Vulture 1748 (painter’s explanation) The right or wrong longing drove the twilight of the young peltast to the unstopped nocturnal mountains into the wild crevasses of Orthodoxy into the thick glens and cypresses of panic to the moral promotion of the tough Fate along colonnades of morning matins and torpor? Who could be the leader of rebellion fame love rhetor? They have been true to who’s bidding but the petty officers? Father killers and good pedophiles with only the secondary necrophilia as justification for the endless, and extremely vile, attacks against the glory seekers? Wonder whether, hearing the, oh, children, of the pain seeker painters the metaphysical city is hidden inside the presented paintings and while the warring hammers fall onto heads and the ravines buzz from the ruin of battle and the hymns of fighting saints the voice is heard: “Marko Kralle, what do you want? Here is no play and laughter. Here are the Balkans”
have to do now is carry on one day at a time. I’m sure we’ll manage. If you are concerned about money, don’t worry, we’ll find our way.” “I don’t worry about money, mother—not at all. I’m just trying to see life without Dad from now on. It will be hard to adjust.” “We’ll manage, you’ll see. Just be careful and take care of yourself. Hakim appears to be a very good man and I know he’s to come into a lot of money. Your father told me all about it.” “Why did Dad look into Hakim’s life, Mom?” “Well, honey, that was your father.” Later at around six, Hakim tells Jennifer he wants to go see how his uncle is. The limo will take him to the Sheraton Hotel and from there, when he’s done with Ibrahim, the driver will drive him to his apartment. Cathy gets up also and says goodnight to Emily. “Don’t forget to call anytime, remember?” Helena also says goodnight and leaves. “I’d like to go with Hakim, Mom. Are you going to be alright?” “I’ll be just fine, honey. Go, I’ll be just fine. Talal may stay for a while to keep me company. You just go.” Hakim is ready to go, when Talal whispers in his ear, “I’ll stay for a while to keep Emily company, okay?” “Are you going to be okay?” Hakim asks, looking at Talal. “We’ll be just fine. You guys go and see Ibrahim. Say hi to him for me.” They walk out to the limo and Rassan sits in the front with the driver and Hakim with Jennifer sit in the back. Fifteen minutes later they arrive at the Sheraton. They find Ibrahim in his suite happy because he’s out of the clinic and because the chemotherapy hasn’t given him any negative side-effects, so far. “Hello, my uncle, how are you?” “I’m fine, my dear boy. What is this about Jennifer’s dad?” “He is dead, sir. The police are doing their work now; we’ll hear from the medical examiner in the next little while,” Jennifer says. “Oh, my dear, oh, I’m so sorry,” he opens his arms as if ready to hug Jennifer. She takes the opportunity and falls into his arms. Ibrahim is a bit surprised by this; however, he knows that this is customary for North Americans, and he hugs the young woman. Hakim smiles. His uncle is very fond of Jennifer, and that pleases him a lot. Ibrahim is already prepared for his return home and Rassan is making the flight arrangements for as early as tomorrow. Mara will be most happy to have him home with her.
Jewelry Box In front of the mirror she is trying one jewel after another comparing them to the gleam of her eyes she smiles, placing a diamond between her breasts tiny yet exquisitely bright adorning her curves where the hungry eyes of men always fall men whom she’ll meet at tonight’s ballroom
Gregorio, mounted on Babieca, joined half a dozen riders who were pursuing the runaways. Several of the riders were herding the natives with the points of their spears. There were older men among the natives, but no warriors. In the distance, Gregorio chased a young woman who refused to stop. He took his foot out of the stirrup and landed a kick on her back that sent her flying. She fell head over heels in the tall grass. When I saw Gregorio leap off Babieca and throw himself upon the girl, my legs began moving before I had time to think. I could see Gregorio’s back in the tall grass and I feared he would rape her. Beneath him, the girl shrieked. From a distance, I could not see her face. Losada had explicitly forbidden any harm to the natives, as the king had forbidden their enslavement, apparently to the same effect. I could see them struggling. I called him again and again, still forty long paces away. He fumbled at his breeches, while keeping her down one-handed, and pushed against her. Again she shrieked. Damn his soul. He was not much better than Pánfilo. I came from behind and kicked him in the ribs, which thudded like a broken drum. I tumbled over him. He fell on his side. I scrambled away and got a glimpse of his disgusting member besmeared with blood. Gregorio stood up, furious, and grabbed a handful of her hair. He raised her by the hair, and I beheld her face as she threw up her hands, her eyes round with terror. A dead weight sank inside me. Horror, mixed with a shameful joy, gave way to a surge of wrath as I took in what had happened. It was the girl by the river, the girl with eyes like the setting sun. Something moved in the grass at her feet, something with grey-brown fur. The monkey. My hands curled into fists. As I fought the urge to punish Gregorio, the monkey clambered up his side and bit him on the ear. With a swift motion, Gregorio let go of the girl and grabbed the monkey by the feet. He swung it against the trunk of a massive rubber tree as it howled and whined, eyes unfocused but terrified.
Often during the night, without noticing it, I’d arrive to another city where there was no other but an old man who dreamed that someday he’d become a musician; and now he sat in the rain half naked; he was covering an old, imaginary violin with his coat over his knees. “Can you hear it?” he asks me “yes” I say to him “I’ve always heard it” while at the far end of the road the statue narrated the true voyage to the birds.
Sixteenth Hour The watermelon drips on my beard droplets of pleasure under the thick grapevine shade from where apparitions of lust spring up to dominate the heated summer evening uncertain July without a song on the prophet’s lips teased from incongruous meditation on a forgotten algorithm of a sticky honeybee buzzing in between gardenia stems of fear uncoiling ever so tenderly into the lost will of anathema He lounges still in cloud retreat reflecting on whether He can triumph in the fiasco of His first trial sagacious blue-haired Death elevates from the bowels of fiery undercurrents informs about a savior warns that what is already cannot be undone without expense send them a willing savior let him hold sin in his hands and display him to the eyes of Fates they need something to meddle in or they risk growing senile and people comply when He shortly describes to them the cross shape taken from the limbs of a philandering oak to frame the guest’s body and using forged blacksmith pins He fastens the extremities and heart upon the viewpoint while nails bleat ‘why?’ and red-stained cross answers: who cares?
Heroes And we were young, untried voices, silent, contemplative, crisp peaches, fresh summer songs touch of a rose at dawn, innocence, royalty effusing each of us having a universe in our hand like a marble and they armed us and took us to the borders; they bestowed death unto our scopes with the accuracy of surgeon and what could we do with such instruments and with targets standing at the edge of the plain laughing and scolding us? We started shooting against anything moving with such a strange joy that even now after all these years I can’t explain and having taught us how to kill they euphemized us by ultimately calling us heroes
There is a deep hunger to have the sunshine of their former homes, and of their great-grandparents’ former homes. There are these stories that persist about how wonderful life was, and how sunny it was, and how warm it was. But, with the exception of this little coastal strip, this is a very cold country. You’re trying to give paintings of vast, distant places that are freezing cold, to Canadians. Why would anyone, with the psyche I’ve described, even think of buying one? They won’t even come out to look at them.” “Well, Jesus!” “Go ahead – break my argument.” “What else about these paintings then? “One word – pretty. The Canadian art scene is almost non-existent, but what passes for imagery in the public mind at large is pretty. Doreen! Doreen! Bring some magazines!” Fraser grabbed the top one, from the stack Doreen delivered, and opened it at random. He turned two pages and pointed. “Look – here’s an ad – it’s perfect. Isn’t that a pretty photograph? Do you notice that it has a white, sandy beach, a scantily clad couple, and palm trees? People work very, very hard to make money, so they can save some up and go to that place – and it’s very pretty. That’s what is in their minds. You and I are the children and grandchildren of peasants, and we have their tastes.” Fraser reached into his pack of cigarettes, pulled out a fresh one, and lit it from the butt that had almost burned down to his fingertips. “It’s taken Europe an eon to get to its appreciation of art. You’re expecting too much, too quickly.” “But, if we don’t push we won’t get anywhere,” Ken said. “It’s not just a matter of pushing the public. We have to find individuals who will get behind this. It’s not just good old Alex and Ken who are going to go and foist this on the country. It’s a much bigger story.” Ken left the gallery deep in thought. Yes, there was truth in what Fraser had said but it wasn’t the whole truth. Canada was ready for his paintings. The Group of Seven was proof. Fraser thought they were rubbish too. If he wanted to tell his story through his paintings, it wouldn’t be with Alex Fraser by his side. Unexpectedly, Ken received a letter from his Aunt Vicki in Madrid. She had taken the photographs he had sent her, of his latest paintings, and shown them to a popular gallery owner who wanted to exhibit them. He tapped the note against his desk, read it again, and picked up a pen. He wrote a letter to Mr. McEachern, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, describing his good fortune in coming to Canada, and telling him how he had arrived in this country. He wrote about his art and said that he wished to go back to Europe for an exhibition in Madrid.
Two doors opened off this part of the landing. One led to Caitlin’s room. The other had led to Nora’s room, but Nora was married now and had a home of her own in the village. Caitlin and Nora, night and day, his sisters in all but blood. The priest turned sharply to the right and followed the landing alongside the stairwell to the front of the house. The old, brown wood of a large cupboard glowed in the lamplight. The door of the bedroom to the right of the cupboard stood half-open, and heavy, catarrhal breathing rasped in the dark interior. Old Finn has feasted well and sleeps like a king, thought the tired priest. Better not disturb him. The priest turned to the door of the bedroom to the left of the cupboard. His old room. The room in which he had lived as a boy, laboured over his books with the patient Caitlin, grew to be a man, a young, raw man, dedicated to God. Was the room the same as when he had left it? Yes, it would be. Nothing ever changed here. Tonight, or what was left of the night, he would sleep again in the old iron bed with the patchwork quilt. Nostalgic remembrance pierced the priest’s heart. The blood drained out into his belly and down into his loins. The hot blood chilled and made him shiver. The hair rose on the nape of his neck. Seven years ago last September. Seven momentous years. Seven long strides from aspiring youth to zealous priest. He turned the handle, and the door opened without a sound. He stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind him, and walked with silent tread across the polished wooden floor to the bed. He set the lamp down on the dresser. “Caitlin,” he said in involuntary surprise. She lay in a cloud of eiderdown. Gleaming even in the dark, her black hair trailed across the pillow, across the shoulder of her green-flowered nightgown. Her arm lay outside the shiny green covers. The priest leaned forward and touched the cool back of her hand. The body turned. The black cirrus stirred on the pillow. Caitlin, the priest thought. My God, what a beautiful woman you are. He had come unwittingly to the wrong room. Caitlin had given up her own old room and moved in here for some reason. Yet little beyond the bedclothes had changed from the way he remembered it. Caitlin had changed, though. She looked more mature and even more beautiful. Having seen her, he felt he had to talk to her. “Caitlin,” he whispered.
“Oh, no,” she said and covered her mouth with her free hand. Anton pulled her close to his body and held her tightly when at that moment the laundry door was opened and Sister Gladys made her appearance saying, “Oh my, oh my…what have we here, lovebirds?” Anton let go of Mary who pulled a little away, “it’s not what it looks, we were talking of Mr. Kelly,” Mary said to Gladys. “Oh, don’t mind me, sweet Mary and you Mr. Jonas, your secret, or whatever it is you two have, is safe with me…only,” she left her phrase unfinished. “What do you mean, Sister Gladys?” Mary asked. “Only one thing for you, sweet secretary…shut your door from now on don’t let anyone come in…not anyone, ok?” Mary lowered her head as Anton looked at her, dumbfounded, and though without her saying it a whisper came out of her lips, “I never invited anyone, nor have I ever provoked anyone.” “You could be stronger,” Sister Gladys insisted. “I know,” Mary admitted and her head was lowered even more than before. “Okay then, what of Mr. Kelly? What should I report to Father Jerome?” Anton told her in a few sentences the news about Dylan after which Sister Gladys left them. Mary still stood away from Anton with her lowered head and tears coming down her eyes. Anton neared her, took her hand again, raised her head with his other hand and kissed her lips softly. “Don’t be afraid, don’t be concerned, let it be, Mary, let it be,” he whispered and hugged her tightly. Time passed like a flood of sunlight flashing on them, light was there, at the end of the tunnel Mary and Anton had passed, and now they were out in the open, out in the beautiful summer August day.
Manolis Aligizakis 