In any case I was the only servant in this mourning house and I had met the other house master under the stairway though the waking up was totally different, I had to take care of the old sick women who, when young, swore to die young and the trees had listened to so many love words that during the night they walked in a strange way in the garden; they all said that that night I placed the mask on the table, among the foreigners, as if to live once more; they, motionless, looked at me going down since I had no other way out except the carpet which I folded slowly and in such a way that I covered the worst. And while they all demanded an answer I left them in their delusion which was the only music.
He didn’t seem to have much family left except his grandmother in California and Jennifer felt as if she had been cast out of her own. They sat in the campus centre’s uncomfortable chairs, too hard for sleeping, just soft enough for flopping, smoked cigarettes—even though neither were smokers—and talked far into the night. At first she thought she wanted to sleep with him and made a few subtle overtures. Jennifer had lost her virginity during the first year of college to a fraternity man who pressed his attentions on her in the back row of the movie theatre. From there, a succession of eager males had dated her but only a few had captured her interest. She didn’t believe in saving it for her husband, but she wanted respect from her partner. She wanted to find the right one—someone to love when lovemaking would be a passionate, full experience. Paul was good-looking, tall, grey-eyed, with pronounced cheekbones, and as they wandered the campus together, she found herself wondering how he would look naked, whether he would be a good lover. But when she invited him back to her shared apartment for a nightcap, he told her about his girlfriend in Vancouver, a chemistry major who sounded as exciting as two planks of wood. Jennifer backed off. In his polite, contained style, he offered her nothing but a companionship that she would soon learn to treasure. At the end of the summer they kissed on the lips, promised to write to one another and he suggested that she apply for graduate work at his university where they could be colleagues. This parting tenderness made her feel warmer than the parting kiss of her many dates. Paul was special, no doubt about it. But he wasn’t the one. The summer had scarcely faded into autumn before she met Michael. She had noticed him in the line-up at the cafeteria; he always ate at about the same time each day, moved his tray through the line efficiently, then always sat in the same spot, a table by the door. One day when the cafeteria was full, she thought what the hell and asked if the seat opposite him was taken. Politely, he gathered up his sprawling papers and books and indicated the seat. Then he returned to reading. She studied him. His most obvious feature was bushy black eyebrows. His thick full hair dropped to his shoulders in the current style. He was wearing a white cotton shirt with embroidery and she could see his well-proportioned body through the material.
Possessions Joseph, the Vietnam veteran pushes his supermarket cart filled with his possessions: dirty cloths, a can opener pair of spare runners smiling hole in the left sole plastic bag full of things he doesn’t stir anymore Joseph searches the back lane of the street for something he lost long ago vibrant sunny morning very early in his task in Atlanta Georgia, he searches for something as invisible as his dividends on the defense contractors’ annual earnings report
MAYBE MAYBE … Children’s war is a game, kids’ buletts are just words! The wounded are those who sit on the bench and laugh, lame little clowns. Rejoice, the children say, live, the children say play, the children say, stubbornly for millennia maybe, maybe …
HAKIM ISONHISWAY to the Sheraton Hotel to meet his uncle so they can go together to the medical center. He’s worried about what they will find out, but he doesn’t want this to show. He wants to be courageous and strong for his uncle. They arrive by limousine and a specialist meets them in a consultation room. He confirms what’s already known about the tumor in Ibrahim’s liver. He indicates it’s a very small-sized malignancy. At this stage, it’s unclear what type of cancer it is, but he confirms that the tumor is a new type they don’t know very much about. Therefore, it would be inappropriate for him to tell Ibrahim with any certainty that it will respond positively to the new chemotherapy. For that reason, he’ll start Ibrahim on a light dose. The specialist has arranged for Ibrahim to be admitted to a private clinic where the medication is to be administered, and he’ll be monitored twenty-four hours a day. The specialist stops briefly, but continues to look at Ibrahim and Hakim to ensure that, so far, everything is understood. Then he carries on. “If we see that the drug doesn’t produce any adverse effects, the second dose, and the third and fourth, can be given orally in the form of a pill that you can take on your own, in the comfort of your own home. However, the first time the drug is administered, we would like to monitor you very closely at the clinic. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to absorb what I’ve told you. Then I’ll return with further instructions.” He gets up and the other two follow him out of the consultation room. Hakim turns and gazes him. Ibrahim is pale and shaken. This is the first time Hakim sees his uncle with fear in his eyes. The pride and gracefulness that he possessed are gone. A layer of fear has taken over like a black shroud covering the old man’s eyes. “I wouldn’t worry they do miracles with medicine these days.” Hakim says trying to relieve his uncle’s gloom. “I guess so,” his uncle nods in agreement. “But, it means I cannot go home yet.” “When were you planning to go home?” “As soon as I’m done with these guys dear boy; Mara is most anxious for me to get home; however, now she has to wait for a few more days.” “You have to be here for only one or two more days so they can see …
Paris Oh Paris, it was time when I scattered my dreams in your dark mornings and now I leave you taking with me the sorrowful joy that I love you. The Mediterranean delicate siren that flows around our ship with all its frothy lilies now takes me away from you but we shall meet again in the future when light will come carefully to open my eyes before the gleaming blue day that helps me live with your memory and then its islands will charge Athens, I know, isn’t far behind and they’ll stand and fight my sinful love for you, oh Paris, and they will wish me to forget how sweetly I gave you my soul not longing to meet anyone when I aimlessly saunter in your streets
Jeff’s lean face took on a scowl, but his eyes twinkled. “I’ll thank you not to malign my good old Chevy, young lady. Sure, I still have it. It’s safe and sound in the shed in the back yard.” Tyne groaned. “I might have known.” Jeff’s long, slender body reclined against the back of his swivel desk chair. “So what brings you here? Have you been to see your mother?” “Yes, I just left her. Aunt Millie was there, so we had a good visit. And as for what brings me here – Morley and I would like you all to come to dinner on Sunday evening.” For just a moment, Jeff looked at her, then he swung his chair towards his typewriter at the side of his desk, and began to hit the keyboard with one determined finger. Tyne took a deep breath. “Will you come, Dad?” “I thought you have dinner at noon on the farm,” he said without looking at her. “We usually do. But we’ll have a light meal after church, and dinner in the evening.” The typewriter keys flew over the page in the carriage, surprisingly fast for one finger typing. Tyne waited. Finally, her dad turned to face her. “I don’t know if I can make it … deadline, you know.” Tyne tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “It’s Sunday, Dad. The paper doesn’t come out until Wednesday.” She sat forward. “Look, you’ve been out to the farm only once, and that was just after we were married to bring some of my things. Morley and I have been to see you and Mom several times. Just for a change, I’d like to cook dinner for my family.” She sat back in her chair, and said quietly, “You’re part of my family.” Jeff drew his lips together in a tight line. “Have you asked your mother?” “Yes I did. She’d like to come but she said she’d leave it up to you.” As always, Tyne thought. In that respect Emily Milligan had not changed. Jeff nodded. “I’ll think about it. Your mother will call you tomorrow.” He turned back to his typewriter.
“Leave me alone, will you?” he scowled. But I wanted to make peace with him. “I mean it, Gregorio. You need a bleeding to drain all those bad humours and grudges. Hombre! I saw you in battle; if I hadn’t been so busy running, I would have stayed put to watch you. What shooting and fighting! You are a born conquistador. From now on, it will be quite comforting to have you around.” I uncorked a flask of marigold oil. Gregorio chortled at last. He took a gulp from the mug he was holding. “I saw you, too,” he said, “running like a hare.” “Little wonder! I have never been so frightened in my life!” Gregorio and Benjamin laughed. Perhaps I was more useful to them as feckless character, someone to jeer at. “Why, you don’t want to go to heaven, Friar?” Benjamin taunted. “I know I am but a sinner,” I smiled. “But I could use a bit more time before God blows out my candle. I’m hoping to find some way to skip purgatory.” “Trying to become a saint, are you?” Gregorio said. “Become a martyr, then. That will do, won’t it?” “That would be an improvement, no doubt. I’ve been thinking about it. Perhaps one of these days someone will favour my aspirations.” Gregorio swatted at a hornet that came too close. “We’re going to make it, I think,” Gregorio said. “Losada knows what he is doing. You can see it in his face. I’m convinced he knows how the bastards think. He has lots of experience. But, if you ask me, Francisco Infante is the better of the two.” Losada struck me as a man of principle whereas Francisco Infante impressed me as a schemer, someone who would rather run things for himself, so I decided not to respond to the bait. It was odd for me to sometimes feel so close to Gregorio and Benjamin, and yet at the same time I sensed their camaraderie was fickle, transitory. For them, the New World was strictly a land of opportunity, and the state of their souls was a distant second. Were they ever my friends? Or did they even want to be?
Continuum Unclasped, it falls buzzing like a wasp in a clean jar unclasped from the underbelly of the airplane The bomb falls wirelessly sending a message to a computer that switches into replacement mode factory on alert for a spent bomb button pushed, memory card awakes to build the replacement absurd absence of sanity
Writer’s Night What is a writers‘ night like? Where does the bus leave from which takes us on the road? And when we get to one of them, will he let us in or not when we ring the bell? Should we bring wine or is the writer not allowed to drink, should we bring music, cigarettes, anything, can we take a picture of him with the smoke billowing in his place, as he paces up and down like a caged lion? Should we bring a book for him to sign, should we bring our own, signed for him or would that be a provocation? Where is the bus leaving from? Perhaps an omnibus, the wrong chariot? Where are the writers, and where is the night that leads us to them?
Manolis Aligizakis 