An old woman crosses herself: Lord of all Powers; of the Western Powers of course A street sweeper shivers in the cold his teeth rattle playing a subterranean angry song hey, bosses who yelled? No one it blows Workers in the produce market, laborers using chainsaws, workers unloading fertilizers, longshoremen, laundress, quarry workers the crowd of workers carrying the flour sacks, eighty kilos each, old women cleaning the public washrooms with their eyes swollen and red from the ammonia the wind howls in side streets, squares train stations, electric wires, bells, the upcoming years howl Two workers talk in a low tone voice you can’t hear what they say you only see their lips moving like hands ready to strike A shining car stops two bald-headed men and a woman with a big ass disembark the nation demands sacrifices the banks spread over the wide sidewalks like prehistoric beasts that digest their prey
Neutral Neutral colour of the page before the words inviolable void uncommitted absence plan for a dream unrealized before your hand takes the pencil and draws emptiness on the whitewash page like the immaculate skin of a conflagrated woman you touch painting of a mountain peak adorned by snow and you say, before I write a single word the poem sings eloquently
“But aren’t you trying to change souls with your sermons? Aren’t you trying to make them more acceptable to your God?” Finn leaned forward on the table, his massive hands cupped around his glass of wine. “The soul cannot be so untouchable.” “With the word of God one can indeed reach into the soul,” Padraig consented. “But no instrument devised by man has the same power.” “Ah, we have a conflict here,” said Finn. “Sweeney, fill up my glass and top up your own. Any of you others care to join us, help yourselves to whatever you want. That stage is getting set again. See why I prefer to act than to watch?” “You don’t act, Finn,” Sweeney observed; “you direct.” He poured the wine for Finn. The last drops from the decanter he shook into his own glass. His sunset face was blazing crimson, with purple only in the shadows. He replaced the empty decanter in the centre of the table and turned up the wick of the low-burning lamp. Shadows flickered on the walls, on the dark sideboard and the cabinets, on the tall clock and the pale porcelain of the Victory. “So, Padraig,” Finn went on, “you think the word is mightier than the surgeon’s knife.” “The Word that was in the beginning, yes; the Word of God that was made flesh as Jesus Christ.” “What do you say to that, young Clifford?” Finn asked. “Does the Word of God tell us more of man and nature, life and death, than your brain and blade will ever reveal?” “You’re confusing two separate realms, Finn,” Clifford argued in a precise, dry voice. “The brain is a material thing. We probe into it, repair it, understand it, with the aid of material instruments. The soul is immaterial. We change it, if we change it at all, with immaterial instruments: with words, thoughts, ideas, emotions, that reach it through the mind.” “Body and mind; matter and spirit; material, immaterial.” Finn repeated the words reflectively. “That sounds reasonable enough. Conflict resolved.” He sipped some wine, then looked at Clifford. “You say that the soul is reached through the mind. So you separate mind and soul?” Clifford looked around the table self-consciously. Michael was asleep with his head fallen forward on his chest. Seamus and Sweeney stared at their wine and looked as though they wished they too were asleep. Only Padraig, facing Finn across the length of the dish-and-bottle-laden table, stayed alert, leaning back in his chair with his left hand dangling and his right hand holding a half-emptied glass of wine.
“Yes, indeed. It’s terrible, Bevan, yet what do you think could be the cause of all this?” The Admiral doesn’t get the chance to answer right away, because the server brings their plates. When she walks away, Bevan tells Ibrahim that maybe Matthew’s death had a lot to do with his work. So much time away from home, away from his wife, from his daughter. “Who knows, perhaps our line of work is not meant for family people? Most don’t have the ability to cope with the pressure. They begin to show signs of stress and despair even from their early days on the job.” “Yes, perhaps some people don’t have the ability to cope with the pressure, deadlines, and demands of the system. Then maybe the problem is not the people. Have you ever thought of that?” “Yes, my old friend, I have thought of that many times.” They remain quiet for a while. Ibrahim raises his wine glass and toasts the Admiral. “This is to your good health, my old friend.” “And to yours, Ibrahim. May Allah bless you with many pleasant and healthy days…Have a good trip back home. Don’t forget I’m here and you may call me anytime.” Ibrahim has tears in his eyes, and looking deep into his friend’s eyes, says the only thing he cares for is his beloved son who lives here. He asks the Admiral to make sure nobody harms him or puts any impediment in his path. “As long as I am alive, you can count on that, my dear friend.” Then Ibrahim leads their conversation back to Matthew’s suicide. In his view, the problem hasn’t been the pressure; perhaps it isn’t even the people. It’s the agency and what the operatives are called on to do for the agency. It’s also what the other side does with the intelligence turned over to them. “You mean ‘The Circle’?” the Admiral asks. “Of course it is, my dear friend. Look inside yourself there where the answer lies. See how you feel about the results of your work. The other guys you work with are humans, too. The time comes when they crack, because of the guilt, because of all the anxiety, because of all the killings and destruction they help create. They see it in the daily news, they hear about it everywhere they go, they know what goes on when they see the dead or the maimed soldiers coming back home. Don’t think you are the only one who feels the misery of what you help create all over the world, my good friend. Perhaps this man collapsed under the same pressure of guilt and disappointment for all the years of killings and murders.” “Yes, perhaps that’s where the root of the problem is. That means we need to do something about it and bring about change.”
trying to meet you for years,” he said. Gruber carved decoys, many of which had made their way into Ken’s extensive collection. “Our paths have crossed many times,” he said. “But somehow we’ve never met. Now, unfortunately, we have to meet under circumstances that aren’t the best. I work for a credit company, and I have to cancel and pick up your gas card. I’m awfully sorry to do this.” “That’s fine,” Ken said. “You’re just doing your job. Come over now.” They talked, while consuming an entire bottle of Scotch, and became friends for life. Ron and his wife lived in a big house near Jericho Beach, that had separate living quarters on the ground floor. When Ken told him he had just lost his house, Ron suggested he move into their ground floor suite, and a few days later, Ken loaded his possessions into his truck and drove to Jericho Beach. Revenue Canada sent a letter demanding a large sum of money in back taxes on his real estate investments. Because he had never taken the money, but only reinvested it, it had never been taxed. Ken put the letter on his bureau. Another letter arrived and then another, until he had accumulated seventeen progressively threatening tax notices. The final one informed him he was being sued. Ken took the notices to his accountant who was as puzzled as Ken. Each one demanded a different sum of money. When they went to court, the lawyer for Revenue Canada made his statement. The judge turned to Ken. “Guilty or not guilty?” “Not guilty,” Ken said. “Impossibly and completely not guilty.” “How so?” “Your honour, if I may be allowed to approach the bench and present you with the situation in writing. But, before I do that, may I ask you a question in order to help clarify the situation?” “What if one were walking down the street,” he asked, “and came across a car lot, and spotted a car he fancied, and wanted to buy it, and the salesman didn’t know how much it cost? And what if he went to his sales manager and the manager, also, didn’t know how much it cost? And what if he went to the owner of the car lot and the owner didn’t know how much the car cost – would one be able to conclude a satisfactory transaction?” “Clearly not,” the judge said. “This would appear to be the same situation,” Ken said, handing the demand letters to the judge. “There are seventeen different notices here, which are completely confusing. There is no way, even according to the accountants I am acquainted with, to make head or tail of it. Every single one has a different figure on it: that makes no sense at all.” The judge studied the demands, his frown deepening. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe the money,” Ken said. “I think you’re absolutely correct,” the judge said. “This is disgraceful.” And he threw the case out of court.
XXI We who started out on this pilgrimage looked at the broken statues we lost ourselves and said life is not so easily lost that death has unfathomable ways and his own special justice; that when we died standing on our feet like brothers inside the stone united in toughness and weakness the ancient dead have escaped the circle and have been reborn and smile in a peculiar silence.
Libeccio The anemograph caught fire confused wondering which direction to adopt Southeastern explosion or southwestern heatwave that gallops over the dunes of Africa and steady charges to come and engulf your body to explain its mysticism languorous upward pressure promiscuous desire lingering over the jasmine petals and on your lascivious curves while the midnight cock knowing the magic of lust under the moon’s direction calls his first lover and lost in the fire of your body, you moan and beg the north wind to come and rescue you
She could barely restrain herself from making a second public accusation. “You might get the answer to your question if you asked our friend, Gregorio,” I replied, looking at Gregorio instead of Josefa. Gregorio immediately understood. He grabbed Josefa by the arm to forcibly remove her. I stood rooted to the ground, hoping he would drag her away and that could be the end of it. But Josefa remained feisty and broke away from him, running to me with a pained expression. She leaned forward and whispered devilishly in my ear, so that only I could hear. “I know what happened at the river,” she said. “I know everything. I know you let her touch you!” I jerked back from her, as though she had slapped me in the face. The servant, she had seen me, and Josefa could barely contain the power she had over me. There was no point in trying to deny anything. I walked away, horrified by Josefa’s misplaced jealousy, and dumbfounded by my inability to eradicate her secret knowledge. Right then, I decided I did not want to learn whether Apacuana had bitten Josefa or not. There was a part of me that hoped she had.
In the morning, when Losada was notified of the incident, he preferred to dismiss it as mere female hysteria rather than discern which party was responsible. It was the prudent decision: to concentrate on completing his negotiations with the cacique Chacao. After mass, Losada ordered the captives brought to him and untied. “We want to be your friends. You see we have not harmed you,” Losada told Chacao. “We can decide to do this in peace, or we can do it in war. We are powerful. To show you my goodwill, I give you all your people back.” Chacao was a middle-aged man with deep lines running down the sides of his nose to his mouth in a permanent scowl. He did not answer, just stood there, hands folded in front of him. It was important for him not to appear grateful for Losada’s benevolence.
nterior stunned her, and she felt a twinge of guilt. This must be terribly expensive. Why had Cam chosen such a place? To impress her? But he appeared at ease in their surroundings, was recognized by both the maitre’de and the wine steward, and had obviously been here often. Determined to enjoy the evening and the company of the man who had lavished attention on her since the moment he had appeared at the door of her apartment, she settled back in the delightfully comfortable chair and relaxed. Until the wine was brought and their order taken, they made small talk about the hospital, his parents and her family in Emblem. Then Cam smiled and raised his glass. “To our meeting again, and to our future meetings. Together we’ll set the Holy Cross on fire.” He touched his glass to hers, then put it down and looked at her soberly. “I want to ask you something – at the risk of having you tell me to mind my own business.” “Ask away.” She knew what was coming, but her spirits were too high tonight to be dashed by the mention of Morley’s name. “Are you … that is, are you still seeing Morley?” Tyne raised her glass to her lips, and looked steadily into Cam’s eyes. “No,” she said. “Oh.” He appeared baffled by her brief, straightforward answer as if he had expected her to simper and evade his question. Well, she was through simpering over Morley Cresswell. He had dumped her, and that was that … all in the past … over … done. And why should she care? She did not need a stubborn, pig-headed, unsympathetic farmer in her life. Was she not here, in this posh restaurant, being wined and dined by the handsomest intern the Holy Cross had ever had the honour of admitting to its program? And was he not looking at her with the fondest admiration? So she did not need Morley Cresswell. Goodbye, good riddance. Tyne put her glass on the table with a thump. And to her horror and distress she burst into tears.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been in this position for almost five years and since my first month, one November night, around nine o’clock I was paid a visit by the Head Master of this facility, Father Jerome, who, that night for the first time but not the last violated me in the most disgusting way; He has been doing this occasionally, whenever he would feel up to it, no questions asked no permissions granted…” “Father Jerome” Anton talked to himself, “somehow the impression I got for the man, the first time I met him, was that he would never take no for an answer…” Mary turned a little so her eyes would dive deep in Anton’s and smiled at him. Her smile seemed forced, stressed smile, yet it was her smiling lips that Anton looked at and enjoyed their shape and promising tomorrow. She took his hand before she continued. “Yes Sister Gladys and Father Jerome are lovers, for a long time, I’d say from the day of his arrival here, they seem to match in many different ways and the way our rooms are lined upstairs, you’d notice when you come for some reason upstairs and spend time you’ll realize that her room is next to Sister Helen’s and next to hers is mine, all the men’s rooms are on the opposite side of the upstairs hallway with Father Jerome’s in the middle. He’d just walk out of his and within ten or so feet he accesses Sister Gladys’ room or mine.” She stopped and took a breath, the freshness of the August day just outside the truck window and the freshness of the slow flowing water of the Thompson River blew certain moist on her face moistening it; she pulled Anton closer to her and kissed him. “Sister Gladys followed Father Jerome each time he paid a visit to me and since she saw me as a competitor who I never have been nor would I ever want to become, in fact each time Father Jerome came to my room, he plainly and simply raped me,
Manolis Aligizakis 