Heroes And we were young, untried voices, silent, contemplative, crisp peaches, fresh summer songs touch of a rose at dawn, innocence, royalty effusing each of us having a universe in our hand like a marble and they armed us and took us to the borders; they bestowed death unto our scopes with the accuracy of surgeon and what could we do with such instruments and with targets standing at the edge of the plain laughing and scolding us? We started shooting against anything moving with such a strange joy that even now after all these years I can’t explain and having taught us how to kill they euphemized us by ultimately calling us heroes
There is a deep hunger to have the sunshine of their former homes, and of their great-grandparents’ former homes. There are these stories that persist about how wonderful life was, and how sunny it was, and how warm it was. But, with the exception of this little coastal strip, this is a very cold country. You’re trying to give paintings of vast, distant places that are freezing cold, to Canadians. Why would anyone, with the psyche I’ve described, even think of buying one? They won’t even come out to look at them.” “Well, Jesus!” “Go ahead – break my argument.” “What else about these paintings then? “One word – pretty. The Canadian art scene is almost non-existent, but what passes for imagery in the public mind at large is pretty. Doreen! Doreen! Bring some magazines!” Fraser grabbed the top one, from the stack Doreen delivered, and opened it at random. He turned two pages and pointed. “Look – here’s an ad – it’s perfect. Isn’t that a pretty photograph? Do you notice that it has a white, sandy beach, a scantily clad couple, and palm trees? People work very, very hard to make money, so they can save some up and go to that place – and it’s very pretty. That’s what is in their minds. You and I are the children and grandchildren of peasants, and we have their tastes.” Fraser reached into his pack of cigarettes, pulled out a fresh one, and lit it from the butt that had almost burned down to his fingertips. “It’s taken Europe an eon to get to its appreciation of art. You’re expecting too much, too quickly.” “But, if we don’t push we won’t get anywhere,” Ken said. “It’s not just a matter of pushing the public. We have to find individuals who will get behind this. It’s not just good old Alex and Ken who are going to go and foist this on the country. It’s a much bigger story.” Ken left the gallery deep in thought. Yes, there was truth in what Fraser had said but it wasn’t the whole truth. Canada was ready for his paintings. The Group of Seven was proof. Fraser thought they were rubbish too. If he wanted to tell his story through his paintings, it wouldn’t be with Alex Fraser by his side. Unexpectedly, Ken received a letter from his Aunt Vicki in Madrid. She had taken the photographs he had sent her, of his latest paintings, and shown them to a popular gallery owner who wanted to exhibit them. He tapped the note against his desk, read it again, and picked up a pen. He wrote a letter to Mr. McEachern, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, describing his good fortune in coming to Canada, and telling him how he had arrived in this country. He wrote about his art and said that he wished to go back to Europe for an exhibition in Madrid.
Two doors opened off this part of the landing. One led to Caitlin’s room. The other had led to Nora’s room, but Nora was married now and had a home of her own in the village. Caitlin and Nora, night and day, his sisters in all but blood. The priest turned sharply to the right and followed the landing alongside the stairwell to the front of the house. The old, brown wood of a large cupboard glowed in the lamplight. The door of the bedroom to the right of the cupboard stood half-open, and heavy, catarrhal breathing rasped in the dark interior. Old Finn has feasted well and sleeps like a king, thought the tired priest. Better not disturb him. The priest turned to the door of the bedroom to the left of the cupboard. His old room. The room in which he had lived as a boy, laboured over his books with the patient Caitlin, grew to be a man, a young, raw man, dedicated to God. Was the room the same as when he had left it? Yes, it would be. Nothing ever changed here. Tonight, or what was left of the night, he would sleep again in the old iron bed with the patchwork quilt. Nostalgic remembrance pierced the priest’s heart. The blood drained out into his belly and down into his loins. The hot blood chilled and made him shiver. The hair rose on the nape of his neck. Seven years ago last September. Seven momentous years. Seven long strides from aspiring youth to zealous priest. He turned the handle, and the door opened without a sound. He stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind him, and walked with silent tread across the polished wooden floor to the bed. He set the lamp down on the dresser. “Caitlin,” he said in involuntary surprise. She lay in a cloud of eiderdown. Gleaming even in the dark, her black hair trailed across the pillow, across the shoulder of her green-flowered nightgown. Her arm lay outside the shiny green covers. The priest leaned forward and touched the cool back of her hand. The body turned. The black cirrus stirred on the pillow. Caitlin, the priest thought. My God, what a beautiful woman you are. He had come unwittingly to the wrong room. Caitlin had given up her own old room and moved in here for some reason. Yet little beyond the bedclothes had changed from the way he remembered it. Caitlin had changed, though. She looked more mature and even more beautiful. Having seen her, he felt he had to talk to her. “Caitlin,” he whispered.
Manolis Aligizakis 