Focusing Again, and always the selection and the contest are hard. We stood on the stone terrace for a while listening to the vertical silence of the trees occasionally interrupted by the minimal exclamation of a finch. The faraway mountains are lighter blue than the unreachable. What can you look at? He asked, what can you avoid, what can you remember? We hid the holed undershirt with the small monogram between two pillows. The hole was passed onto the body and the wall, while the three blind men held their violins underarm, raising their heads slowly to look straight at you.
And they said to one another: Who’s the one with the violin who isn’t pleasing our hearts and inflames the surprise and anger in our viscera? Who’s conniving with his unwise hand awakening this violin which talks of what we watch it doesn’t see and what we hold it doesn’t keep and in all festivities and joys the anguish stands before us like the traitor of our kin and killer of our joy? No other bow has ever played such ugly, novice and imperfect music on any gypsy violin like the music of this foolish one. And only the young children oh the beloved children filled my serene loneliness turning it into my main fun since my violin always surprised and attracted them and they run around me with their big and bright eyes into which they always had hidden a tiny secret and they made of all their surprise and awe a great silence and joy from my violin, the cursed violin as if my own race, from the far future time.
indeed Mr. Wilson was there with an Indian girl who he violated sexually in front of their eyes. What could they do with such a secret? Marcus shook his head. “We could tell the teachers about this…you know,” Marcus said to Lucas then he added, “no we’d better let know George; yes, he’s the one we should let know, no one else. You promise? No one else for now…” he added and Lucas nodded yes. With an undoubted ache filling their hearts they took the piece of wood they went to the wood working shop for and as silently as they could they returned to their beds. Marcus hid the wood under his mattress hoping to give it to a relative next time he might visit his tribe and ask him to create a totem out of it. Next day the clock struck seven thirty as if someone had struck it with a strap when Marcus and Lucas got up. The Kamloops sky was full of leaden clouds which spread moist over the houses with their green yards and the slanting roofs and on the hearts of the people. Marcus and Lucas and three other kids were peeling potatoes for George when Marcus got his chance to talk to the Cretan cook about the event they witnessed. George freaked out when he heard the detail description of what Mr. Wilson did the night before. So angry he was that he left the kitchen and ran down to Anton’s domain where he related to him what he learned from the boys. Anton’s face darkened, his eyes turned fiery red, his lips tightened as did his fists; he could strike anyone at this moment, so angry he felt, though the guilty person wasn’t around to take the punches. He looked at George and his voice sounded as if coming from the darkness where his heart was now. He gazed at the window facing east while the horizon at the far distance told of the presence of forests, which stood opposite the beastly human behaviour, and valleys with rivers…
…about his belief that there were two St Patricks. He has historical evidence that he says supports his theory. He won’t be home till tomorrow evening.’ Joe turned his head away from her in indecision and stared into the red-hot heart of the fire in the range. ‘Joe, I want to have your baby.’ His head jerked round, and he looked at her with confused incredulity in his eyes, unsure of himself. ‘Nora, think of Liam, your husband.’ ‘Why must you be always so considerate of others, Joe?’ Nora asked. ‘Think of me now. I love you. I want to have your baby. I want something that is yours to hold on to and to cherish for the rest of my life, something that is part of you and part of me that will be a living memorial of our love. Please, Joe. I need this.’ He placed an open palm on each side of her face and looked into her deep, dark eyes where tears glimmered like raindrops on a leaf. He knew that what she was asking him to do was sinful, and part of him recoiled from it. But his moral reluctance was brushed aside by the strong, sexual urges of a twenty-nine- year-old male, more especially of a male who spent most of his time at sea. ‘All right, I’ll stay,’ he said quietly and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll put Owen Joe in his cot and wet a pot of tea,’ Nora said. ‘You can sample the barmbrack I baked this afternoon. We even have home-churned butter to put on it. A gift from Janet’s mother.’ They sat quietly by the fire, Joe in the rocking chair, Nora at his feet, her back against his legs, a book open in her hands. Upstairs the baby slept in the cot at the foot of Nora and Liam’s bed. Outside, the sky was still bright, the setting of the sun delayed by the manipulation of the British war-time summer clock. The limpid blue of the daytime sky was gently suffused with a pale golden glow that spread from the west. A couple of early stars glittered in the east, and Venus shone with a steady gleam in the wake of the lowering sun. ‘You’re going to read me a bedtime story, are you?’ Joe gently stroked Nora’s soft black hair. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I want you to read to me.’ ‘You do, do you?’ Joe said lightly. ‘What have you got there?’ He took the open book that Nora reached to him and flicked the cover over. ‘J.M. Synge.’ ‘Yes. Poor Synge,’ Nora said sadly. ‘He was thirty-five when he fell in love with a girl of nineteen, an actress called Molly All good, the daughter of a “Dour Orangeman” who objected to his children’s being brought up…
Manolis Aligizakis 