Ubud: Where Dean and Keith Stayed. Photo by Keith Lyons
So many questions remain about Dean. Many remain unanswered. Top of that list would have to be “Is Dean still alive?”, followed by “How and when did Dean die?”
But underlying all those questions about a gentleman I met in Indonesia in the late 2010s is the fact that I, along with many others who encountered him on the island of Bali, regard him as a ‘good man’ and miss his presence.
“Have you ever wondered if he is still alive but just can’t communicate?” suggested an associate; a possible scenario, given Dean was in his seventh decade on this Earth. “What would happen if he just turns up again? Wouldn’t that be funny?” another pondered.
I first met Dean a couple of years after I moved to the cultural heart of Bali, Ubud, a small town a couple of hundred metres above sea level, a place sometimes with its head in the clouds. When I moved into a room overlooking the rice paddies, just 10 minutes’ walk from the centre of town, I heard about Dean before I first met him in person. Staff mentioned the other ‘permanent’ residing in the neighbouring bungalow. Later that day, in the turquoise waters of the infinity pool that overlooked the gully cloaked in jungle, I saw a figure glide underwater from one end to the other, dive flippers giving the impression the creature was both extraordinarily tall and also well-suited to amphibious life.
Dean, as I was later to learn, was both frugal and generous. I never quite worked out if he was living off savings or a veteran’s benefit. Or if he served in the military or actively tried to avoid it. When I first met him on the pathway that connects our respective residences to the main path that straddles the accommodation and the rice fields, he told me how he would eat lunch at a local food stall, known as a warung, with it being as little as 10,000 rupiah — less than US$1 — for a simple rice-based meal.
He cared less for the plethora of cute Instagram cafes and foodie-recommended ‘must-try’ restaurants that catered to the tourists who thronged the central market and motorcycle-packed streets of Jalan Raya Ubud. Though, there was one exception. Every so often, sometimes to mark his arrival back from a visa-run to Malaysia (most foreigners living in Bali usually have to exit every three or six months depending on their visas), or at the end of his long stay, when he was about to travel elsewhere in south east Asia, as the end of year rainy season ramped up — then Dean displayed his munificence. He would treat the staff — and a few hangers on — to a calzone from a long-established pizza joint that prided itself on its secret sauce. Being a folded-over pizza, the fillings remain hot during its journey in the box on the back of a Honda Vario scooter.
I got invited to join in one of those calzone feasts. We sat under a long pagoda looking out across beyond the pool and jungle to the terraces and the ridge where silhouettes were just visible in the twilight. Dean was very much a global citizen, well-travelled, and scuba diving in almost as many countries as he had visited. He had worked as a dive instructor at schools and resorts. He still had with him equipment for aqua-living, along with other items stored in other places where he had lived and worked.
Just as scuba diving requires adherence to safe practices and procedures, Dean’s life on terra firma also followed routines and habits, which he hoped would ensure his longevity. One day he asked me to check an unusual skin condition with white patchiness on his upper arm, which he had convinced himself by Googling might be pre-cancerous. He was going to have it checked out, but on closer inspection, I thought it might just be a local fungal infection. Fortunately, it cleared up a week or so later, so he didn’t have to visit a clinic.
Because Dean seemed to live such an active life and appeared fitter and healthier than most of the visitors to Bali, it seemed like he was in a sweet spot: retired but active, living a simple life of contentment, sharing good vibes with all and sundry.
So, it was a surprise, after the COVID pandemic with its travel restrictions, that I didn’t hear from Dean, and later, concluded he must have left us. It was only a few months ago when I returned to Bali that the reality of his absence became more evident. When I visited, instead of my usual room at the end of the block overlooking the jungle, I was given the next upstairs bungalow, the one Dean usually stayed in.
Staff, as well as the former ‘manager’ and one of his closest friends, told me they hadn’t heard from him for more than a year. He’d moved to a coastal settlement, closer to the sea, and there were rumours he’d met someone. “Perhaps she was a gold-digger,” suggested his local friend, who I’ll call No. 4. “But I don’t think Dean had much gold for her to mine.”
As we sat under the gazebo, gazing out at the perfect postcard scene of harmony between humans and nature, No. 4 confided that if Dean had already died, he had a rather onerous duty. Dean had asked him to dispose of his body. I thought perhaps that the American might have requested a cremation ritual, common on the island, which has evolved a blend of Hinduism, animism, and Buddhism into a rich mix of ceremony and devotion. But no, instead, he had requested that No.4 deal with his bodily form in another way. “See those coconut trees,” No.4 pointed towards the tall palm trees in the gully, which rose high up to their crown canopy of green fronds sheltering its fruit orbs. “Dean wanted to be strung up in one of those.”
We talked about the practicality of somehow hauling his body up 25 metres or more, and then about what processes and creatures might consume his corpse. It was quite a natural way to go, we concluded, though we did wonder about the sight, smell and impact on other guests staying in the bungalows.
“Dean also had another option, he mentioned to me a few times,” said No. 4, who seemed troubled by the responsibility. Plan B involved Dean’s body being fed to the lions at Bali Zoo. Dean had obviously given this some thought, and it weighed heavily on No.4, not just his role as Dean’s body caretaker, but what the duty might entail.
The following evening, my last before heading back home, I invited No.4 and some of others who knew Dean to get together. Amid the chat and speculation, the cool drinks and spicy snacks, as the breeze picked up and swayed the coconut trees gently this way and that, we had an informal farewell to Dean. Another of his friends — let’s call him Guitar Man — nominated one coconut tree and reckoned with some rope it would be possible to string up a body. No one wanted to try calling Dean’s phone, so I did again, just to confirm it was true. The number was out of service.
Another who knew Dean, let’s call him TaxiMan, talked through what Plan B might involve: chopping up with a machete Dean’s corpse, putting it into bags, visiting the zoo during its 9am to 5pm opening hours, and either throwing the parts over into the lion’s enclosure, or joining the special ‘Lion Feeding’ session (US$5). “I can find out what times they feed the lions and tigers,” he said, having worked out the practicality of this option. No. 4 looked nervous. There was more risk attached with this option, not just from a lion’s fangs, but from the law. How would you explain bags of body parts?
Then, just in time, I heard the strain of the motor-scooter coming up the rise of the terrace towards our place. It was the pizza delivery guy bearing two boxes with calzones I’d ordered.
As for Dean, we still don’t know for sure if he has died. We don’t know the circumstances of his death, or what remains of his body. What we do know is that he is still cherished and remembered. And that there can be few better legacies than to have friends fondly recall a person with a blend of missing, gratitude, and humour.
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Keith Lyons (keithlyons.net) is an award-winning writer and creative writing mentor originally from New Zealand who has spent a quarter of his existence living and working in Asia including southwest China, Myanmar and Bali. His Venn diagram of happiness features the aroma of freshly-roasted coffee, the negative ions of the natural world including moving water, and connecting with others in meaningful ways. A Contributing Editor on Borderless journal’s Editorial Board, his work has appeared in Borderless since its early days, and his writing featured in the anthology Monalisa No Longer Smiles.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.
It has been a strange year for all of us. Amidst the chaos, bloodshed and climate disasters, Borderless Journal seems to be finding a footing in an orphaned world, connecting with writers who transcend borders and readers who delight in a universe knit with the variety and vibrancy of humanity. Like colours of a rainbow, the differences harmonise into an aubade, dawning a world with the most endearing of human traits, hope.
A short round up of this year starts with another new area of focus — a section with writings on environment and climate. Also, we are delighted to add we now host writers from more than forty countries. In October, we were surprised to see Borderless Journal listed on Duotrope and we have had a number of republications with acknowledgement — the last request was signed off this week for a republication of Ihlwha Choi’s poem in an anthology by Hatchette US. We have had many republications with due acknowledgment in India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and UK too among other places. Our team has been active too not just with words and art but also with more publications from Borderless. Rhys Hughes, who had a play performed to a full house in Wales recently, brought out a whole book of his photo-poems from Borderless. Bhaskar Parichha has started an initiative towards another new anthology from our content — Odia poets translated by Snehaprava Das. We are privileged to have all of you — contributors and readers — on board. And now, we invite you to savour some of our fare published in Borderless from January 2025 to December 2025. These are pieces that embody the spirit of a world beyond borders…
I Am Not My Mother: Gigi Baldovino Gosnell gives a story of child abuse set in Philippines where the victim towers with resilience. Click here to read.
Persona: Sohana Manzoor wanders into a glamorous world of expats. Click here to read.
In American Wife, Suzanne Kamata gives a short story set set in the Obon festival in Japan. Click here to read.
Sandy Cannot Write: Devraj Singh Kalsi takes us into the world of advertising and glamour. Click here to read.
Reminiscences from a Gallery: The Other Ray: Dolly Narang muses on Satyajit Ray’s world beyond films and shares a note by the maestro and an essay on his art by the eminent artist, Paritosh Sen. Click here to read.
A discussion of Jaladhar Sen’s The Travels of a Sadhu in the Himalayas, translated from Bengali by Somdatta Mandal, with an online interview with the translator. Click here to read.
I’d wanted to go on the Shikoku Mannaka Sennen Monogatari (One Thousand Year Story in the Middle of Shikoku) train trip ever since I saw it advertised on a poster in the window of Tokushima Station. When I investigated, however, I discovered one couldn’t begin the journey in Tokushima, where I live. Although it starts (or ends, depending on which way you’re coming from; it’s a one-way trip) deep in the mountains of Tokushima, I would have to change trains a few times before boarding the special sightseeing train. It would take hours to get there. A better way would be to board in Tadotsu, which is in the neighboring prefecture Kagawa. I could drive there in a little over an hour, take the fancy train to Oboke, and return by express train.
I decided to take a ride on the spur of the moment. The train was pretty much booked for the rest of the season, at least on the days when I didn’t have other plans, like my job. I did find one last seat on a train in mid-November. It might have been more fun to go with someone else, but I didn’t have time to coordinate with friends. I immediately booked the seat, reserving my lunch as well.
The morning of my train trip was chilly, but sunny. I donned a thin tunic and a long cardigan, wondering if it would be cold in the mountains. Maybe I should bring my down jacket? I rolled up a windbreaker and stuffed it into my backpack. I entered my destination – Tadotsu Station – into my phone’s navigation app, selected a podcast for the drive, and set off.
Tadotsu turned out to be a sleepy little town, which makes sense. These are the kinds of places that need something special to attract visitors and their money. If the whole purpose of these sightseeing trains is to rejuvenate dying towns, then Tadotsu seemed like a good choice. I could see that some construction was in progress, perhaps to accommodate the hordes of new visitors brought by the train. Porta potties temporarily served as bathrooms.
In front of the station, an intriguing sculpture attracted my attention. To me, it looked like a tall armless man wearing a hat, backed by a sickle. There was an emblem like a coat of arms where the neck of the man would be. At the base of the sculpture was a plaque with the words: “Thankful for my own life. Thankful for having you in it.”
Later, I discovered that it was meant to commemorate Doshin So, nee Michiomi Nakano, a former military intelligence agent who spent many years in China. After returning to Japan, he was stationed in Tadotsu, where he established a cram school to teach Buddhist philosophy and martial arts.
In 1947, he founded Shorinji Kenpo, a Japanese martial art with a holistic system. The training methods are divided into self-defense training, mental training, and health training. According to his philosophy, spirit and body are as one, and they must be trained together as such. His teachings emanated from this small town of about 20,000 people to the rest of the world. The emblem, as it turned out, was the symbol for Shorinji Kenpo.
I took a photo of the monument and proceeded to the train platform, where I was met with heavy equipment surrounded by a chain link fence. A sign apologised for this inconvenience, and explained that construction was underway to make the station barrier-free.
I was twenty minutes early, but my fellow passengers – Japanese, as far as I could tell – were already milling about, taking selfies and photos of each other in advance of their train trip. The group was mostly female, middle-aged, and older. Many people were wearing masks.
A cinematic melody heralded the approach of the train, accompanied by another rush for selfies and photos. The three cars, all different colors, were named after spring, summer, and fall. What happened to winter? A small doormat with the train’s motif, which resembled a stylized tree, was positioned on the platform at the entrance to the train. I boarded the green “spring” car, Haru Akari, and found my seat, a fuzzy green upholstered chair at a table against the wall, facing the window. The two seats next to me were unoccupied.
Most people wore casual clothes. I rarely saw folks from Tokushima get dressed up, unless it was for a wedding, say, or a graduation ceremony. One woman at the four-top on the other side of me was striking in a sumptuous Chinese-style jacket and gold barrettes. I wondered for a moment if she might be some kind of celebrity. I tried not to stare.
I examined the orange cloth placemat, again with the tree motif. Already my mouth was watering. Disposable chopsticks and a wet napkin were aligned at the bottom, while a spoon rested on a rectangle of granite. Paper napkins, toothpicks, and creamers were tucked into a small basket made of vines. Brochures detailing the train’s route, souvenirs for purchase, and additional menu items were laid out.
You could use your phone to scan a QR code and order keychains, sweet potato cakes, or a yusan-bako, a traditional lunch box which originated in Tokushima. This one was made of Japanese cypress adorned with Kagawa lacquerware. It had three drawers for various delicacies, which fit into a box with a handle, perfect for toting to a picnic in a meadow somewhere. You could also buy a CD with the train’s theme song.
I had already ordered my lunch, but I glanced at the menu anyway. Fish cutlets, another specialty of Tokushima were available, along with bamboo shoots, and ice cream made with sake lees. The sweet potato crumble, with a dollop of whipped cream, was also tempting, but I summoned my willpower.
One of the uniformed attendants pointed out the wooden box under my car for storing my backpack and purse. I got those items out of the way. She also handed me a coupon for soup and water to be redeemed at our first stop. And then finally, the train began to move. A whistle blew. Japan Railway employees and others lined up with flags and round paper fans and began waving at us. We all waved back.
After that enthusiastic send-off, the train began to trundle along the tracks, picking up speed as we zipped past backyards of houses, apartment buildings with laundry hanging on balconies, convenience stores, crows alighting on power lines, an empty playground. We passed rice paddies, some surrounding family gravestones; a construction site with bright blue, green, and yellow earth moving machines.
As we neared Kotohira Station, our first stop, a young woman chirped that Kotohira’s brass band had been declared second best in the country. She reminded us to redeem our coupons in the welcome center. After the train had stopped, I followed everyone into a small room adjacent to the station where we lined up at a counter. I handed over my little piece of paper and received a bottle of water and a small China cup of kabocha1potage. I perched on the padded bench to drink it, while gazing around at the proud display of photos of the award-winning high school band. A white-gloved attendant came around with a tray to collect my empty cup, and I got back on the train.
A young Chinese family – a couple and their plump baby – were now occupying the seats beside me. The train moved on. The view outside my window was now more expansive – terraced fields, occasional houses with tiled roofs and walled gardens, tufts of pampas grass, a patch of pink and magenta cosmos.
The voice announced that we were nearing Sanuki Saida Station, which boasts a 700-year-old tabunoki tree, said to be a “power spot.” Apparently if you stand under the tree, you can absorb some of its spirit and energy. The tree has also been designated a Kagawa Prefectural Protected Tree. The train came to a stop again, but this time we didn’t get off. Instead, we all whipped out our smartphones to take photos of the person dressed in a polar bear costume shooting soap bubbles from a bubble gun. The baby was delighted.
Once we were again underway, the attendant distributed large square bento boxes with gold-rimmed lids. I opened mine to find an array of chilled meat dishes – the first course. I unsheathed my disposable chopsticks and broke them apart. “Itadakimasu!2”
Out the window, farmland had given way to gnarly brush. `Although the foliage wasn’t quite at its peak, swatches of scarlet and gold popped against the greenery. I wondered about the wildlife in the mountains. I knew that there were monkeys, boars, and deer. The latter two appeared on menus deep in the interior of Shikoku. You could get a burger made with game meat, or “peony hot pot,” in which thin slices of pink boar meat curled up like flower petals after being cooked in miso broth.
Next to me, the young parents passed their good-natured baby back and forth. When I caught his eye, I smiled at him, and he showed his dimples, smiling back. I remembered how, when I had first come to Japan, whenever I had tried to engage with a stranger’s baby on the train, the baby’s face had crumpled up in terror. Apparently, big-nosed foreigners were scary even for infants. At least back then. It was nice to be able to engage with a small child without causing tears.
We made a brief stop at Tsubojiri Station, a small, unmanned station accessible only by switchback, surrounded by trees. “You can get off the train and smoke,” the voice announced. We all scampered off the train, but I didn’t see anyone light up a cigarette. Instead, passengers posed in front of the station’s sign and the weathered wooden building.
Back on the train, the next course was served – buttered rice and pork, arranged on a gold-rimmed China plate. The narration continued. “Please look to the right. You will be able to see Mount Hashikura. You can take a ropeway to Hashikura Temple, which was established by the famous Buddhist monk Kukai, also known as Kobo Daishi.”
Kobo Daishi is known as the father of Shikoku’s 88-Temple Pilgrimage. Hashikura Temple is not one of the 88, but is considered to be an associated temple. According to the Tourism Shikoku website, the name “Hashikuraji” contains the character for “hashi,” or chopsticks, “an everyday unifying ubiquitous tool of daily life for all Japanese. In 828 [CE], Konpira Daigongen revealed himself to the priest Kukai and promised to save all who use chopsticks, a pledge of salvation for all.”
According to an announcement, we would soon have a good view of the Yoshino River, the majestic “wild” river which runs west to east across Shikoku. Its rushing waters carved out the Oboke Gorge over millennia. This river flows 121 miles, past Tokushima City, and the house where I live, and into the Kii Channel. At one time, it flooded repeatedly. The “Tora-no-Mizu” (“Tiger’s Water”) flood of 1886 (Year of the Tiger), one of the worst floods in Japanese history, led to the deaths of an estimated 30,000 people. Now, however, strong levees keep the waters in check, though heavy rains can still shut down the roads nearest the river. These days, the Yoshino River is more known as a place where visitors can enjoy various forms of recreation including swimming, fishing, and white-water rafting.
As I gazed out at the glassy emerald waters, which reflected the rocky banks, the voice announced that we were approaching Awa-Ikeda. High school baseball, I thought. Sure enough, the voice told us that we would soon have a view of baseball players practicing at Ikeda High School’s diamond, and that they had once won the National High School Baseball Tournament at Koshien.
The train chugged on. We passed another station, Awa Kawaguchi, where another person in a polar bear suit filled the air with soap bubbles. A sign on the platform declared that this was a town where tanuki (an indigenous animal that is often called raccoon-dog, and is a notorious trickster in Japanese folklore) and people live together.
A polar bear suit filled the air with soap bubblesA man wearing a woven peaked hat
After traversing another tunnel, coffee was served with a petite madeleine. Outside the window, I could see the water rushing through the gorge, frothing over rocks. We were almost at the end of our thousand-year journey. It had lasted a little over two hours.
The train pulled into Oboke Station, in the town of Miyoshi, and we got off. We were greeted by a man wearing a woven peaked hat and happi coat, banging on a drum affixed with characters from the animated series Anpanman. Although my fellow travelers had been mostly Japanese, quite a few European and American tourists were milling around the station, perhaps waiting for transportation.
At the time I first visited, over thirty years ago, I recall no restaurants or hotels, but now there was a large roadside station with souvenir shops, food vendors, and a Yokai House. There was even yokai3-themed food. Some traditional houses have been refurbished as high-end inns.
I took a short walk around the area and then attempted to buy a return ticket on an express train. Although the station was now geared for tourists with English signage and souvenir shops, it was still old-fashioned in many ways. I realised it wasn’t equipped to deal with phone apps or credit cards. I hadn’t brought a lot of cash, but I had just enough to buy a ticket back to my starting point.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
That dawn, beachside after the wedding night, the sky was a canvas like the bride’s forehead- bright red smeared across, sindoor* spread carelessly, wet air and warm breath, filling both their hearts with memories to last a few lives beyond their own.
*Sindoor is a red cosmetic powder worn as a dot on the forehead or along the parting of the hair by Hindu women, especially as a sign of marriage.
FIRST KISS
Do you remember how my lips turned red, same shade as yours, as I tasted your lipstick when mine pressed hard against yours on the glass wall, curved so delicately, smudged slightly, when for the first time, we shared a goblet of Malbec?
Photo provided by the poet
Joseph K. Wells is an American poet and healthcare executive, originally from India. Since 2016, his poems have found a home in over two dozen journals and lit mags internationally. A selection of his published works is available at https://paperonweb.wordpress.com/ .
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A fresh slice of orange exploding at the brim. I slurp up every little drop, without a break, without a blink. Overwhelmingly quenched yet still parched, every thought so distinct, yet dissolved into one drink. Every cell so intoxicated, yet so sobered, exhilarated yet so numb, so incoherent, yet as never before have they been so much in sync.
I drink up the concoction by this brilliant mixologist, yet to us all unknown, overflowing the fragile walls of this life as for now to us known.
Joseph K. Wells is an American poet and healthcare executive, originally from India. Since 2016, his poems have found a home in over two dozen journals and lit mags internationally. A selection of his published works is available at https://paperonweb.wordpress.com/ .
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Neeman Sobhan, born in the West Pakistan of Pre-1971, continues a citizen of both her cultural home, Bangladesh, and her adopted home, Italy. Her journey took her to US for five years but the majority of times she has lived in Italy – from 1978. What does that make her?
She writes of her compatriots by culture – Bangladeshis — but living often in foreign locales. Her non-fiction, An Abiding City, gives us glimpses of Rome. These musings were written for Daily Star and then made into a book in 2002. Her short stories talk often of the conflicting cultures and the commonality of human emotions that stretch across borders. And yet after living in Rome for 47 years – the longest she has lived in any country – her dilemma as she tells us in this interview – is that she doesn’t know where she belongs, though her heart tugs her towards Bangladesh as she grows older. In this candid interview, Neeman Sobhan shares her life, her dreams and her aspirations.
Where were you born? And where did you grow up?
I was born in Pakistan, rather in the undivided Pakistan of pre-1971: the strange land we had inherited from our grandparents’ and parents’ generation when British colonial India was partitioned in 1947 down the Radcliffe line, creating an entity of two wings positioned a thousand miles apart on either side of India! The eastern wing, or East Pakistan was formerly East Bengal, and my cultural roots are in this part of the region because I come from a Bengali Muslim family. But I was born not there but in West Pakistan, which is culturally and linguistically distinct from Bengal, comprising the regions of Western Punjab, Sindh, Baluchistan and the NWFP (North-West Frontier Provinces, bordering Afghanistan), where the official language is Urdu.
So, my birthplace was the cantonment town of Bannu in the NWFP, (now KPK or Khyber Pakhtunkhwa).
Perhaps my life as the eternal migrant, living outside expected geographical boundaries started right there, at birth.
My father’s government job meant being posted in both wings of Pakistan. So, I grew up all over West Pakistan, and in Dhaka, whenever he was posted back to East Pakistan. Much of my childhood and girlhood were spent in Karachi (Sindh), Multan and Kharian (Punjab) and Quetta (Balochistan).
How many years did you spend in Pakistan?
The total number of years I spent in undivided Pakistan (West Pakistan, now Pakistan, and East Pakistan, now Bangladesh) is about two decades, or one year short of twenty years. From my birth in 1954, my growing years, till I left the newly independent Bangladesh in 1973 when I got married and came to the US at the age of nineteen.
What are your memories about your childhood in West Pakistan? I have read your piece where you mention your interactions with fruit pickers in Quetta. Tell us some more about your childhood back there.
I have wonderful memories of growing up in West Pakistan, in Karachi, Multan and Kharian of the late 50’s and early 60’s (despite the era of Martial Law under Field Marshall Ayub Khan, and later his military-controlled civilian government). However, the political environment is invisible and irrelevant to a child’s memories that center around family, school and playmates, till he reaches the teen years and becomes aware of the world of adults. Since, my father’ job entailed us going back and forth between West and East Pakistan, by the time we arrived in Quetta in late 1967, it ended up being my father’s last posting, because by then Ayub Khan’s regime was tottering under protests in both wings of Pakistan; and by the time (I should say in the nick of time) we left for Dhaka, it was already the turbulent year of 1970, which turned Pakistan upside down with General Yahya Khan becoming the new Marshall Law administrator. When we returned to Dhaka, it was the beginning of the end for Pakistan, with preparations for the first democratic general elections, and the blood soaked nine months war of independence for Bangladesh about to be staged.
But as a child, growing up in a Pakistan that was till then my own country, what remains in my treasure trove of memories are only the joys of everyday life, and the friendships (with those whom I never saw again, except one school friend from Quetta with whom I reunited in our middle age in Toronto, Canada!)
Also precious are the road trips with my five siblings and our adventurous mother, as we always accompanied our father on his official tours, across the length and breadth of West Pakistan.
But if I start to recount all my precious memories, I will need to write a thick memoir. And that is exactly what I have been doing over the years: jotting down my recollections of my past in Pakistan, for my book, a novel that is a cross between fact and fiction. The happy parts are all true, but the sad ones relating to the war that my generation underwent in 1971 as teenagers is best dealt with from the distance of fiction.
What I can offer is a kaleidoscopic view of some random memories: the red colonial brick residence of my family in the 60’s in Multan, one of the hottest cities of Punjab, known for its aandhi — dust storms — that would suddenly blow into the courtyard of the inner garden in the middle of the night as my sister and I slept on charpoys laid out in the cool lawn under a starlit sky, and being bundled up in our parents’ arms and rushed indoors; tasting the sweetest plums left to chill in bowls of ice; being cycled to school by the turbaned chowkidar weaving us through colourful bazars to the Parsi run ‘Madam Chahla’s Kindergarten School’ or on horse drawn tanga (carriages); learning to write Urdu calligraphic letters on the wooden takhta (board) with weed Qalam(pens) and a freshly mixed ink from dawaat (ink pots); and to balance this, my mother helping us to write letters in Bengali to grandparents back in East Pakistan on sky-blue letter pads, our tongues lolling as pencils tried to control the Brahmic alphabet-spiders from escaping the page.
In Karachi, returning home on foot from school with friends under a darkening sky that turned out to be swarms of locusts. Learning later that these grain eating insects were harmful only to crops not humans (and Sindhis actually eat them like fried chicken wings) does not take away the thrill of our adventure filled with exaggerated, bloodcurdling shrieks to vie with the screen victims of Hitchcock’s The Birds, viewed later as adults in some US campus. Picnics and camel rides on the seabeaches of Clifton, Sandspit, or Paradise Point. Near our home, standing along Drigh Road (the colonial name later changed to Shahrah-e-Faisal after King Faisal of Arabia, I later heard) waving at the motorcade of Queen Elizabeth II passing by with Ayub Khan beside her in a convertible with its roof down. That was in the 60’s. Later in 1970, embarking with my family on the elegant HMV Shams passenger ship at Karachi port for our memorable week long journey back to Dhaka across the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean, with a port of call at Colombo in what was still Ceylon, to disembark at Chittagong port, not knowing then that we were waving goodbye not just to the Karachi of our childhood but a part of our own country that would soon become the ‘enemy’ through its marauding army.
But I reset my memories and bring back the beauty and innocence of childhood with images of my family’s first sight of snowfall in Quetta, the garden silently filling with pristine layers of snowflakes piling into a cloudy kingdom under the freshly tufted pine trees, as we sipped hot sweet ‘kahwa’ tea, and cracked piles of the best chilgoza pine-nuts and dried fruits from Kabul. And since Quetta was our last home in Pakistan, I leave my reminiscences here.
In Front of their home With full family in the snow In Quetta: Photos provided by Neeman Sobhan
There are so many ways to enter the past. Photographs in albums discolor after a time, but words keep our lived lives protected and intact to be accessible to the next generation. I hope my novel-memoir will provide this.
How many countries have you lived in? Where do you feel you belong — Bangladesh, Pakistan, US or Italy — since you have lived in all four countries? Do you see yourself a migrant to one country or do you see yourself torn between many?
I have indeed lived in four countries, for varying lengths of time. In the sense of belonging, each country and stage of my life has left its unique impact. But I have still not figured out where I belong.
Although I lived in Pakistan and Bangladesh from birth till I was nineteen, these were the formative years of my life, and I feel they have coloured who I am fundamentally. The culture and languages of the subcontinent is fundamental to me as a human being. Also, having shared my parent’s experience of being almost foreigners and expats in their own country, trying to speak Urdu to create a Bengali lifestyle at home in a culturally diverse world of Punjabis, Sindhis, Baluchis or Pathans, I know it made them (and us as a family), different from our compatriots in East Pakistan who never left their region and had only superficial understanding of the West Pakistanis. My introduction to a migrant’s life and its homesickness started there, observing my parents’ life.
When I moved to the US after my marriage in 1973, it was to follow my husband Iqbal, to the Washington-Maryland area, where he had moved earlier as a PhD student after giving up, in 1971, his position in the Pakistani central government where he was an officer of the CSP (Civil Service of Pakistan) cadre. These were the days of being newly married and setting up our first home, albeit in a tiny student’s apartment, because more than as a home maker, I spent 5 years attending the University of Maryland as an undergraduate and then a graduate student. We thought our future might be here in the US, he working as an economist for a UN agency, and I teaching at a university. A classic version of the upwardly mobile American immigrant life.
But before we settled down, we decided to pursue a short adventure, and Iqbal and I came to Italy in 1978, from the US, on a short-term assignment with FAO, a Rome based agency of the UN. The mutual decision was to move here, temporarily! We would keep our options open for returning to the US if we did not like our life in Italy.
Well, that never happened! And given the fact that since then, we have spent the last 47 years in Italy, the Italian phase of my life is the longest period I have ever spent in any country in the last 71 years!
Meanwhile, we slowly disengaged ourselves from the US and it was clear that if we had to choose between two countries as our final homes, it would be between Bangladesh, our original home country, and Italy our adopted home.
Still, living away from ones’ original land, whether as an expatriate or an immigrant, is never easy. Immigrants from the subcontinent to anglophone countries like the US, UK, Canada, Australia etc, do not face the hurdles that migrants to Italy do in mastering the Italian language. I am still constantly trying to improve my language skills. Plus, there is the daily struggle to create a new identity of cultural fusion within the dominant and pervasive culture of a foreign land
So, in all these years, though I love Italy and my Roman home, I do not feel completely Italian even if my lifestyle incorporates much of the Italian way of life. For example, after a week of eating too much pasta and Mediterranean cuisine my husband and I yearn for and indulge in our Bengali comfort food. Although I enjoy the freedom and casual elegance of Italian clothes, I look forward to occasions to drape a sari, feeling my personality transform subtly, softly.
Yet, I cannot conceive of choosing one lifestyle over the other. The liberty to veer between different ways to live one’s life is the gift of living between two or more worlds.
The only incurable malaise, though, is the chronic nostalgia, especially during festivals and special occasions. For example, when Eid falls on a weekday, and one has to organise the celebration a few days later over a weekend, it takes away the spontaneous joy of connecting with one’s community, forcing one instead to spend the actual day as if it were an ordinary one. I miss breaking my fasts during the month of Ramadan with friends and family over the elaborate Iftar parties with special food back in Dhaka or celebrating Pohela Boishakh (Bengali new year) or Ekushey February (21st February, mother language day) in an Italian world that carries on with its everyday business, unaware of your homesickness for your Bengali world. Over the years, when my sons were in school, I made extra efforts for. But you know you cannot celebrate in authentic ways.
Of course, these are minor matters. And I am aware that by virtue of the fact that I have dual nationality (I’m both an Italian citizen, and a Bangladeshi), I cannot consider myself a true and brave immigrant — someone who leaves his familiar world and migrates to another land because he has no other options nor the means to return; rather, I feel lucky to be an ex-patriate and a circumstantial migrant — someone who chooses to make a foreign country her home, with the luxury of being able to revisit her original land, and, perhaps, move back one day.
Meanwhile, I feel equally at home in Italy and in Bangladesh because we are lucky to be able to make annual trips to Dhaka in winter.
Whether I am considered by others to be an Italo-Bangladeshi or a Bangladeshi-Italian, I consider myself to be a writer without borders, a global citizen. I feel, I belong everywhere. My home is wherever I am, wherever my husband and my family are. My roots are not in any soil, but in relationships.
I often quote a line by the Mexican poet Octavio Paz. “Words became my dwelling place.” It resonates with me because for me often, it is neither a tract of land, nor even people, but language, literature and my own writings that are my true sanctuary, my homeland. I feel blessed to have the gift of expressing myself in words and shaping my world through language. My home is etched on the written or printed page. My books are my country. It’s a safe world without borders and limits.
Maybe it’s the conceit of a writer and a migrant, nomadic soul, but I think our inner worlds are more substantial than our external ones.
When I read your writing, I find a world where differences do not seem to exist among people in terms of nationality, economic classes, race or religion. Is it not far removed from the realities of the world we see around us? How do you reconcile the different worlds?
I believe and trust in our common humanity, not the narrowness of nationality, race or religion. Nationality particularly is limiting, dependent on land, and boundaries that can shift due to physical or political exigencies. Nationality by conferring membership also necessarily excludes on the basis of manmade criteria, while humanity is boundless, all encompassing, and inclusive, based on shared natural, biological, and spiritual traits.
In my case, I consider the whole world my family. I say this not just as idealistic hyperbole and wishful thinking, but from the fact that I have a multi-cultural, multi-racial family. Only my husband and I are a homogenous unit being Bengali Muslims by origin, but both my sons are married outside our culture, race and religion. One of my daughters in law is Chinese, the other has an English-French father and a Thai mother. So, through my grandchildren, who are a veritable cocktail, yet my flesh and blood, I am related to so many races. How can I bear malice to any people on the globe? The whole world is my tribe, my backyard, where we share festivals and food and rituals and languages. We celebrate unity in diversity.
Kindness and caring for others are values I hold dear in myself and others. I believe in sharing my good fortune with others, and in peaceful co-existence with my neighbours, wherever I live. I believe in living with responsibility as a good citizen wherever I find myself. And so far, the world that I see around me, perhaps narrow, is peopled with those who invariably reflect my own sense of fraternity. Maybe I am foolish, but I believe in the essential goodness of humanity, and I have rarely been disappointed. Of course, there are exceptions and negative encounters, but then something else happens that restores ones faith.
Love is more powerful than hate and generates goodness and cooperation. Change can happen at the micro level if more people spread awareness where needed. Peace can snowball and conquer violence. The human will is a potent spiritual tool. As is the power of the word, of language.
Literature is about connections, communications, bridges. It can bring the experiences and worlds of others from the margins of silence and unspoken, unexpressed thoughts and emotions into the centre of our attention. It brings people who live in the periphery within our compassionate gaze. Language is one of the most effective tools for healing and building trust. Responsible writers can persuasively break down barriers and make the world a safe home and haven for everyone, every creature.
You have a book of essays on Rome, short stories and poems set in Rome. Yet you call yourself a Bangladeshi writer. You have in my perception written more of Rome than Bangladesh. So which place moves your muse?
Any place on God’s beautiful earth can move my muse. Still, the perception is not completely accurate that I have written more of Rome than Bangladesh. It is true that many of my columns, short fiction or poems are set in Rome, but they are not necessarily just about Italy and Italians. In fact, my columns and poems were written from the perspective of a global citizen, who celebrates whichever place she finds herself in.
Poetry, in any case, is never just about any place or thing, but a point of departure. It always goes beyond the visual and the immediate and transcends the particular to the philosophical. The sight of a Roman ruin may jumpstart the poem, but what lifts it into the stratosphere of meaningful poetry is the universal, the human. For example, even when my poem speaks of a certain balcony in Verona, the protagonist is not a girl called Juliet but the innocence of first love, in any city, in any era.
My book of short stories, even when located in Rome, actually concern characters that are mostly Bangladeshi. In fact, it is my fiction that makes me a Bangladeshi writer, because my stories are ways for me to preserve my memories of the Bengali world of my past and an ephemeral present. I write to root myself. I often feel that I should write more about the new Italians, the Bangladeshi immigrants generation, rather than the expats of my generation, but my writing stubbornly follows its own compass.
Regarding my book of essays, my original columns for the Daily Star were written about many other cities I travelled to, including Dhaka and places in Bangladesh, and encounters with people in various countries not just Italy. Constrained to select columns from two decades of weekly writing, for a slim volume to be published, I narrowed the field of topics to Italy and Rome. But I had many essays and travel pieces concerning China, Russia, Vietnam, Egypt, Brazil, Spain, Netherlands and many other European cities and Asian capitals. In the end, a handful of columns about Italy became my book An Abiding City: Ruminations from Rome.
However, in the preface I said: “I must remind that the scope of the book, as suggested in the title, is ‘Ruminations FROM Rome’ not ‘Ruminations ON Rome’ with a tacit emphasis on ‘from’ because the writing relates to matters not just concerning ROME but also encompasses reflections of a more general kind. This is a collection of writings from a columnist who, within her journey through the Eternal City, also attempts to share with her readers her passage through life. I wish my fellow travellers a smoothsojourn into my abiding city, the one WITHIN and WITHOUT.”
I know that had I not lived in Rome but, say, Timbuctoo, I would find something to inspire me to write about. Of course, I am privileged to have lived in Rome and Italy, but nature is beautiful everywhere, in its own way, and there are other civilisations with rich cultures, histories, arts, cuisines, poetry and philosophy that can inspire the sensitive observer and writer.
My elder son lives in Jakarta, my younger son in Bangkok and in all the years of visiting them, I am blown away by the culture and beauty of the Indonesian and Thai worlds, and I have a notebook full of unwritten essays. And there is still so much of the world I have not seen, yet every part of this wondrous earth including my backyard is a chapter in the book of human knowledge. So, had I never left Bangladesh I would still have written. Perhaps “Doodlings from Dhaka!”
What inspires you to write?
Many things. A face at a window, a whiff of a familiar perfume, an overheard conversation, a memory, a sublime view…. anything can set the creative machine running. Plus, if I’m angry or sad or joyous or confused, I write. It could become a poem, fiction, or a column.
The writer in me is my inner twin that defines my essential self. I am a contented wife of 52 years of marriage, a mother of two sons, and a grandmother of four grandsons (aged 8-7-6-5). These roles give me joy and help me grow as a human being. But my writer-self continues on its solitary journey of self-actualisation.
Yet, I write not just for myself, I write to communicate with others. I write to transmit the nuances of my Bengali culture and its complex history to my non-Bengali and foreign readers and students, but more importantly to my own sons, born and brought up in Italy, and my grandchildren, whose mothers (my daughters-in-law) are from multi-cultural backgrounds, one a Chinese, and the other a combination of English, French and Thai. I write also for the younger generation of Bengalis, born or raised abroad, who understand and even speak Bangla, but often cannot read the language, yet are curious about their parents’ world and their own cultural heritage.
What started you on your writerly journey? When did you start writing?
I have always written. As an adolescent, I wrote mostly poetry, and also kept a journal, which I enjoyed reading later. It created out of my own life a story, in which I was a character enacting my every day. It clarified my life for me. Interpreted my emotions, explained my fears and joys, reinforced my hopes and desires. Writing about myself helped me grow.
My columnist avatar is connected to this kind of self-referral writing, but in real life it emerged by accident when I was invited to write by the editor of the Daily Star. The act of producing a weekly column was a learning experience, teaching me creative discipline and the ability to marshal my life experiences for an audience. I learnt to sift the relevant from the irrelevant and to edit reality. What better training for fiction writing? For almost two decades my experience as a columnist was invaluable to my writer’s identity.
Soon I concentrated on fiction, especially short stories that were published in various anthologies edited by others in Bangladesh, Pakistan and India. I now realised that while column writing was about my life in the present tense and about the daily world around me, my fiction could finally involve the past. The result was my collection of short stories: Piazza Bangladesh.
Ironically, it was my book of poems, Calligraphy of Wet Leaves that was the last to be published.
Your short stories were recently translated to Italian. Have you found acceptance in Rome as a writer? Or do you have a stronger reader base in Bangladesh? Please elaborate.
Without a doubt, as an anglophone writer, my reader base is better not just in Bangladesh, but wherever there is an English readership. However, books today are sold not in bookshops but online, so these days readers live not in particular cities or countries but in cyberspace.
But living in Italy as a writer of English has not been easy. The problem in Italy is that English is still a foreign and not a global language, so very few people read books in the original English. Every important or best-selling writer is read in translation. This is unlike the Indian subcontinent where most educated people, apart from reading in their mother tongues, read books, magazines and newspapers in English as well.
This is why I was thrilled to finally have at least one of my books translated into Italian, and published by the well-known publishing house, Armando Curcio, who have made my book available at all the important Italian bookstore chains, like Mondadori or Feltrinelli. Also, through reviews and social media promotion by agents and friends, and exposure through book events and literary festivals in Rome, including a well-known book festival in Lucca, it has gained a fair readership.
That’s all I wish for all my books, for all my writing, that they be read. For me, writing or being published is not about earning money or fame but about reaching readers. In that sense, I am so happy that now finally, most of my Italian friends and colleagues understand this important aspect of my life.
You were teaching too in Rome? Tell us a bit about your experience. Have you taught elsewhere. Are the cultures similar or different in the academic circles of different countries?
I taught Bengali and English for almost a decade at the Institute of Oriental Studies of the University of Rome, La Sapienza., till I retired, and it was an enriching experience.
I studied for a year at the University of Dhaka before I got married and came to the US in 1973, where I continued my studies at the University of Maryland, earning my B.A in Comparative Literature and M.A in English Literature. I mention this because these experiences gave me the basis to compare the academic cultures in the Bangladeshi, American and Italian contexts.
I discovered more in common between the Bangladeshi and Italian academic worlds, especially regarding the deferential attitudes of students towards their teachers. In Italy, a teacher is always an object of reverence. In contrast, I recall my shock at the casual relationships in the American context, with students smoking in front of their teachers, or stretching their leg over the desk, shoes facing the professor. Of course, there was positivity in the informality and camaraderie too, between student and teacher. But with our eastern upbringing we cannot disregard our traditional veneration of the Guru and Master by the pupil.
In Italy it was rewarding for me to have received respect as a ‘Professoressa’ while teaching, and even now whenever I meet my old students. However, some of the negative aspects of the academic world in Italy linked to the political policies that affect the way old institutions are run, cause students to take longer to graduate than at universities in the UK or US for example.
Are you planning more books? What’s on the card next?
I have a novel in the pipeline, a fusion of fiction and memoir, that has been in gestation for more than a decade. Provisionally titled ‘The Hidden Names of Things’, it’s about Bangladesh, an interweaving of personal and national history. It’s almost done, and I hope to be looking for a publisher for it soon. Perhaps, it has taken so long to write it because over the years while the human story did not change much, the political history of the country, which is still evolving through political crises kept shifting its goal posts, impacting the plot.
Most of my writings illustrate, consciously or inadvertently, my belief that as against political history our shared humanity provides the most satisfying themes for literature.
To share my stories with a readership beyond the anglophone one, my collection of stories ‘Piazza Bangladesh’ was translated into Italian and published recently in Italy, as ‘Cuore a Metà’ (A Heart in Half) which underlines the dilemma of modern-day global citizens pulled between two worlds, or multiple homes.
Meanwhile, my short stories, poems and columns will be translated into Bengali to be published in Dhaka, hopefully, in time for the famous book fair in February, Ekushey Boimela. Then my journey as an itinerant Italian-Bangladeshi writer will come full circle and return home.
The humming Coke machine, and I have lost the light. The driving rains outside, and a most terrible truth. The swelling of wet cardboard and that whoosh of darting high beams by the curb. And tucked inside the asbestos house, I watch ceiling particles come to rest on the floor tile. Leaning back in a chair made to brave its own hind legs. A coke from the machine beside me, half-flat and half-finished. The mistrustful eyes of the shop proprietor all over me. I want to tell him the succubus train left her kisses three stations ago, but he wouldn't understand. I want to keep him apprised of any sudden menu changes. I want him to know of that Russian who made X-rays into records and smuggled them to the masses. Paid the hospitals for the discards, and handmade them into bootlegs of all the best banned American music. I want to show him all the strange patterns on the soles of my shoes, but the gophers of the earth have dug holes throughout my body. A tiny troll with purple hair, taped to the back of the register. And $1.50 slices of lukewarm pizza under glass.
From Public Domain
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez and Lothlorien Poetry Journal
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
The announcement of a ‘major retrospective’ sent Alice’s friends giddy with excitement. Reviews in The Guardian raved. The five stars awarded barely seeming adequate.
Alice remained silent. In truth she had never heard of the American artist. Her tastes were more European; Turner, Vermeer, Caravaggio.
Some friends raced to become early bird visitors. They had joined queues like static conga lines and came away gushing with praise. But to Alice, the Hoppers became like an irritating family, who mutual friends declared “You will love’. However past experience had taught her that when introduced, she had found no common ground.
“We must put it on the list,” declared Julia. Her closest friend and partner for any such cultural initiatives. Julia hated finding herself on the back foot at parties when the latest event was mulled over by guests who had already taken it in.
Alice nodded noncommittally, changed the subject by drawing attention to a stylish pair of shoes in a store window.
Fortnightly visits to the Maudsley psych hospital in southwest London had become routine to her now. A years’ worth of psychotherapy was succeeding in untangling her past. She no longer entered the outpatients with eyes fixed on the squares of carpet tiles. A ploy in those early days to avoid any interaction with the human flotsam that mental health had beached in the waiting room.
But over time she saw that this was a place where calmness was carefully curated. Pictures of flowers bloomed on the walls. The décor was always spruce and the staff — from receptionists to psychiatrists — treated the patients, however ramshackle, with respect.
Now she and her therapist Margaret would chit chat as key codes where punched into pads, in order to gain admittance to each level of the labyrinthine building. The sounds like birds of prey that issued from the acute wing no longer made her start.
This particular Monday morning, her appointment was at a bleary eyed 8 am. Fine if she lived in London — however she was a two hours train ride away so her alarm clock blared reveille at 5 am.
Her session was finished by nine. “You’ve got the rest of the day to yourself,” Margaret remarked as she shouldered the final door whose second line of defence seemed to be that it always stuck. Alice was at a loss as to how to spend this time. London brimmed with museums and galleries, but nothing tempted her. “You know what Dr Johnson said,” grinned her therapist.
“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” responded Alice. “Probably not the best sentiments to quote in Maudsley,” they both agreed.
Since the peak hour ticket had been expensive Alice felt the outlay should reward her with more than counselling. She was not in the mood for aimless shopping. But scrolling from memory through the current exhibitions, she found there was a dearth, except of course for the Hoppers at the Tate. It was a short tube ride away. “Well there’s always cappuccino and cake in the café afterwards.” She consoled herself.
On the Victoria line, as the train jolted to a halt at each station, her carriage never fully aligned with hoardings that trumpeted the event. And as the tube accelerated away, she only got a zoetrope impression of images that did nothing to ignite her enthusiasm.
“If it’s crowed,” she decided, “I won’t bother.” Envisaging hordes of retirees, school parties and tourists mobbing the entrance, all waiting for 10am like a starting gun.
In truth most exhibitions only admitted a hundred or so visitors every hour. But even so, from past experience, she knew there would be a funeral pace past each picture as if it was laying in state.
Alice blamed those headphones that explained each painting down to the final daub. Visitors planted themselves in front of the picture until the recording told them to move onto the next image. “Just look and form your own opinion,” she would mutter whilst craning to catch a glimpse of the artwork.
The Thames accompanied her towards the Tate. There was a Monday morning feeling in this part of London, as if the area was drawing breath after a busy weekend. The district was dedicated to tourism with The Globe and The Turner being near neighbours.
The gallery was housed in a decommissioned power station designed by the architect Sir Giles Gilbert Scot, in a time when even functional buildings were given an aesthetic flourish. The conversion to art gallery had retained the original deco building but also made sympathetic modern additions. The brickwork was cleaned back to its original red and the towering chimney advertised itself on the London skyline.
With the internal machinery removed, the empty core allowed for spacious galleries ideal for art on an ambitious scale. The turbine hall alone was so vast that it dwarfed the escalators that bore visitors up to the galleries. Here even Michelangelo’s’ 17 ft David would look lonely.
Alice was quite accustomed to taking herself off to the cinema, theatres, exhibitions alone. Most of her friends were married, therefore had commitments. She was often too impatient to wait whilst they managed the logistics of their domestic lives, to find time to accompany her.
There was a freedom in being on her own, a spontaneity that meant she could hop on a train, and head to London whenever she felt inclined.
Friends found her ease at flying solo incomprehensible. “You’re so brave,” they would remark in tones that simultaneously managed to be admiring but also patronising, “I could never do anything like that on my own.”
“It’s practice,” she would explain. As an only child she had grown up used to her own company. Moreover, without a partner now, the fact was if she wanted the rich cultural life she craved, Alice had to take matters into her own hands.
Over time she had developed strategies that gave her confidence. Aware that even in the 21st , a single woman going to the theatre or cinema on her own still garnered curious glances, she was, therefore, always accompanied by a book.
Arriving at the Tate’s ticket desk, Alice was surprised to find only a dribble of people. 10 am on a Monday morning was apparently too early even for the keenest of visitors.
Consequently, with extraordinary timing she had the luxury of being the only person in the exhibition. Grinning at her good fortune she placed herself in the centre of the largest room. She then made a 360 degrees turn to get an overview of the Hoppers before moving in on specific images that beckoned to be examined.
What she saw utterly contradicted her preconceptions of the artist and his work. These were not the cosy representations of American life she had expected.
Human loneliness was delineated in every scene. There were no cosy family meals or girlfriends gossiping. Indeed, these people seemed to possess no faculty for laughter. Married couples who had run out of things to say to each other long ago, now gazed off into their own private horizons. Solitary men sat on stoops smoking with blank expressions as if they had given up on thinking. Many eyes were cast down, or concealed beneath hats, so that all emotional cues were transferred to their body language whose droop spoke of hopelessness.
This despair was not confined to cityscapes. There were landscapes too, where forests growled at the edges of civilisation, and unkept grass prowled up to the stoops of solitary white wooden houses. These homes were personified as if conveying by proxy the emotions the characters in other pictures could not. Doors screamed and windows gaped.
Above all she had never seen an artist paint silence so effectively. It emanated from the pictures, seeming to seep into the gallery itself.
In all the years of visiting exhibitions she had never seen one that reflected back her own experience of life. The images did not bring her mood down rather she felt exhilarated that she was able to look these pictures in the face without flinching.
Alice returned home buzzing with a convert’s zeal. As a result, her friend hastily cleared a Saturday. She farmed her kids off to their cousins for the day and left a ready meal for her husband in the fridge. Of course, Alice was champing to revisit the exhibition, although she was savvy enough to understand that she would never be able to recreate the timely conditions or the wonder she had experienced on first seeing the pictures.
The two women arrived at the gallery early enough for there to be a lunchtime lull. From past experience she knew her friend did not work her way methodically through an exhibition but liked to see the artist’s greatest hits first. Juila made for the voyeuristic
‘Night Windows’, where a woman is observed in a bedsit, her back to an open window from which curtains billow, a favoured image for fridge magnets and coasters.
Alice felt the same rush of enthusiasm for the pictures. She was desperate to enjoy again images that had particularly affected her, but good manners tethered her to Julia’s side. Nevertheless, she could not help breathlessly pointing out details in ‘Night Windows’ that had struck her before. Alice’s words tumbled out in her desire to share the image with her friend. However, Julia seemed to have left her enthusiasm with her coat in the cloakroom. She regarded the painting in silence. Alice grimaced inwardly wondering if her effusiveness was deterring her friend so turned off her gush of words.
Julia still did not engage with this painting or indeed any others. She paused before each image briefly without comment. Alice trailed behind her at a loss. She wondered if her friend had suddenly become unwell. There was a precedent for this when she had once passed out from a UTI at the theatre. And she knew her friend well enough that if she hated an exhibition, she was quick to speak her mind.
“Are you feeling okay?” she whispered.
“I’m fine,” Julia responded. But the ‘fine’ was loaded with a subtext Alice could not at that moment fathom.
Julia stood briefly before the artist’s other well-known pictures as if mentally ticking them off. Alice desultorily picked out a detail here and there like offering titbits to someone who had lost their appetite. Her friend merely nodded or squeezed out a ‘hmmm’.
From her peripheral vision the paintings she ached to enjoy again beckoned to her. Finally, she made her way to them, hoping that by giving her friend some space she might find some way into the works. However, looking over her shoulder she saw Juia had begun to move past the paintings without pausing, barely glancing at the images. Eventually feeling as if she was abandoning her friend at a party of strangers she returned to her side. They had reached ‘Night Hawks’. “Surely she’ll respond now,” she thought. Her friend did but not with appreciation, instead she raised her hand to her eyes as if shielding her gaze. Alice was reduced to foolishly gesturing ‘the famous one’ as if trying to chivvy a child’s interest.
“Well I think we’ve seen enough,” Julia suddenly found her voice again, “Let’s get out of here.” And without waiting for Alice, she bolted through the exit and plonked herself in a comfy armchair in the coffee shop and took a deep breath as if the atmosphere in the gallery had tried to choke her. In an effort to raise her friend’s spirits, Alice brought her a double shot cappuccino and a slab of cake. Seated by a large picture window looking down on the Thames, Alice commented on a few landmarks by way of breaking the silence. It was still a one-way conversation though until revived by the food, Julia began to join in.
Clearly there was not to be their usual post event discussion. This was unprecedented. They could not even agree to disagree as they had many times before if they could not even discuss the exhibition. During this smallest of small talk, Alice tried to make sense of her friend’s reaction. She began to feel as if she had forced Julia to accompany her. Then remembered it was actually her friend’s agency that had brough them to the Tate. Reasoning to herself that they couldn’t spend the rest of their lives avoiding all reference to the Hoppers she brushed the small talk aside, took a breath and blurted out, “Did you not like the exhibition?”
Julia paused before speaking, “Look, I know you love them but for me, there was no beauty in there.” She gestured with her head towards the gallery they had come from. “They are so dreary.” Her tone verged on whining as if the exhibition had got her there under false pretences. Alice was quick to point out that they had seen other exhibitions genuinely devoid of conventional beauty — Rothko, Warhol, Gilbert and George. None of whose work could have comfortably inhabited a sitting room.
“But I know what to expect with abstract art,” her friend pointed out. “I can stomach geometric shapes and dribbled paint because they engage my mind not my emotions,” she paused, “also somehow they don’t reflect real life.” The caffein had clearly loosened her tongue. “I expect at least some beauty in representational art.” She began to list Hopper’s faults. “Why are there so few people in the city? It looks post-apocalyptic. And they are so miserable. That picture of the psycho house seems to sum up the whole collection.” She added as a last shot.
Alice felt as if her friend’s criticism was aimed at her as well as the artist. She attempted to put her case for the paintings. “But don’t you see that they reflect the isolation of modern life?” Her friend’s face remained adamant. Alice searched for a comparison then had a brain wave, “Look’ we both studied TS Eliot at uni. Can’t you see it’s ‘The Waste Land’ translated into art?” She felt rather pleased with her analogy.
But Juila shook her head. “You can distance yourself from words, but pictures,” she grimaced. “Nothing erases an image, once seen it gets trapped in your mind.”
Alice pondered the two divergent responses to the Hoppers. Both were extreme in their own ways. She wondered if the roots of their reactions lay in their backgrounds. Her own history, even her therapist agreed, verged on the Gothic. Whereas Julia had enjoyed an Enid Blyton childhood. Throughout her life she had been adored by her father and encouraged by her mother. Her marriage to Jim was that rare thing, a pairing that lasted without a whiff of infidelity. Admittedly their life together had not been entirely charmed — ill health, a father’s dementia — redundancy had been faced down over time. Now their reward was a very comfortable life.
Her friend seemed to have read her thoughts. “I know I have a good life compared to most,” Juila admitted. “And I know there’s ugliness in the world. I just don’t want to be reminded of it on a day out.”
Alice began to understand that the pictures were an uncomfortable reminder of less kind lives. Whilst they were not in the face brutality of war, instead they showed men and women recognizably modern whose lives were the playthings of circumstance and as such had visibly given up.
They seemed to have awakened some existential fear in her friend, perhaps a dread of feeling hopeless. The Hoppers were a reminder that even middle-class lives could falter and fall if fate gave a push.
Julia suddenly changed the subject with a hand brake turn. She gave a round up of her daughters’ careers and love lives, her husband’s progress on the kit car he was building. She seemed in this way to be deploying her family as a buffer against the images she had just seen.
Making for the exit, it was usually part of their ritual to visit the gift shop. But whilst Alice turned to enter, eager to buy more Hopper related merchandise, Juila swept passed deep in describing the minutiae of her family’s next trip to Italy . Alice shrugged, “I’ll pop in next time,” she thought.
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Fiona Sinclair has had several collections of poetry published by small presses. Her short stories have been published in magazines in the UK, US and Australia.
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Lara Geyla converses about her memoir, Camels from Kyzylkum, and her journey as an immigrant.
Lara Geyla
A migrant’s journey is never easy – it’s rife with adjustments and changes. Adapting to a country that is totally different from the one in which an immigrant is born, requires adjustments of various kinds, including learning new languages. Migrants also need to find acceptance and friends in the country they move to as did Lara Geyla, when she migrated out of a crumbling USSR to America, pausing by the way of Austria and Italy. She recorded her journey in Camels from Kyzylkum: A Memoir of my Life Journey.
Kyzylkum is a desert located in Uzbekistan. Geyla lived and worked in the desert for twenty years. She learnt that the camels were the hardiest of creatures. Her life’s journey like that of any other immigrant, had been hard. So, at the start of her memoir, she tells us: “I am a camel from Kyzylkum, too. Like a camel, I have adapted and found ways to help myself survive in the desert. As a camel stores his energy in its hump as part of its legendary ability to travel hundreds of miles without food and water, I stored the energy of my spirit to help me stay strong as I crossed continents alone, with two suitcases and $140 in my pocket in my search for a better life.”
Perhaps, this is a resilience that each migrant needs to unearth to settle into a country of their choosing, or sometimes thrust on them due to external factors like war and climate change. Through her memoir, we get glimpses of different parts of the world as she inched her way closer to the country she sought. People helped her along. At one point, when she arrived at the wrong destination for an interview with the American embassy that was crucial to her move to the country of her choice, an Italian taxi driver drove her at breakneck speed to the right address, where after a few questions, she was given the permission to emigrate.
This was in the 1990s. After moving to America, she helped more of her family to move to the country which gave her refuge. She found acceptance in a firm as a programmer/ analyst in Maryland. She lives now in her new home in Florida with her new family and friends and basks in their acceptance and love. In this exclusive, she talks to us of her journey.
Tell us what made you write Camel from Kyzylkum?
I had wanted to write my life story for a long time, as I believed my life journey was filled with incredible places and events. However, while I was working, I never had the time to focus on writing. Even then, I knew that if I ever wrote a book, it would be titled Camel from Kyzylkum. I finally wrote my story during the COVID 19 pandemic in 2020–21, when we were confined to our home.
Where in the Soviet Union did you grow up? What was your childhood like? Tell us about your schooling and a child’s life in the Soviet Union? How was it different from what we find in other countries?
I was born into a Jewish family in Vinnitsa, a city in southwestern Ukraine, not far from the capital, Kiev. At the time, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union. Life wasn’t easy for those born into Jewish families in the Soviet Union; being Jewish was considered a nationality, not a religion. In fact, during my time there, we lived under the slogan: “Religion is poison for the people.” Religion was heavily suppressed, and atheism was strongly promoted during my time there. Although I grew up much like other children—playing the same games and attending the same schools—I was aware from a young age that there was a stigma attached to being Jewish. I felt different but didn’t understand why. After 1948, anti-semitism in the Soviet Union reached new heights, particularly during the anti-cosmopolitan campaign, when numerous Yiddish poets, writers, painters, and sculptors were arrested or killed. During my time there, antisemitism was consistently supported by the Soviet state and used as a tool to consolidate power.
When I was about 12 years old, my parents divorced, and my mother and I moved to Belarus to live with my grandmother. We all shared the same apartment. Soon after, I was sent to a boarding school, which I hated but had no choice and stayed there until I graduated. I’ve written about all of this in my book.
How was life different from what we find in other countries? That likely depends on the country you compare it to. Despite the many challenges and negative aspects of life in the Soviet Union, one notable advantage was the education system. It was of quite high quality, mandatory, and free.
You moved with your husband to the desert of Kyzylkum. What was it like living in the desert? In tents?
For the first three years, our young family lived in a small settlement belonging to a geological expedition. It really was in the middle of nowhere. The nearest civilized city, Navoi, was 200 kilometers (124 miles) away. Our settlement, simply called Geological Party #10, and it consisted of about two dozen barracks under the blistering sun, set in a barren landscape devoid of vegetation and offering hostile living conditions for humans, plants, and animals alike. The summers were extremely hot. The winters were harsh. At night, the wind became a growling, tumbling mix of sand and snow. I lay awake for hours, listening to the eerie howling outside. It was one of those winds that frayed nerves, made your hair stand on end, and left your skin crawling.
After three years, we moved to Muruntau, a slightly larger geological settlement, but we still lived in barracks. From there, we relocated to Zarafshan, a city in the heart of the Kyzylkum Desert of Uzbekistan, where we finally got our first apartment.
I have written extensively about our life in Zarafshan in my memoir, Camel from Kyzylkum. However, you might find it interesting to read an article by a Canadian reporter who accidentally stumbled upon Zarafshan while exploring Google Earth. He wrote and published the piece online in 2011, In Zarafshan.
What work were you doing there? What jobs did you do in the USSR? Did you go back to university there?
I earned my degree from a geological college in Kiev and worked as a geophysicist in the Kyzylkum Desert, focusing on gold and uranium deposits. Geophysics involves using surface methods and specialised equipment to measure the physical properties of the Earth’s subsurface and identify anomalies. These measurements help to make interpretations about a geological site, detect and infer the presence and location of ore minerals. Geophysical data is then integrated with surface geological observations to develop a comprehensive understanding of a region’s geological structure and history.
My job required me to work in various environments, including the open fields of the desert, open-pit and underground mines, as well as in the office. In fact, the Muruntau gold deposit in the Kyzylkum Desert, where I once worked, was and still is being mined as the world’s largest open-pit gold mine.
You have told us you were part Ukrainian and part Jewish? Judaism is faith — not a geography. So, were both your parents Ukrainian?
I was born into a Jewish family in Ukraine, which was part of the Soviet Union at the time. Both of my parents were Jewish and born in the Soviet Union. In my time there, Judaism was not considered a faith but rather a nationality. Nationality was stated in one’s passport. Synagogues were closed, and like most other Jewish families in the Soviet Union, our did not follow Jewish religious or spiritual practices. Instead, we celebrated all Soviet holidays. However, I do remember my father’s family gathering for Hanukkah and giving us, little kids, gifts and money. My husband, however, was Ukrainian, which made our daughter part Ukrainian and part Jewish.
Were you there during glasnost? Did things improve for you after the Perestroika and Glasnost? Please elaborate. How long did you stay after the dissolution of the USSR within your country of birth?
I would like to answer to this question with excerpt from my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum:
“Glasnost was understood as the movement in the USSR towards greater openness and dialogue. In the period from 1987-1991, Glasnost became synonymous with “publicity,” “openness,” and it reflected a commitment by the Gorbachev administration to allow Soviet citizens to publicly discuss the problems and potential solutions of their system.
I still lived in Zarafshan and took an active part in Perestroika and Glasnost—I was not afraid to express my opinions or attend meetings. I truly believed that we could change life for the better. One day I came to work only to find out that agents from the KGB had searched my office. KGB stands for Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, which translates to “Committee for State Security” in English.
At the time of Perestroika and Glasnost, books that previously had been available only through the underground distribution in the Soviet Union became legal, and excerpts were printed in many publications. I read a lot, and these books opened my eyes to the bloody recent history of our country—from the 1918 Revolution to the present day, on to all of the misleading, hidden truth, hypocrisies of our government, and the Soviet system as a whole. I realised that all of the concepts and ideas that they had taught us from early childhood were mendacious.”
I left the Soviet Union in October 1989, and as punishment, my citizenship was revoked. The Soviet Union ultimately collapsed on December 26, 1991, by which time I was already living in the United States.
Why did you want to move out of the Soviet Union? Can you give us the timeframe in which you moved out in terms of Glasnost and other events?
The Glasnost period in the Soviet Union was from 1987 to 1991. I left in 1989.
The late 1980s were years of exodus from the Soviet Union. Gorbachev opened the door of the “iron curtain” and everyone who could escape was leaving. I moved from Zarafshan, Uzbekistan, to Gomel, Belarus, in 1988. At that time, every single day platforms at the Gomel railroad station were full of people: families who were lucky to get exit visas, and relatives and friends who came to say their last goodbyes to them.
There was a code word: “to leave.” If you whispered it with a mysterious gravitas, there would be no need to ask further questions.
When I was asked if I would consider leaving, I said “yes” with no hesitation. I did not know what leaving would entail, but I started to go through the process as everyone else did. I apprised the family members, but there was no need or time to have long discussions—it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and the “iron curtain” could be down again at any time. We all knew how challenging and frightening immigration could be, but we had a hope that after all of the suffering, we could build a better life.
How is it you were on the list for visas and others were not given the privilege? Who were the people given the right to leave the Soviet Union?
Under Soviet law, no person could leave the country without the government’s permission, granted through an exit visa. This regulation applied not only to Soviet citizens but also to foreigners, including diplomatic personnel. Emigration policies varied over time and were always challenging to navigate.
In the 1970s, Jewish people in the USSR, often referred to as “refuseniks,” staged hunger strikes to protest the Soviet government’s refusal to grant them permission to emigrate to Israel. These protests highlighted the severe restrictions on their right to leave the country and garnered international attention, becoming a pivotal part of the movement advocating for Soviet Jewry, an international human rights campaign for Soviet Jews.
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, liberalised emigration policies allowed many Soviet Jews to leave, with more than half of the Jewish population emigrating, primarily to Israel, the United States, Germany, Canada, and Australia. However, it wasn’t only Jewish individuals departing; anyone who could endure the convoluted emigration process took the opportunity to leave. As a punishment, those who emigrated had their citizenship revoked.
The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) played a vital role in assisting people leaving the Soviet Union, supporting them on their journeys to new destinations. HIAS continues to advocate for the protection of refugees and ensures displaced individuals are treated with the dignity they deserve.
For me, navigating the bureaucratic barriers of Soviet emigration policies in the late 1980s was extremely difficult, but my Jewish heritage worked to my advantage. After overcoming numerous hurdles, I left the Soviet Union at the end of October 1989. I had two suitcases, $140 in my pocket, and no certainty about my final destination. With my Soviet citizenship revoked, I became a “citizen of the World”.
Why did you choose to move to the USA over all other countries?
When I left the Soviet Union at the end of October 1989, I knew my point of departure but not necessarily my destination. The only identity document I had was an exit visa from the USSR and the train ticket to Vienna, Austria. I held no citizenship in any country and knew very little about immigration laws or processes. My ultimate goal was to reach America because I believed that the United States was the land of opportunity like no other country. During my interview in Austria, I was given the option to select a country I wanted to go to, and I chose the United States.
Other than language, did you have to study further to get a job in the US? How is working in the US different from working in the USSR?
Yes, I wore many hats and attended various schools before landing my professional job in the USA. First, I had to learn English. My journey began with earning a certificate as a nurse assistant. Next, I attended school to become a medical assistant, followed by completing a two-year program and passing the exam to become an X-ray technician. I worked in that role until I later completed a course for computer programming.
My first job in the US, however, was clearing tables at Burger King. I worked as a waitress, cleaned people’s houses, worked in department stores, and babysat young children. I did whatever it took to survive and was never afraid of hard work.
Working in the US was vastly different from working in the USSR, mainly because of the many barriers I faced: learning a new language, navigating cultural differences, adapting to unfamiliar social norms, and constantly acquiring new skills. Despite the challenges, I succeeded. Now, I’m happily retired, enjoying life in a beautiful community in Southwest Florida.
Have you ever returned to Russia after you migrated? How did you find it, especially as the Soviet Union broke up into so many countries?
My husband and I traveled to Ukraine in 2010, by which time it was an independent country. This was after the Orange Revolution1, a series of protests primarily in Kiev in response to election fraud. The revolution, which unfolded between late November 2004 and January 2005, brought significant political upheaval. Viktor Yushchenko was elected president on December 26, 2004, after weeks of turmoil that thrust the country into chaos.
As the informal leader of the Ukrainian opposition coalition, Yushchenko was one of two main candidates in the 2004 presidential election, the other being Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych. During the campaign, Yushchenko survived an assassination attempt when he was poisoned with dioxin, leaving him disfigured. Despite this, he persevered and emerged victorious in the re-run election.
When we visited Ukraine in July 2010, the memory of the Orange Revolution was still fresh. We explored many cities, stayed with my childhood friend in Vinnitsia, and visited relatives in Yalta, Crimea. Crimea, sadly, was annexed from Ukraine by Russia in 2014.
The changes in Ukraine since my time living there were noticeable, but some things remained the same. We especially enjoyed our time in Yalta—a vibrant city filled with cheerful faces, where people celebrated life at this beautiful Black Sea resort.
In June 2018, during a cruise around the Baltic countries, we spent a day in St. Petersburg, Russia. The city and its museums are undeniably remarkable, as they always have been. However, the rude customs control at the port, long lines at the museums, being rushed through the exhibits, and other all-too-familiar experiences immediately brought back unpleasant memories from the past. After this brief visit, I have no desire to ever return to this country.
So, are you writing more books?
I’m considering it. However, finding the time to focus has been challenging. Between our extensive travels, my photography and video projects, marketing my memoir, and other everyday activities, my schedule hasn’t left much room for writing another book.
In 1974, the modest, starless Hotel du Commerce, at 14, Rue[1] Sainte Geneviève, in Paris became my home for over six months, and its owner, Madame Marie, my adopted mother.
A young, aspiring journalist, I was sent to Paris by the editor of a worthless monthly magazine in Palermo, Sicily, to write an article on the monuments of Paris. I took up my long residence at the Hotel du Commerce for two reasons: it was very cheap — that is, ten francs a day — and conveniently located in the centre of the city, only a ten minute walk to the Notre-Dame Cathedral. Madame Marie, ninety kilos of joy and laughter, rented me a room on the fifth floor (without a lift) with two other residents: Caban across from me and Paco at the end of the corridor. The rooms had neither attached toilets – there was one for each floor — nor showers (none). Like all residents and tourists, we washed from the washbasin in our rooms. My little window looked out on to the red-tiled rooftop of a Russian bookshop.
To tell the truth I never wrote that article on the monuments of Paris. What a boring subject! On the other hand, my stay at Madame Marie’s hotel afforded me enough material to write a book — a sketch of her and her residents, their trades, joys and sorrows … their uncelebrated destinies. My editor would have probably sacked me for this ‘breach of contract’, but as luck would have it, his magazine went out of business before my return to Palermo.
I shall never know why Madame Marie took such a liking to me. Everyday, she would invite me for coffee and a chat. We would even watch television in the evenings in her sitting-room which separated the tiny kitchen from the reception. From there she kept an alert eye on the comings and goings of everyone. She was a jolly old woman, and this, despite the loss of her husband at an early age, and the terrible events that occurred in her hotel during the Algerian war in the fifties and sixties[2]. She was indeed fat, but quick-witted with plenty of pluck. She had rolls of flesh rumbling under her eye-catching flower-dotted red robe.
“You know, I was a young girl during the Second World War. I hid some French Resistance fighters in my parents’ house in the Alps. The Germans who hunted down the French fighters couldn’t scare me with their rifles and threats. I sent them packing whenever they pounded at our door!” she would repeat proudly when I was alone with her. When her husband died, she was left on her own to manage the hotel, and in the 50’s that was no asset. Deserters, police informers, merciless OAS members[3] and their equally ruthless adversaries, the FNL[4] all came and went causing rows, arrests, even murders. The plucky Madame Marie handled it all with her sang-froid and flair for compromise.
“My sixth-sense got me through that lot,” she would laugh, her jowls shaking. By the 1970’s, however, things had calmed down in Paris. The lodgers were mostly Japanese and American tourists with a sprinkling of North Europeans. No more brawls, police raids or murders. Madame Marie spoke no foreign language but she understood everything that she needed to understand. She had hired an old woman to clean the rooms. The sprightly widow had learned how to say in English, after having knocked on the lodger’s door at eight in the morning: “You stay or you go?” It was enough to get her point across.
Madame Marie disliked the police. She flared at their scent even before they stepped through the front door in incognito on the trail of someone except on one occasion. I shall let her narrate that exceptional episode: “How that flic[5] fooled me I’ll never forget. Dressed like a hippy, long hair, a torn knapsack, he took a room in the courtyard. He spent two weeks here and never said a word. He got in no later than eight o’clock at night. I thought he played the guitar on the metro[6] for money. Then one day, dozens of police stormed through the front door into the courtyard. I was in the sitting-room and rushed out the back door of the kitchen to see what all the hullabaloo was about. The door of one of my clients was wide open, a young bloke who used to play the guitar on the metro; he had been handcuffed by the ‘hippy’ and was being walked out. I couldn’t believe it. It was like a film. When everything settled down, a police officer came over to me and politely explained that my lodger was a notorious drug-dealer and had been under surveillance for weeks by the ‘hippy’. He apologised for the inconvenience and paid the rent for both the dealer (who hadn’t paid me) and the hippy-policeman.” Madame Marie sighed. “He’s the only flic who ever fooled me.” And she laughed her usual jolly laugh.
She got up to make some more coffee for at that moment Caban and Bebert came in for a chat, both a bit tipsy from their usual drinking bouts before, during and after work. Then Bebette made her appearance, the prostitute to whom Madame Marie ‘lent’ one of the courtyard rooms every now and then to exercise her profession. Madame Marie had no moral qualms about such professions. Everyone had to earn a living … Close behind sailed in an elderly woman whose name I no longer recall. Madame Marie considered the woman to be her best friend. She would sit in front of the television and shout insults at the politicians whom she disliked, much to the displeasure of the others, especially Bebert, who would shower her with mocking abuse. When things got too rowdy Madame Marie would shout them all down or threaten to turn them out if they didn’t settle down.
Madame Marie was at times brusque but fair. She liked Caban, the former butcher and now factory worker hailing from southern France, shy and lonely, drunk by mid-morning. He had been living in Hotel du Commerce since the late sixties. She was fond too, of Bebert, the chimney-sweep, a small, taciturn, melancholic chap straight out of Dicken’s David Copperfield, drunk before ten in the morning. He constantly coughed. His clothes were impregnated with soot and cigarette smoke. Bebert hardly spoke at the table, smoking like a chimney, drinking his coffee whilst Caban smiled and winced at the others’ ridiculous jokes and jibes. Day after day and night after night that sitting-room typified for me – and for the others, I suppose — a sanctuary of friendship and convivial exchange. Oftentimes, I read myself into a page of Balzac’s novel Le Père Goriot [7].
The other two residents rarely joined at that cheery table. One of them, Bolot, stayed in a room in the courtyard. He was a former German soldier who joined the French Foreign Legion after his capture during World War II. The other was called Paco, a Republican Spaniard, who escaped Franco’s persecutions after the Spanish Civil War[8].
I got to know them all, save Bebert. We had no time to get really acquainted. “Poor Bebert,” Madame Marie would sigh. One evening as we sat watching a film Bebert knocked at her kitchen door, then staggered in towards us, blood streaming from his mouth, drenching his night-shirt. His face was ghost white. He kept murmuring, “Madame Marie … Madame Marie,” through clenched, blood-filled teeth. The chimney-sweep appeared lost in a daze. Madame Marie quickly took him by the shoulders, laid him on the sofa then trotted off to get the police. They arrived quickly (the station was two doors away). An ambulance shortly followed. Bebert was placed carefully on a stretcher and carried out.
We never saw Bebert again nor had any news of him. Madame Marie presumed that he had died of a haemorrhage from too much smoking, drinking and chimney soot. She had his room cleaned and fumigated. His belongings amounted to a pair of torn slippers, two shirts and trousers and two used razor blades. On the other hand, she gasped at the hundreds of empty packs of cigarettes. Bebert’s world had been compressed into a nebulous routine of cigarette and alcohol fumes and chimney soot. A bleak, Dickensian world to say the least.
Poor Bebert. He had been living at Hotel du Commerce for eleven years. A fellow without a family, friends … known to no one. He practiced a trade that was gradually dying out. No one ever asked for him at the reception — never a phone call. He was the unknown toiler whose burial stone carries no name because he had no money for a headstone. He was probably buried in the fosse commune[9].
Caban, whom I knew much better than Bebert, fared no better. His salary flowed away upon the torrent of fumes of cigarettes and drink, or as Madame Marie put it coarsely: “He pissed it all against a wall!” Too much gambling, too. So his wife left him, after that, his sixteen-year-old daughter. They were never to be heard from again. Caban was soft-spoken, very shy. Quite frankly, I never saw Caban sober, except at six in the morning before catching the bus to work at the wine-bottling factory. He had asked the foreman, Mister Tomas, to have me hired on for the summer since many of the workers had gone off on holiday. In the café whilst waiting for the morning bus, he began his inglorious day with coffee and a few shots of cognac. He continued his indulging all through the working day on the first floor of the factory where he drank the last dregs of wine from the bottles that were to be washed. By five o’clock he was completely sloshed! Mister Tomas kept him on out of pity. Besides, Caban was inoffensive. Madame Marie even told me he had saved a girl from drowning in the Seine River in Paris. But let Madame Marie tell this very true tale: “He was walking along the banks of the Seine after work when he heard the screams and splashings below him. Caban was a strong swimmer at that time, so he took off his shoes, dived in and grabbed the girl in the water. In a few minutes he had brought her back to the banks safe and sound where a crowd of people had gathered, applauding him. The young girl cried and cried but was unhurt. And you know, her father was the owner of the France-Soir daily newspaper. So, to thank Caban, he gave him a certain sum of money and offered him the France-Soir freeeveryday for the rest of his life. All he had to do was give his name at the news-stands.”
“Does Caban read the France-Soir? I never see him reading a newspaper,” I asked naively.
She laughed. “No, Caban never reads. He never had much instruction.”
I became quite friendly with Caban since we worked together at the factory, although he would constantly upbraid me for not joining him in his ritualised morning concoction. I insisted that I never drink. He would snicker and shrug his bony shoulders. “All men drink!” he slurred. That of course was a subject of conjecture which, and this goes without saying, I never pursued with him.
One day whilst I translated for Madame Marie at the reception, I mentioned that I hadn’t seen Caban for more than a week. Neither had she. Mister Tomas had telephoned, too. Caban never missed a day at work … never. She told me to go upstairs and knock at his door. Which I did for several minutes. Silence. When I returned without news of him she immediately dawdled out to the police station. She was back in no time with two policemen. I accompanied them upstairs. They pounded at the door then kicked it open. There knelt Caban over his bed, his face black as coal. The stench in his room made us gag. I hurried down to tell Madame Marie. And as we stood in the reception, the ambulance arrived and four men, escorted by the police, placed Caban’s frail, limp body into a plastic bag and dragged it down the steps, one by one : thump … thump … thump … Madame Marie started to cry. I covered my ears …
Poor Caban had been dead for over a week, due no doubt to a blood clot of the brain. Madame Marie never forgot those thumps on the flight of stairs. Nothing was said of his death in the newspapers, even in the tabloids. Like Bebert, he succumbed to a companionless death, without flowers or prayers. Without sorrow or tears … He too was probably buried in a fosse commune. He had no bank account. The police found six Francs in his pocket … Six more than in Bebert’s …
Paco, the Spanish refugee, had been living in Hotel du Commerce for seven years. His lack of good French isolated him from the Paris scene, so he took refuge in the clusters of Hispanic scenes that peppered the Parisian streets, especially the taverns where flamenco music could be heard on Rue Moufftard, only a fifteen-minute walk from our hotel.
Since I speak Spanish quite well, I had on many occasions accompanied Paco to these musical haunts of his, where the paella was copious, the sangria flowed like water, the music, if not excellent, loud enough to forget one’s trials and tribulations of the day. Above all, it was cheap …
Paco drank heavily, rum and coke or sangria, but never behaved uncivilly. His deep, black eyes bore into mine whenever he spoke of his luckless past: “My older brother was killed in the war against Franco. I escaped via the Pyrenees leaving behind my parents. Since 1940, I’ve been living in France, working in factories or in the fields. And you know, I still don’t have my French papers. I have no identity! I can’t go back to Spain because of Franco[10], so I must stay here unloading lorries at the Halle Market or washing dishes in grotty gargotes[11].” Paco clapped to the sound of tapping feet and to the rhythmic chords of a furious guitar. “Every now and then I repair the toilets at the hotel which are constantly clogged up.” He snapped his fingers, ordered tapas[12], spoke to his friends in the language of his parents.
The fiery Spaniard would introduce me to his Spanish artist friends, all of them sullen, sad figures whose love of Spain had evaporated into hazy fumes of sangria, nostalgia, gaudy flamenco music, tasteless tapas and brief love affairs. As to Paco, he appeared to be a loner, an ill-starred chap lost in a huge city of lost souls, of crowds so busy that their business took no heed of such a shadowy figure, fugitive and fleeting, drifting from tapas to tapas, sangria to sangria.
Paco hated Paris, but it proved the only place for a stateless refugee to avoid police roundups. For Paco, Hotel du Commerce symbolised a haven for marginals, the homeless and stateless. “Madame Marie is my guardian angel,” he would croak. “My very fat guardian angel” as he clapped and stamped to the riotous music. “The police will never find me … never!” he boasted raising his glass to Madame Marie’s health.
He was wrong. One hot September week, Paco couldn’t be found in the hotel. Madame Marie suspected foul play. Two days later the police arrived, informing her that a certain Paco Fuentes had been apprehended without papers. He had been extradited to his country of origin. His belongings? He had none, like Bebert and Caban. The little he did possess were thrown into a bag and out into a rubbish bin. Poor Paco — would he ever find his parents?
On my many jaunts through Spain, after Franco’s death, I tried to locate Paco Fuentes, but it was like finding a needle in a haystack as the expression goes. Here, however, I must thank the excellent Spaniard, for it was he who introduced me to the world of flamenco.
Bolot kept very much to himself. Unlike the other residents he never drank nor smoked. You didn’t want to muck about with Bolot — a massive fellow, indeed. But then again who would muck about with a former French Foreign Legion soldier?
Yet, Bolot’s aloofness and reserved demeanour attracted many people to him. He had that sort of winning smile, and since he spoke very good French, albeit with a heavy German accent, he befriended those who came into contact with him. Moreover, he shared a passion for stamp-collecting. That was Bolot’s raison d’être[13]! His collection had become very well known to both specialists and amateurs. I would accompany him to the Flea Market on Sundays and there he would trade stamps with the best of stamp-collectors. Stamps from the Soviet Union, China, India, Cuba, several African states, Turkey and Libya. Bolot didn’t need the money, his pension as a soldier was comfortable enough. He simply enjoyed the thrills.
One day as we strolled back to the metro as he towered above me, Bolot acknowledged his good luck: “I volunteered for the army at seventeen, an enthusiastic patriot. Was captured by the French after two days of combat and given a choice: prison or the Foreign Legion. I chose the second, changed my nationality and name.”
“What was your German name?” He smiled but left the question unanswered.
“So I fought for the French. A traitor to my homeland. Call me what you like, I couldn’t sit out the war in a prison for years and years. You know, I never went back to Germany. When I quit the Legion I received my pension and came straight to Paris, the City of Lights.”
“To do what?”
“To sell stamps!” Bolot laughed. “No, I worked as a mechanic in factories until retiring.”
I got to know Bolot as well as Caban since all three of us worked at the same wine-bottling factory in the summer of 1974. He left earlier than me because of a fight between him and an obnoxious individual who abhorred Germans, even though Bolot had acquired French nationality long ago. Bolot refused to fight him, despite the other’s punches, which the former Legionnaire dodged or blocked with considerable ease. If Bolot had really fought, he would have killed him. Mister Tomas broke up the squabble, sacked the young rowdy on the spot and apologised to Bolot. Bolot exercised the noble art of self-restraint.
When I left for grape-picking at the end of September, then on to Italy and Sicily, it was Bolot who helped me repair the broken spokes of my bicycle. Outside Hotel du Commerce, Madame Marie and Bolot wished me the best of luck, inviting me back whenever it suited me. There would always be a spare room for me she insisted. I cycled out of Paris in the direction of Burgundy. I had spent six months at Hotel du Commerce …
After a month of grape-picking I returned to Palermo only to discover that the magazine had failed due to lack of interest … and funds. Relieved, I went to Madrid to begin a career as a flamenco guitarist. Time passed quickly. Or as Madame Marie would philosophically say: “It’s not time that passes but us!” Exhausted from so much playing in studios and taverns, I decided to take a break and travel to France and visit Hotel du Commerce.
It was under new ownership. The manager, an Italian, informed me that Madame Marie had died years ago from dementia after a spell in a nursing home. How everything had changed: the reception room had been refurbished and Madame Marie’s Balzacian sitting-room had become a dining-room for guests. The once starless hotel had become a three-star hotel.
I stayed two nights and paid sixty euros a night! In the seventies, I paid the equivalent of one and a half euros! True, all the rooms had been painted in bright, cheery colours, fitted out with toilets and showers. But sixty euros? Besides, I like a hotel that is lived in, not just slept in …
With the death of Madame Marie, a whole era had come to a close. Hotel du Commerce had decidedly conformed to the standards of kitsch. There were no more residents, only tourists. All the single rooms on the fifth floor had become large rooms suitable for modern travelling couples. Gone were the days and nights round Madame Marie’s convivial table, her coffees and conversation. Those colourful figures who had imprinted their existence there, whose joys and sorrows had been shared by Madame Marie and myself, no longer painted those refurbished walls simply because the epoch ignored the very existence of such figures.
Indeed, who during those two nights reminisced the glittering epoch of Madame Marie’s Hotel duCommerce? Who even imagined her singular story and those of her likeable, touching residents? No one. No one, perhaps, except me, who vouched to safeguard those memories. Memories of the anonymous whose faces will never be seen on photos, nor names ever printed in books.
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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