help but think that he should have done a better job of shaving that morning and, yes,maybe it was time for a haircut. But this was the way he was for now so he just had to run with it. As he entered the office, Joel walked up to the counter and was met by the smiles of five ladies of various sizes and ages working at their desks on the far side of the counter. The one thing that they all have in common, Joel realized, was that they must love working at the auction yard. Joel could not remember ever seeing an office where everyone was wearing such big grins. That Roy fellow who ran the yard did seem to be a nice guy, but boy oh boy, he must be doing something special to create this kind of happiness. One of the ladies, an older woman with blue hair and black-framed glasses, volunteered in a light, almost giggly, voice that “Cindy will be out in just a minute.” Funny thing is that Joel couldn’t even remember asking for Cindy.
Auntie Tyne had brushed her long blonde hair and pulled it into a cute pony tail before they set off for the Harrisons’ house. Rachael had felt like a princess. She hadn’t wanted to take her skirt and blouse and sweater off, so had kept them on for the rest of the day, and at bedtime she’d looked for a place to hang them. Her cousins had peeled off their own clothes and dropped them into a heap on the floor. When Rachael couldn’t find a spare wire hanger in the small clothes cupboard, she had laid her new garments carefully over the back of the one chair in the room. But Lyssa had immediately swept them off onto the floor, and as much as Rachael wanted to pick them up, she resisted when she saw the ‘I dare you’ look on the nine-year-old’s face. Rachael’s stomach growled. In the stillness it sounded to her ears like the rumble of the freight trains that passed through Emblem several times throughout the day and night. It growled a second time, and Rachael clutched her abdomen with both hands in an effort to keep it quiet. She didn’t want to wake Lyssa and Lark – they would start pushing her again. She wished she could have slept on a cot like Bobby was allowed to do in the boys’ bedroom. But the girls’ had a bigger bed, so she had been told to sleep with them. Her stomach would not stop grumbling, and now the hunger pangs made her wince. Rachael was no stranger to hunger. Sometimes, at home, Mommy had not had money to buy enough food for them. It wasn’t their mom’s fault, though. Rachael had seen her go without a meal so that she and Bobby could eat what little there was. At the farm she and Bobby were never hungry. There had been lots of food on the table, and Auntie Tyne and Uncle Morley had made sure to fill up both her plate and Bobby’s at every meal. The food was good, too, always with generous helpings of the vegetables that Uncle Morley brought in fresh from his garden every day. Just thinking about it made her hunger pangs worse. She’d better think of something else. But Rachael could not keep her mind off her empty stomach, and she thought about the big breakfast Auntie Tyne had cooked for them before they left for the Harrisons’ house that morning.
Their flight is a five-hour affair. They have first-class seats and are served a light lunch once the plane is in the air. Hakim is hungry and enjoys the food, although Ibrahim eats only a bit of his. They each enjoy a glass of red wine. Hakim asks the same question as on the previous day. “My uncle, you promised to tell me more about the work Matthew Roberts and the Admiral do for the CIA, do you remember?” Ibrahim takes a deep breath, smiles, and says, “It is a long story, my dear boy; however, in a nutshell, this is it. They both work for a department that goes by the code name the ‘Circle’. They are located in Washington D.C., not in Langley. In their department 130 people analyze intelligence, data, and information, and make recommendations to the Executive Branch. This is where decisions about war take place. Based on the recommendations of the Admiral, who bases his decisions on the analyses of Matthew’s people, the war room as some call it, takes its stand against any enemy as circumstances dictate.” He stops and takes a deep breath. Ibrahim does that a lot more often, Hakim notices. The old man looks at his nephew, wondering how far he can still go with this. “They are the basis of a detailed system that undermines the governments of various countries, based on what their goals are and serving their interests the best way possible. They formed the basis for the decision to go against Saddam Hussein in the war of 2003. That department of the CIA is the one which sexed up the propaganda before the war.” “In other words, they are the reason the war started?” “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way exactly; however, they had a lot to do with it. You see, they are not the final decision makers of the government, but they make recommendations based on data. They have a plan of action for any foreseeable event, which could turn the outcome of their strategy one way or another. They plan with various options always before them, and even then they prove to be wrong on many occasions. There’s always a variable that cannot be predicted ahead of time, and when it comes to play, it alters the results time and time again. This is the same reason they are wrong so many times—the unpredictability of the reactions of people to certain events and to intelligence. Every time you think how or why a decision has to be made, it’s like being in a maze, and you can only hope for the outcome you have predicted.” He stops for a while, calls the flight attendant and orders two glasses of wine. Hakim takes a sip of his wine, looks at his watch, and estimates they are halfway to New York. His uncle looks tired. Yet Hakim wants to know more. “What else do you know, my uncle?”
paper doves flew inside the dark colonnade of the palace and each flutter of their wings the deep glance of the Kore was too like the fall of a stone in the sea or the promise of a distant joy lower the thin dresses with the colourful flowers that the wind caressed and were worn by wooden statues with still wooden eyes and clay hair wooden statues named Maria named bottle tallow bicycle named spark
buttoning up my desires of a phoenix with a spared woman’s eye where I am vigilance on your eyelids where morning tears a star my little bloom doesn’t deserve a word
shame burns my masquerade satisfaction lasts only until dawn and my outspoken blood mutates my rampage gets worse half way through
God stops me for a few days to retire I block myself all my silence too let me be warmed up by your dawning fire I wish I knew what my voice was hiding fresh mercy tears my soul’s depth your voice stops me crying because I was just your tyrant-breath I make way for my narrow desires’ path to raise the tiny voice up
daybreak wakes you up at midnight as the universes were put in orbit unstuck I tried to live according to your wishful vision where nights and days are siblings your body is an unseen prison just behind words on posters’ printing
“We didn’t order…oh what the hell,” said David. Jennifer reached for the refreshing water eagerly. Paul chimed in. “A country that puts a man in space, yet you look at the filthy exhaust those busses are pushing out. That’s no rocket fuel. It coats everything, gets into your lungs.” She agreed. “At least this city seems light and bright and modern”—everyone nodded—“whereas Moscow was so drab.” “Boy, was it ugly.” David shook his head. “Though I have to say everything looks a tad more cheerful after a bottle of the local brew.” He helped himself to another glass. The waiter finally showed up with some sickly sweet plum syrup. It didn’t cut the vodka, but by that time they were almost past caring. The lounge filled up with British and Americans, some of them in baseball caps, a few individuals who spoke Russian with a German accent and a party of serious, silent Asians. “I think they’re North Vietnamese,” David whispered. The Asians were seated at the table with the centrepiece, Jennifer noted. So the Soviets were not above spying on their Communist cousins. It fit with the current paranoia. Suspicion of Asian aggression was running high in the country and tension marked the border with China. “We’re going to need another bottle here. I’ll get it,” said David suddenly. “Do you think that’s wise?” put in Lona. “What’s wise got to do with it? We’re in the Soviet Union, guys!” The conversation continued, the waiter brought a tray of snacks, the level in the vodka bottle plummeted, and Jennifer couldn’t quite remember how they had acquired another guest at their table. He was a Soviet man, about 45, with curly hair, dressed in a fashionable lounge jacket. Apparently he had been listening to their conversation for some time. He shook hands all around and told them in fluent English that he was an editor of a prominent Soviet newspaper. None of them really believed him. What would an editor be doing sitting in the bar of a Soviet hotel that catered exclusively to tourists? “I bet he’s a black marketeer,” whispered Ted loudly, leaning towards Maria. “He wants to buy our jeans—or get into your jeans.” She giggled. Lona looked puzzled. “Is this a joke?” Paul asked. “No, he’s a spy,” said David.
Victor’s March Among decapitated houses resembling toothless sculls we marched in their towns tumbled buildings devastated by smart bombs outsmarting thoughtful animals and we sang marching paeans band played freedom songs for the sarcastically smiling youths who had implanted deep in their souls the plan for revenge, youths who in groups of three or four planned their act of defiance youths who had dreams of killing us by the thousands shoeless youths with grand dreams that one day they’d become jihadists
Walls Without much thought, without pity, without shame They’ve built these high, thick walls around me. And now I sit here in despair. I think of nothing else: this fate consumes my mind; because I had so many things to do outside. Ah, why didn’t I notice when they built the walls? But I never heard the builders, or any sound at all. Imperceptibly, they shut me off from the world.
A Woman There was no visible threat in the mountains, only the unnerving shrieks of birds, howling of monkeys and cawing of chachalacas, and the occasional roar of jaguars and cougars. Far to the north, tiny black dots described spirals in the sky—vultures. I was weary from the waiting, and my head snapped at any sound or flicker of movement. The mountains were a deep green. The forest appeared impenetrable. As we climbed, the searing heat dissipated. Huge rubber trees, mahogany and West Indian cedars gave much needed shade during the day. Abundant lianas hung from their boughs, and climbing plants—many thorny—crept up any vertical thing that could help them reach the light. Often they crawled along the ground, creating a tangle that could trip any man. My hands had browned since I left Spain. My toes were reddened and thick, grazed by stones and swollen from the chigoes that had settled between my skin and nails. A collective, unspoken effort to keep calm had come over us. For the conquistadors, this was natural. Many of them had been chasing, or been chased by, Indians for a good part of their lives, and, before that, they had trampled much of the world in a variety of battles: against the French, the Berbers, the Turks, the Pope. I supposed that when you find yourself in constant danger, you begin to disregard it.
n Memoriam You were the holy silence white as rice though the shivering leave always returns you took the whirl centrifugal soul that leaves us in a lonely grief. When night comes I gaze in the foliage the shut eyes of our friends
Manolis Aligizakis 