Unfamiliar Place Peter emigrated to the Orient, and Alex to the West. We haven’t heard how they have been doing. We stayed here at this crossroads. We took care of the place, put up signs and wrote names. Then the wind blew down the signs. Men pass with carriages loaded with apples, grapes, or oranges. They ask: “Is this the way to Sparta? Is this the way to Argos?” We shake our heads as if saying “yes” so we won’t point out that we’ve forgotten over the years, we blow our smoke through our nostrils as if we burn inside, what fire and what knowledge? Yet we survive we even manage to get by; sometimes we even smile or clean our front teeth with our nails, and we look as if we know something we never knew. And perhaps what we didn’t disclose keeps us still waiting for the hour of disclosure.
Alice „Don’t push me! It is a trap! A rabbit hole!” But you realised that And even shut the door Becoming It seems to me That when I start To speak to you Through worlds apart With words becoming poetry Love is still true
VOLGA RIVER, JULY 17, 1974 “She’s madder than a hornet, and she’s calling for your blood,” teased Marty. He ducked out of Hank’s way. It was lunch time on the morning after Hank had found Lona’s mysterious black book. “I guess she tortured your waitress friend until she confessed.” “I’ll go find her,” Hank muttered. “I don’t want Chopyk or Jennifer to find out. Don’t say anything, okay?” He didn’t have far to look. They smacked into one another at the door to the dining room. “You…creep,” Lona growled at Hank, her usual Cheshire cat smile missing. “Now, give me back my book!” He couldn’t resist one last stand. “Uh…whatcha talking about?” She was about to raise her voice again, when he hustled her down the hall, one hand firmly on her back, until they were out of earshot of the passengers. “Okay, so I took it. It was a stupid thing to do, but I wanted to know why you’re on this trip—and don’t give me that line about being a student.” Lona drew herself up to her full height and bristled like an alley cat prepared to do battle. She thrust out her hand imperiously. “It’s none of your business, you thief. I want my book back right now!” Hank knew when he was licked. “I just …heck, I’d still like to know. I’ll get it for you.” He walked her to his cabin, and she waited at the door, tapping her toe, until he placed the worn black book in her hand. “Come on, Lona. I just wanted to get to know you. Maybe we could still be friends.” In fact, the book had been a big disappointment—besides a list of Russian names and addresses there were only a few other notes on icons
II Your hair floating, waving ruffled by the wind sunshine reflects in your irises exquisitely as you stand idol of an ancient goddess undefined bubbling ethereal model of a painter motionless and undulating with erotic lines that momentarily define my awe as I stare at the statue of a goddess who I don’t touch
it a new coat of paint, I might spend some nights here…I might be able to witness certain things.” Mary smiled at the thought, “when you might spend some nights here, you’d be very close to me, all night long…” she said with joyous way. Anton looked in her eyes before he said, “I’d love to spend my nights with you in my arms, baby.” “Soon,” she said with joyous voice. The funeral finished; everyone went inside; Anton and Mary too. Anton to his basement work place and Mary back to her desk. The day crawled as if didn’t want to pass and afternoon came. The kids were in class, the cooks and their helpers had cleaned the kitchen and were now sitting and having their break when Anton went for an afternoon coffee and found George the Hellene cook with Tyson in the eating area. He grabbed his coffee and sat with them; they were obviously debating something or arguing about something because their voices were loud and their hand mannerisms showed they could start a fist fight any moment now. “What is it with you two?” Anton asked them. “This pig,” George said referring to Tyson “is trying to make fun of the way I talk again,” then turning to Tyson he said sarcastically, “what? What? Stick your stupid what you know where,” he added as his attention was on Tyson. Then turning to Anton he carried on, “These brutes, Anglos, what one could expect of them? They forget that when we the Cretans created civilizations four thousand years ago they still existed in the form of specs in the testicles of the bears and the monkeys; now all of a sudden they have become the upper class and all us who have come here from other places are the second,” George insisted in utter disgust.
Then Liam was still. With a low moan his body relaxed, and she felt the full weight of it pressing on her. For a moment he lay upon her with his chin on her shoulder. Then he pulled himself away and rolled over on to his back with a sigh. Nora winced at the hurt of his withdrawal and burst into tears. ҂ Liam Dooley sat in his armchair by the fire reading an old, leather-bound copy of The Confessions of Saint Augustine that was old even when his grandfather bought it in Smithfield Market in Belfast many years before. ‘Grandda, if I was to ask you to name the book that most influenced you,’ Liam had once asked of the old man, ‘which one would you choose?’ ‘The Confessions of St. Augustine,’ Grandfather Owen Dooley had replied with no hesitation. ‘That book gave me a whole new way to think about God and religion. It took me deep into the meaning of life, and continues to do so. He’s been the most influential thinker that I’ve ever read. I have an old copy in the bookcase there. Read it as often as you can. And when I die, I want you to have it and cherish it.’ When his grandfather died the book had indeed passed to Liam, the only physical keepsake Liam had of the old man whom he had venerated for as long as he could remember. Often he felt that his grandfather watched over him from Heaven, that everything he did had to be good because his grandfather was always there, watching. Liam’s great fear was that his grandfather could read his thoughts too. But he calmed himself by arguing that his grandfather would understand the often lustful thoughts of a young, single man. As long as Liam kept his lust on a tight leash his grandfather would appreciate the struggle and commend him on its victory. Only once had he surrendered; and since the day of his lapse with Nora Carrick he had taken to praying not to God, not to the Virgin, not to St Francis, but to his grandfather, asking his grandfather to forgive the humiliation he had caused him in the sight of God and begging the old man to intercede for him with the blessed saints, with God Himself. ‘I’m not like Padraig,’ Liam argued with the spirit of his grandfather. ‘I am not a priest. I have taken no vow of celibacy. Nora is an adult woman. She came to me of her own free will. Pressed her body against mine. I could not have done what I did otherwise. You know that. I would never touch a woman unless she encouraged me. And Nora encouraged me. It was she who suggested going to bed. She wanted to have sex with me.’ Liam looked up from his book. The fire was low.
Mail Before the birds start their morning chirping postman takes to the roads with his bag hanging off his shoulder postman brings the good news to every house, no warning, no fear of the dog in each yard, the dog which usually attacks him, he enters each place and drop letters in the box, news of a relative’s marriage, the letter from the lad who lives in a faraway country addressed to his mother who takes and with trembling hands opens the letter to read her son’s latest news and the lone postman walks out of the yard heading to the next house with the good news about a newborn baby, letter left in the owner’s box while his tears always roll down his face for the letter he too hoped to receive.
“I would like to see Mr. McQuaid, the branch manager,” said Joel. “I’m sorry Mr. Hooper, but Mr. McQuaid is no longer with this branch. He has transferred to our Denver offices. I am the new branch manager, can I help you with something?” said the attractive, middle-aged woman who Joel, conditioned in his paradigm of chauvinism, had mistaken as a receptionist. “Well ma’am, I sure hope so.” Joel hoped he would have a clean slate with this manager, and not have to deal with the negative impression he had made on his earlier visit. Joel continued, “You see, my daddy used to bank here, and I am running short of cash and was hoping that maybe you could help me out with a loan.” “Why don’t you come into my office, Mr. Hooper, and let’s see what we can do for you.” Even if he didn’t get any money, Joel was certainly appreciating the treatment he was receiving on this visit. The last time he was here after his dad died, he had waited over ninety minutes to see Mr. McQuaid, who, as the secretary explained, “was a very busy man.” Finally, when he did get to sit down with him, Mr. McQuaid told him that an old, rundown ranch yard and a half-section of land really had no market value. According to Mr. McQuaid, the Circle H could never be a functioning cattle operation without access to at least several additional sections of pastureland, and his home ranch was essentially worthless. Furthermore, Mr. McQuaid also advised him that horses were worth a dime a dozen. Joel had tried to explain the breeding and value of his livestock to the young, city-raised banker, but it all fell on deaf ears and he was quickly dismissed. Finding himself on the street outside the bank within five minutes of being ushered into the branch manager’s office, Joel had retreated back to the ranch and made up his mind to cut expenses wherever possible. But now, he had run out of ways to cut costs any further. Joel needed cash not just to pay off some of the bills …
Poodie saluted. Spanger hesitated, then returned the salute before he wheeled the cruiser around and headed toward the station. Pete Torgerson cranked the steering wheel knob as he crossed the Great Northern tracks and guided the Packard along the dirt road between the river and town. His headlights swept the curves, illuminating sagebrush and bunch grass. A jack rabbit bounded in front of him for a few yards and faded into the blackness of the road’s margin. Ahead, a few cars rested in a dusty parking area around a pole supporting a flickering red neon sign that identified Ted and Angie’s Chicken Inn. George Pearson’s Lincoln, and Fred Lawrence’s Cadillac were there. He didn’t recognize the other cars. Inside the two-story log heap, the air was heavy with smoke and “Tuxedo Junction.” Ted waved from behind the bar. A man Torgerson recognized as a clerk from the J.C. Penney mens department pumped nickels into the juke box. At a corner table, Angie was taking a dinner order from a man who sat alone. Slim ankles and high heels were just disappearing from the top of the stairs into the upper hallway. Torgerson heard a slur of a male voice loudly ask, “Which room?” In a circle of light, four men studied their cards at a table whose green cover was embellished with stains and cigarette burns. “Mr. Mayor,” Pearson greeted him, with a hint of derision, Torgerson thought, “we just got started. Seven-card stud. Throw in. It should be an interesting game.” Torgerson nodded to Pearson, Lawrence and two orchardists from the north side of Lake Chelan. The growers materialized at Ted and Angie’s every fall when packing house business with Lawrence provided an excuse for an overnight stay in town. Angie delivered the mayor a whiskey sour. Nothing to eat, he told her, he wouldn’t be staying long. Torgerson anteed. Lawrence dealt. Torgerson examined his hand. Next time around he called, and threw two dollars in the pot. The game was underway, and the mayor got down to business.
Unsaid He was ready to say something when He looked behind our shoulders and agreed with those who stood at the edge of the crowd. He left something unsaid, as if the lyrics of the song that from young age we had so much loved, words of ancient dramatists and of uncles with jet black curling up moustaches and it was a sin to think of beauty, murder to dream of Paradise. We were ready to learn another song, although it insisted to remain silent in our thoughts as if not to be ever sung; the door opened and the other, the deranged one, run to the courtyard with his arms loose and his eyes were focused on Übermensch with his tight lips as if He was angry and the butterfly insisted to fly over His glorious head creating a perfect halo. I like those who give right to the future and sanctify everything passed because they want it to die with the present.
Manolis Aligizakis 