segovia de Barquisimeto, a city founded in 1552, along a murky river the Caquetíos Indians had called Variquesemeto long before the Spaniards began renaming everything. Diego de Losada led the way on his magnificent black Andalusian horse, which seemed to share its master’s dreams of greatness. All horses except my Babieca were proud, elegant beasts with thick necks, strong chests and powerful, arched croups. Bred from the first horses to arrive from La Española,
Manolis Aligizakis 