Eleanor for hands, she hath non, nor eyes, or feet, or golden treasure of hair (front view) her hair is of carton and like a fish her two eyes are like a dove her mouth is like a civil war (in Spain) her neck is a red horse her hands are like the voice of thick forest her two breasts are like my paintings her belly is the history of Velthandros and Chrysantza the story of Tobias the story of a donkey of the wolf and fox her gender is sharp whistles in the quietness of noon her thighs are the last gleams of timid joy of the road rollers her two knees Agamemnon her two reverent small feet are the green telephone with the red eyes (rear view) her hair is the oil lamp that burns in the morning her shoulders are the hammer of my lust her back is the binoculars of the sea the plough of the foolish inscriptions whistles sadly on her waist her buttocks are fishbones saddened her thighs are like a thunderbolt her small heals light the bad dreams in the mornings and finally she is a woman half hippocampus and half necklace perhaps even part cypress and partly an elevator
“Let’s go Susan, I’m hungry,” he said, taking her by the hand. They walked past Logan and Helena into the hallway. Alone with Susan in the elevator, he rewarded her expectations with a kiss, to which she responded as eagerly as he had hoped. They said nothing until they reached the ground floor and crossed the street to Da Carlo’s, an Italian eatery and one of the best spots for lunch in downtown Vancouver. The place was already packed, but he was known to the manager, who escorted them straight to a table. When they had settled down, he gazed wordlessly at Susan. Her brown eyes were brighter now than earlier, even in the dim light of the restaurant. “You look beautiful today, Susan,” he said, taking her hand in his. “Thank you.” Her answer echoed so loudly in his ears. He called the server, and they each ordered a pasta dish with chicken. He suggested half a litre of red wine to go with the pasta and tomato sauce. Susan agreed and added with a smile, “You plan to get me drunk?” “You want me to, sweet Susan?” he answered with a question. She enjoyed being with this man. Since they had met and gone out a few times, she had gotten used to drinking wine. Canadian born and raised, Susan had grown up with beer and pubs rather than restaurants and wine, but he had had an effect on her in that department and Susan now appreciated the European ways he had kept after all his years in Canada. He still spoke with an accent, and Susan sometimes had trouble following everything he said. But other than that, she loved his ways and in particular his romantic touch, often expressed unexpectedly on the spur of the moment. She felt very attracted to him and didn’t shy away from showing her affection. He felt the same way. She had sensed this as soon as they started dating. His only concern was what other people in the company might say. He extended his arm to the middle of their table, where a few seasonal flowers were placed in a small vase. He took a rosebud and gave it to her.
Eyes questioning, wondering eyes smiling lips, shy laughter on the screen, momentarily uncomfortable reaction to my comment visceral need for touch, dermal and internal which I dream of experiencing, emotional fast heartbeats, body warm, willing, expecting you in the sweetness of the moment eternal image in my mind
“How about we meet at Starbucks by Westport Mall?” She’s ready to agree, but suddenly hears herself asking, “Why don’t you come over and we can have coffee here?” Who said these words? Why were these words said? What is Emily’s purpose this rainy morning in September? Perhaps the hope and knowledge that there is always sun behind the clouds? But, of course, this is why she invites him to her house. Talal’s mind runs to their sweet exchange in the restaurant, and he smiles as he says, “That’s a better idea. I’ll be there, shortly.” “Do you know where I live?” she asks, surprised. “Of course, I do. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She’s very excited now. Her mind won’t let her relax. Anticipation turns like a sweet song in her mind, and on her lips she has a thirst for his, like the song of the poplar to the sunlight sieved amid its leaves. She stands still, holding the receiver, overtaken by excitement. She realizes she’s still wearing her robe. She definitely feels aroused, her sexual hunger captivates her once more. Matthew is coming home tonight. If he didn’t work so hard, so long, if he wasn’t so far away for so long. She desperately tries to find a justification for all the thoughts of wild sex she’s dreaming of with this young Iraqi man, because Emily Roberts knows very well what is going to happen in her house very soon. It’s inevitable, it’s desired, it’s anticipated, it’s something she has thought of so many times—the young Iraqi man with the charming accent, with the lovely smile, and all this sadness in his dark eyes. She runs upstairs, undresses, and steps into the shower. She puts on her jogging pants and light sweatshirt. Now she is ready, but for what? What’s she getting ready for? Perhaps, they’ll have coffee and that’ll be it. He’s there within ten minutes and rings her doorbell, making her heart race like it wants to leave her chest and fly to the clouds, where her mind has been for the last few minutes. She opens the door and he stands before her with his enchanting smile. “Hi, Emily.” “Hello, Talal, come in,” she says, softly, and as soon as he steps into her foyer, their lips lock in a passionate kiss, Emily exploring his mouth and Talal exploring the fine lines and contours of her body. Before they know what’s happening, they are by the couch and they have no clothes on. She guides him to the floor and gets on top of him, while Talal enjoys the view of her breasts bouncing as though singing a heavenly song that only the nymphs of the forest know; those nymphs who have come into her living room and guide Emily to the zenith of her eroticism and to her fantastic orgasm. Her face shows such satisfaction, and the softness of such a completion ends with her soft relaxing moan, a moan that could rise the dead from their graves.
The bush pilot told Ken that there was no such place as the Arctic – it was an arbitrary dotted line drawn on a map, by people who had never been there. The Arctic was a hundred thousand million places, he said, with an enormous variety of climates and vast distances between small communities. You might find a few people on the land, he said, but not many. Most of them had been rounded up and put into camps built like villages. The idea of the Eskimo as one homogenous group of people was as big a myth as to say that all Europeans were one race. Nevertheless, the government had decided that the Eskimos had to be gathered together – regardless of tribe or dialect – and placed in communities, which they would use as a base to go out and trap fur animals for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Then they depended on the company for their survival and were, in fact, essentially owned by it. Each Eskimo had been given a number and a letter. Those west of Coppermine River were assigned the letter W and a number. Those East of the area were given an E and a number, and in some cases, those letters and numbers were tattooed on their arms. Ken was horrified. He repeated to Jessica, Patrick, and Long John what the pilot had told him. John was furious, not at the government, but at Ken and his wild dreams. “You’re on a wild goose chase! You’re mad!” he shouted. “There’s nothing to go to – thousands of square miles of absolutely nothing but ice, wind, and rocks – lots of frozen rocks and no people. I tell you, there are no people there. The place is a bloody, frozen desert. You’re made of flesh and blood – you’re not a god! What is it with you English and your half-baked need to go to desolate places? As if life isn’t difficult enough without going looking for trouble!” “For someone who’s never been to the Arctic you seem to have a helluva lot of knowledge about it,” Ken said. “How do you know there’s nothing there?” “I don’t need to go there,” John said. “I can read. There’s a place called “The Barrens” and I imagine it’s called that for a good reason, don’t you think?” John pulled out a map and pointed to the place. “Read it – it’s right there. The Barrens – there’s nothing there. When he first looked at the place, one of the explorers wrote in his diary, ‘This is the place that God gave to Cain’. All I can see is that the place is going to kill you – not much different from every other Englishman who’s gone up there. I can see a small headline in some small newspaper somewhere, ‘The Arctic wastes claim another Englishman.’” “It didn’t kill Francisco,” Ken argued.
Jennifer suddenly realized she was the hostess. “Listen, let me order some drinks or coffee. Tell me about yourselves. Do you live here in Moscow?” She moved to the phone then realized that room service might be a foreign concept in the Soviet Union. “No need,” said Misha, pulling two tall bottles of fizzy water from his satchel. “We cannot stay very long and we have brought some drinks. May I pour?” “Yes, please.” She picked up the two cups that sat beside a metal teapot on a corner table, and Misha poured and passed the drinks to his wife and Jennifer. He took a swig from the bottle. “We live in Tula,” Marta said. “It’s about 60 miles south of Moscow. You know about it?” Jennifer shook her head. “The traditional samovar town—we make the finest samovars for all of the Soviet Union there. It’s also close to Tolstoy’s estate, Yasnaya Polyana. You are a language student, correct? Surely you will be visiting the home of such a great author?” Misha cut in, “You must come to visit us. Tula is 100 kilometers east of the village where my father and your mother were born.” “Yes, I’d like that,” Jennifer replied. She had so many questions. “When my mother got to England and met my father it was the start of a whole new life. She wouldn’t have known that her brother was still alive. Did he go back to the village after the war?” “Only to find everyone gone: father and mother dead, sisters missing,” Misha replied. He fell quiet for a few seconds. “He said it was the saddest moment of his life.” Misha continued to describe their family background, Marta chipping in occasionally and smiling fondly at Jennifer. Even little Nadya left her magazine and put her arms around Jennifer’s neck, calling her “auntie.” I could grow quite fond of these people, Jennifer thought. “We have applied to leave the country,” Misha told her. “As you know, Jews are allowed to leave—some of them. We will go to Israel.” He looked about uncomfortably. “But perhaps it’s best not to speak of these things here.” He nodded at the wall indicating a grating with a tilt of his head. Of course, microphones. They had been told that the hidden spying devices were in all the hotels that catered to foreign tourists.
I retched again and leaned to one side to let out a stream of bitter bile. I blinked in the darkness and looked around without the least hope of standing up. The roof was low and the hot air impregnated with damp and the smell of unwashed bodies, vomit and bilge; the air seemed to congeal as I exhaled. How long had we been rocking and shaking in this darkness? A day? Two? “Eloí, Eloí, lama sabactani?” I quoted, meaning every word our Lord had said when feeling forsaken on the Cross. Trembling, I grasped a coil of rope. My tonsured head was bathed in cold sweat; drops trickled down my forehead, slid down my neck and soaked my grey cassock. The Seraphic Rosary dangled from my cord, rippling monotonously. I took no more than shallow breaths, distracting my mind amid the artillery, lines, water barrels and cases, some knocked about by the sea’s fury despite having been lashed down. The hatches and portholes were kept closed to avoid water, and the lighting of candles was strictly forbidden. I had withstood the first hours by meditating on the Passion of Our Lord, but once overcome by sickness, I could not stop vomiting. The danger on deck had confined many men below: the carpenter and his mates, the cook and his galley lads, the gunners, seamen awaiting the change of watch. We sat close to one another, sweating and praying, eyes fixed on the ceiling, following noises from the upper deck. After making vows and promises to the virgin, swearing to make penitence of fasting on bread and water the first Saturday of every month, some wished to confess. To my surprise it was Pánfilo, a wiry old midshipman who had lost most of his front teeth, who came first. I dried my face with the sleeve of my habit, uncertain of my strength, and passed my hand across my wet chest and aching belly. My stomach was void, though still assaulted by waves of nausea. “Move over, hombre! My sins are only God’s to hear, you filth,” lisped Pánfilo. Others shifted. Pánfilo knelt beside me.
Cricket When his steps bring him to the roofless family home an orphan eye under the wrath of the stars dual passage of ruins between the expectations and the foliage of the night with unfurled sails passage into the long silence late passenger who forgot to leave betrayed echo of crickets-forefathers shaking time he returns oaring boatman of the loss he flows on top of the birthing wave toward where no one waits for him the cradle into which he was born alone.
known how to handle the new reality at first, but he was a fast learner, and he had stayed afloat despite all the rough spots along the way. Like the night Logan had come home late with a bunch of his high school friends and while his father, brother, and cousin were asleep, one of those friends had stolen all his credit cards. Luckily, he had found out the next day when the credit card company called inquiring about some unusual purchases. Yes, there had been a few rough spots, but he had faced up to them. He had stood tall and made things work. Logan was doing well in the office as a junior stockbroker, and he had already made plans for Alexander after he graduated in a couple of years. As for Jonathan, he was due to graduate soon with a first-class degree and a bright future awaiting him back in Greece. His attention was caught by the green leaves of the gardenia plant in the office. A flower had bloomed and the fragrance filled the room. He got up and walked over to the pot, leaned in a little, and savored the aroma. He remembered how his mother had always kept a couple of gardenia plants in the house. Back then they used to plant them in rectangular metal containers; it was said the metal was good for the plant, especially after the container had rusted due to the watering. He touched the soil and noticed that it was dry. He called Helena in from the outside office where her desk and Logan’s were located. “It feels dry, Helena” he said, pointing to the plant. “I’ll take care of it,” Helena said and went to get water. Helena Poulos was the daughter of a Greek family that he didn’t know personally but of whom he had heard. Her family was in the food business, with two restaurants, one in North Vancouver and one in Kitsilano, but Helena hadn’t been interested in that, and when the opportunity arrived to work for a stockbroker downtown, she had jumped at the chance. He had been very happy with her work ethic and commitment, and she had also brought all her family members and a few friends in as new clients. The rest of the morning flowed uneventfully, but when the time came for lunch, his mind ran to Susan. He dialed her internal number. “Want to go a catch a bite?” he asked her.
Manolis Aligizakis 