And if someone happened to saunter on the opposite hill with the thorns when the sun goes down and everything is pale, vague and violet when they all seem to be lost and at the same time approachable, that lonely passerby who saunters on the hill looks calm and likable like one who could feel sympathetic towards us, even the hill looks serene at the same height as our window, so much so that if one turns this way to look at the cypresses, it seems that in more steps he could pass by our terrace, enter our room like an old familiar friend, and, I think he could also ask for a brush to dust off his shoes. Yet the man vanishes behind the hill and the contour of the mountain remains opposite our window like silent forgiveness, along with the sad, calm sunset that fades amid the shadows. And don’t think that we have adapted but what are you doing? Everyone has deserted us; we have deserted everyone too. We’ve established an almost just balance without reciprocal enmity, regret, and sadness of course, how else could it be?
III Flocks of stars descend into your eyes to quench their thirst, the wind heals in your hair your neck is made of moon steel your breasts two knives that stab silence your mouth insubordinate orbit of the sun your teeth days of a short summer after the first rains. We search for your secret in the deep water well of your voice.
Twenty-Fourth Hour My words ripple in the air meshing untangling a spider’s web you fall into as though in emotional fervor of our last kiss before the boat’s departure while an alarming uncertainty and guilt beats the inside walls of your heart swells with our intense crescendo shuddering at His zeal when such concepts as parochial narrow-minded petty incidental unfold their perennial petals on the horizon and I’m pulled down as though in a whirlpool as smug God stands admiring the results of insane sanity and as His zealot starts to speak with eloquence the stars suddenly turn into black holes or wall of a tsunami swallowing meaningless and important measly and grand old experienced Death having been there and done that steps out in His fine pressed suit with a tie smartly knotted and creates balance with His gift of greatness to all little insects all unimportant winds every petite bird and minnow who dare ask ‘do you like what you see?’ and the oceans plumb their wisdom peering into depths of cathedral dungeons answering: who cares?
The galley kitchen was utilitarian and old-fashioned with a two-burner gas stove, a scarred countertop and a tiny porcelain sink. Marta peeled cucumber and kept her back to Jennifer, her posture erect. “May I help you?” Jennifer asked. There was no answer. Suddenly Jennifer knew exactly what to say. “Is that cabbage rolls I smell?” she asked. “Mom used to make those—were they ever good.” The shoulders relaxed slightly and Marta turned, wiped her hands on a dishcloth and said with a wan smile, “Yes, they are Misha’s favourite, too.” The conversation was polite but not warm over the dinner table although Nadya recovered some of her childish energy and rattled on to Jennifer about her school work and her friends. As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Marta directed Volodya and Jennifer to Nadya’s room, hastily vacated for the night in order to accommodate the travellers. The single bed had been made up with clean sheets for one person and a series of cushions had been placed on the floor with a quilt on top. “I’m sorry we don’t have more beds and another room for you,” Marta said coolly. “But I think you will be comfortable in here.” Marta closed the door behind her, leaving Jennifer and Volodya staring at each other wordlessly. She turned away, wanting only to sleep and too exhausted to challenge his behaviour. He began undressing with no further comment. But as they prepared for bed, a knock on the door startled them. Misha’s head appeared around the door. “Can I see you, Zhen? I’ll be in the living room.” Wrapping her robe around her, she glanced at Volodya and left the room. Misha was sitting on the uncomfortable sofa. “This is where we should have started—right when you arrived, Zhen.” He patted a worn, leather-bound album. “Forgive me that I did not show you this sooner.” Family photos, thought Jennifer. How will this help? Misha opened the album lovingly, smoothing the pages. She sat beside him. Most of the pictures had been taken in the last few years and they showed the couple at their wedding, traditional photos posed in front of the war memorial, some scenes from their trip to Sochi and many of Nadya’s childhood. Flipping through the book quickly, Misha opened it at a page of older, grainier photos. He pointed at one dog-eared print. Jennifer gasped. The picture depicted two teenagers standing together solemnly, kerchiefs around their heads, their faces forming weak smiles, their arms linked.
Manolis Aligizakis 