The house was filled with friends who suddenly came; they seemed to be joyous seen from over the railings. They were a big bunch. We even brought the kitchen chairs with the holes in their middle that we could all fit together in the balcony. I took an old stool. They were so many friends we all got mixed together, we laughed, joked. None of us had any money. Suddenly the conversation turned serious — the tiles were still warm in the sunshine. Then, suddenly, I felt that we could separate we could go away to the four corners of the globe. And I saw that even if I delayed that moment it could soon arrive.
what she had been through since four o’clock that afternoon the condition of the interior of the house had afforded the most welcome relief she could imagine. Ben did not look up so she spoke above the voice on the radio. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I retire early, Ben, but I’m extremely weary.” He nodded. “Be turning in myself soon.” “Very well. Good night.” He looked up then and smiled briefly. “G’night.” In the bedroom she closed the door firmly behind her. There was no key in the lock. After a moment’s hesitation she carried the chair from beside the bed and shoved the high back under the door handle. She took a cotton nightgown and a hair brush from her overnight bag, removed the dress she had worn for three days on the train and hung it, along with her underwear, on a two-inch spike in the bedroom door. When she had pulled the nightgown over her head she went to the window, pushed the lacy white curtains aside and raised the sash. If the flies wanted to come in, so be it, because she could not stay in that room without fresh air. Twilight lingered, streaking the western sky red. There were no outbuildings on this side of the house. The wind of the daylight hours had diminished to a light breeze in which a field of wheat waved gently. The faint sweet scent of goldenrod wafted in through the window. On a fence post a robin sat to warble its evensong. To the right of the house stood a clump of poplar trees surrounded by scrub brush. Through them, Sarah discerned the outline of a small rooftop. Realizing it must be an outhouse she experienced a moment of panic when she suddenly felt the call of nature. Why had she not thought to go out before she readied herself for bed? She didn’t feel inclined to dress again but she certainly had no intention of embarrassing herself by running into him as she passed through the kitchen in her robe and slippers. Besides, who knew what wild animals or species of snake may lurk in the bushes in the fading light? Only one hope remained. Sarah quickly got down on her knees and lifted a corner of the counterpane to peer under the bed. Yes, there it was – a white chamber pot. She sat back on her haunches…
verses the sun will go pop pop. But that’s in the multiplicity of sacred time.We live in a single vulgar time, time for the butcher boy apprentices to come into their own, swaggering out into the garden to escort me inside for tea. Soon they will be shouting for Fuckbeard the Freaker. I can’t complain about the name. I probably uttered it myself in one of my ecstasies . . . These damned drugs have erased so much, so many cut-outs, cut-ups, my golden memory chart is all such a tat album design, my head full of flowers and stars and triangles and spheres and tits and bums and fiery swastikas. Later I will carry on secreting all my secrets. Like a scared insect, I mean a sacred insect . . . And Lucas may make his annual visitation. Minded by PP, scowling in the middle distance. I only want a flying visit, Icarus descending for a brief lesson with Dedalus, nothing histrionic. Just a chat under the shelter of the Brain Tree. To talk living eternities. I need help to implement the salvation, transformation of the world. Why, Pol Pot, you bitch, you talking cactus in a pot, why have you washed out my son’s brain, flooded it with your serums of untruth? Why, why won’t he come? I woke up this morning Mr Blues all around my bed Mr Blues he’s mean and evil He done messed up my happy head Rocking Rod was sprawled on a pile of cushions in the dayroom, strumming his boogie on an old acoustic guitar, singing de blooze in a thin weaselly voice with a Cockney Delta accent. I knew that voice. It had roots, long and tangled as his hair, as his ratty moustache. When he saw me, he leapt up, switched to a Stones riff, and began a duck-walk around the ward. At the end of the room, a cluster of huge cardboard boxes had been upended in a semicircle. The cartons displayed the logos of great multinational drug companies—Wellcome, Bayer, Glaxo, Sandoz—as if they were sponsoring this world tour. He stopped in front of the biggest box, and made a jabbing bayonet thrust with his guitar. He whirled an arm to hit an inaudible power chord and froze the pose. “Get a load of that back line! Four five-hundred watt Marshalls. Fanfuckingtastic, man! You can’t beat the old valve amps when it comes to raunch, right?”
nineteen Father of the father of the European with proof will be identified as killer of the Neanderthal whom he met in his mad procession captive in the delusional lens of time while on his first encounter with the different the first racist murder is documented
Wind Howl Edge of the Inukshuk’s arms leading wolf ’s howl brings a tempest recalling her vocal anger by bellowing back frosty fangs harpoons clouding darkness targeting Husky team, igloo warmed up by dedication close touch of ground and sky bloodthirsty wind ravaging dwarf willow, under her the sacred arctic hare blinks his eyes at awesome power just above and out from benevolent hope for peace dwelling deep in his psyche
Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, be with us sinners now and the hour of our death. Amen.” After a moment, she said aloud, “Please keep Morley safe, Lord. Send him to me, I need ….” Her words cut off by another sharp pain, she cried out, “Dr. Rosthern, please hurry.” Rachael knew she couldn’t go any further. Her feet and hands were blocks of wood. Her whole body felt as though it didn’t belong to her. To make matters worse, she was beginning to see things that weren’t there. Several times she had called out to Ronnie where he walked ahead of her breaking the trail. “Ronnie, look,” she’d called, “there’s a house up ahead of us.” But each time he had dashed her hopes. “No, there’s nothin’ … no buildings … nothin’.” She had felt like crying but was too exhausted to do even that; anyway, her tears were all dried up. She glanced at Bobby on Ronnie’s shoulders. Her brother had been quiet for a long time. His head had fallen forward, and he looked to be fast asleep. Sleep – that’s what she needed. She absolutely could not go on another minute without sleep. She stopped walking, sank down on the snow and let her eyes close of their own accord. “Rachael, get up. Get up.” She struggled to open her eyes. Her mother was calling her. She must have overslept and she’d be late for school. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight on her whole body seemed to be holding her down. “Rachael, Rachael, please get up. You can’t go to sleep. We’ve got to keep moving or we’ll freeze.” Ronnie stood over her, jolting her back to reality – the reality that seemed more dream that real. He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Bobby’s sleeping,” she said tonelessly. Actually, it made no difference to her whether she slept or whether she froze. She teetered on her …
Where did the young girls’ orchestra go? to the seashore garden where at night the sailors drank amid the trees and pounded their feet in the air for a gold coin of moon in her hair behind the basil plants? In the nights only an enormous green reflection of the sea roams on deserted steep rocks We pass silently by the dark rooms opposite foggy mirrors that don’t recognize us anymore and we listen to the footsteps of silence of the wind and of the sea on our sleepy touch It is something of the void’s safety – a locked door at night the sketch of a procession of cypresses in the silver obscurity of autumn starlight And when the solitary full moon rains resignation and forgetfulness we open the window and pray God we thank you that we are thus alone and sorrowful so we may look at the sky without any awe serene and endless like the firmament forgotten and unrecognizable like the unknown
so that the next morning there they would be – mysteriously having arrived out of nowhere. Salvador thought it was a marvellous plan, but his reason for the visit was to arrange a meeting with Albert Reichmann. It had to be planned several months in advance, but it could be done. At last! Ken stipulated that the meeting take place at the Reichmann home on an afternoon when Salvador and his crew were working in the garden. “And this is what I want you to say: ‘Mr. Albert, there’s the man in the garden – the man I told you about. He’s been sent.’ Just use those words.” “Why would I say that?” Salvador asked. “Because that’s what I want you to say.” “Why?” “I don’t want to tell you.” “What do you mean?” “I promise I’ll tell you when the meeting is over, but those are the words that have to be used.” “Give me some idea about why those particular words.” “Right now I can’t, but I just know that those are the right words. They’re magic words. Merlin put them in my ear.” Salvador promised to say the exact words, but as Ken got up to continue painting and looked back at him, smiling enigmatically, he admitted to himself that he had no idea whether he would say those words – or indeed, what he would say or do. The fundraising campaign was a flop. Most of the corporations sent no reply and the two that came were gracious refusals. “Send more letters,” Ken said. “But they’re not working,” Diane protested. “It doesn’t matter. Send more anyway!” The Canadian Cancer Society sent a letter asking for his help in their own fundraising campaign. Would he donate a painting of an Inukshuk for a raffle? He and the Premier of Ontario, David Peterson, would pick the winner at a large media event. Ken saw an opportunity for more publicity and cheerfully said yes. On the last day of the campaign, he met with Peterson, an affable, witty man who was also an art lover. He told Ken that he and his wife had attended his show at the Columbus Centre, but by the time they had arrived every painting was sold. Ken invited him to his studio for a private showing – and a guarantee that some paintings there would not have a sold sticker. A few days later, Peterson and his wife arrived and lingered in the studio, taking in the large paintings and the sketches of Isumataq. They picked out a canvas and, while Diane and Peterson’s wife selected a frame, …
Ode How one chants ode to dust under the tank belly vexing bloomed crocuses crying for their share of bitter omen how to hymn an ode to dreams spring never hatches while sulfur and brimstone rising out of hell camouflages helmets adorns gun barrels how to chant odes to the mother of a soldier hugging death night by night how can one sing of glory purple hearts and epode under the tank?
“You too,” she said sincerely. “We’ll miss you.” She smiled at Vera who nodded. “There’s something I’d like to give you.” She reached into her purse and removed her wedding ring from where she had tucked it. “You might need this. Please take it. It brought me happiness for a while.” Paul nodded. Vera took the ring wordlessly. Her eyes filled with tears. “Uh, aren’t you forgetting something else?” asked David. “The leather jacket? It’s in my cabin—for you.” They all laughed. “Hey, thanks. But I was actually thinking about what we should say to people back in Canada. Do you have any family at all, Paul?” He shook his head. “Any friends who might report you missing?” “Not any who’d really care. Jen’s been my best friend. Oh, but you can tell Dr. Sommer at the Russian department what happened and tell her that she’s an excellent teacher. I couldn’t have done this without her. But otherwise, no, there is no one. My mother’s been dead a long time now, and so has my grandmother who was my guardian. My dad disappeared—probably because of gambling debts.” By now Vera was crying openly. “You have family now,” she told him, and Jennifer was overjoyed to see how eagerly he hugged her. ★ Just three blocks away, their tour guide, Natasha Alexeyevna Kuchkov, was sitting on the warm cement buttress of a public fountain. Two other women dressed in sarafani, light cotton dresses, were dipping their bare feet in the fountain’s pool and giggling. Such behaviour was not for her. In any case, the telegram recently received from her director had induced a cooling effect right to the bone. Phone me directly you reach Ulyanovsk, it had ordered. They don’t know what it’s like in the field any more, she thought. When we arrive, I have visits to organize, vouchers to fill in, local staff to supervise. How much time do they think I have? Thus she had been almost relieved when the rebellious students asked for some afternoon time off, though she wouldn’t admit as much to them. It had given her an opportunity to find the nearest postal and telegraph office where the long distance phone booths were located. She dialled her director on his personal private line and after some buzzing, whining, and several hang-up clicks, she was finally put through.
Manolis Aligizakis 