THE DREAM Listen to my dream, my love, my goddess of beauty. I dreamed that one night I walked out with you. We sauntered together in a beautiful garden and in awe you gazed at all the gleaming stars. So I asked them, tell me, oh stars, are any of you up there as bright as the eyes of my love? Tell me if you’ve ever seen such glorious hair, or such a hand, or such a leg such otherworldly beauty which anyone who sees at once demands to know how such an angel can exist on earth here, without wings. With every kiss that night you sweetly gave me, oh my love, a new rose bloomed in that garden of roses and bloomed the whole night long until the dawn light discovered us together, our faces pallid now. My love, this was my dream. It now depends on you to keep me in your heart until my dream becomes reality
“It was your choice. I can remember those lights in the living room. Who are you kidding? “ She stubs out her fag and composes herself. “You know, Lucas, if you were a single working mother with a little boy—just like you—who was trying to sort out her life after divorcing a very destructive man, and somebody offered you some really useful money to tell your side of the story, to help other people, I think that even you would kid yourself that it was worth a go.” She watches him squat down on the circular rug, amid the scattered video cassettes. It’s sometimes best to play it cool with Lucas. Although she’s still hot and cold all over, in shock, a very nasty after-shock. After all these years the dread vibrations won’t stop, the business of Nick goes on exhuming itself. Now Lucas starts to shift mechanically through his overlapping papers—the exam results slip, his college prospectuses, the list of phone calls he hasn’t made—as if some emerging permutation of words will spell out the secret knowledge he’s craving, or dreading. But he’s not going to give up. “Surely as your only child I have a right to know . . .” “Lucas, I’ve told you all you need to know. I’d like it to remain my problem, please. ” She’s keeping extremely busy and business-like, tidying away the half-empty bottles of red wine, Lucas’s scattered socks, last week’s Guardian and the new work-scheme she hasn’t even started. She must assert her control, no more tears, keep up the balancing act. Neither of them look at the telly, which now seems to exist in its own isolated space in the corner of the darkened room. The shimmering image of Pauline is suspended there like a watery reflection of the moon. There’s an odd tang in the air, not the freshness of summer rain, but a faint ammoniac taint. The storm rumbles on. Lucas wanders around the furniture in circles. He’s both unpredictable, and relentless, like the weather. “All you’ve said, in effect, is ‘Your father’s been a horrible embarrassment to everybody, especially his ex-wife, but if you’re ever so good you’ll be able to visit him annually and watch him taking his big purple pills and going gaga . . .’ That’s been the idea, hasn’t it? Containment. A father-free zone. What’s this creature you’re protecting me from? ” Last year that gaunt bespectacled figure in pajamas was too doped to do anything except grin vacantly on a cue from beefy orderlies. It was all stage-managed. “There’s your fine upstanding lad, Nick. How about a smile for Lucas, then? ” After fifteen minutes of watching that empty grin, those wandering eyes, Lucas couldn’t take any more, he was close to screaming. But Dad could still slur mysteriously in his ear. Which made them fellow-conspirators.
BEVAN LONGHORN is in his office Monday morning, his desk covered in paperwork that he has to get through before the day is over. His personnel have just adjusted to Matthew Roberts’s absence and Bevan has been left with only two middle managers to handle the work of three. He considers promoting one officer to Matthew’s post, but there are twenty-odd people to choose from, all qualified for the position. Bevan must give it more serious consideration. He wants to make major changes to the structure of the office, but he has to fight with the rest of the brass, particularly the ones well-connected with the administration and the state department. He cannot put up any longer with the way things are done and the way things they produce are used by the hawks in higher places. He has his own circle of people who would agree with him on certain things; it would just be a matter of rallying the troops. His friend Jerry Wolverton is the best example. He retired as a three- star general and left the army seven years ago with pride and a sense of accomplishment after working in Iraq for five and a half years, in charge of the reconstruction of public projects that accommodated all Iraqi government personnel of various departments. Jeremiah Wolverton got his extra star and a very good severance package, and although retired, can still pull a lot of strings both in the state department and within the ranks of the army. Bevan decides to call him. “Hello, Bevan, my old friend. Are you still in service?” Jerry jokes when he hears who’s calling him. “Of course I’m still in service. We cannot all retire at the same time; the army wouldn’t know what to do without us” “You’re right about that, my good, old friend; what makes you remember me? Trouble?” It’s Bevan’s turn to laugh at the general’s comment. “No, no trouble at all; just the need to say hi to my good friend and see what he’s up to these days.” “Well, I’m doing okay. I play the odd golf game here and there, I walk a lot, still take holidays with the old woman; other than that, nothing much.
But gimme a shady jungle and a can of Mulligan stew. There’s lots of sky and sunshine wherever I chance to roam, But how are you going to see them, if you always stay at home? The men in white coats were passing out cigars when darkness fell and everyone vanished. The tail lights of the President’s car disappeared down the track. Three men came out of the orchard, running toward Poodie, swinging clubs. They knocked him to the ground and began hitting him. He rolled and twisted. The clubs came crashing down. He tried to get up and run, but the men grabbed his arms and legs and ran with him toward the river. His back banged against rocks and stumps. He could feel blood running down his face as they threw him. They watched, laughing, as the current swept him away. He tried to swim, but the water rolled over him. He began to sink, and a whirlpool pulled him down, down toward the bottom.
Manolis Aligizakis 