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Vasiliki and Nico Go Fishing

By Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain

It was Easter holiday. Nico had ten days off from school. His grandfather, Vasiliki, had promised his grandson to take him out on a fishing expedition for a few days on the island of Pontikos to the south-east of Hydra. It was a tiny island hardly inhabited by man where wildlife roamed freely. Vasiliki had been there several times with his father. They always stayed in a cave which lay hidden in a small creek, unknown to all, save of course, themselves …

So one April morning, the sky more or less clear and the sea calm, Vasiliki weighed anchor and they set out in his motorised sailing dinghy. Making sure the motor was not in gear he pulled the pull-starter to ignite it. An instant later he choked it.

“Why did you choke the motor, grandpa?” Nico enquired, eating sardines with a slab of goat cheese and bread.

“Have to warm her up a bit, my boy. The fuel needs a few seconds to fill her.” Vasiliki again tugged at the pull-starter and away they glided, humming slowly away from the make-shift pier, Nico now hauling in the tie-ropes. Vasiliki took firm hold of the throttle, steering the boat out of the coastal waters.

“Shouldn’t we hoist the jibe, grandpa?”

“Not today. There isn’t much wind and Pontikos is far off. Thanks to my new motor, we’ll get there quicker … Tonight we’ll be eating shrimp,” he shouted over the pleasant humming of his new motor. “ And tomorrow morning we’ll fish for sea bream. Prawns and shrimp rise to the surface of the water at night and sea bream during the day.”

“Why is that, grandpa?” Nico sat sleepily on coils of rope at the bow wiping off the pieces of bread that had fallen on his anorak. He enjoyed the smell of the sea, that briny, seaweed smell. The air had a sweet taste to it that he could not identify, perhaps oleander or fuchsia.

His grandfather scratched his silvery beard: “I really don’t know why. Fish are like us humans. They have different reactions to different circumstances.” Nico, although not quite satisfied with this response had not the heart to pursue the subject.

“The sky was red last night,” continued Vasiliki, gently manoeuvring the throttle, steering the sail-less dinghy further out away from the dangerous rocky shores of Hydra. “You know what they say: ‘Red at night, sailor take delight; red in the morning, sailor take warning.’ No storm will be on us this morning.”

“Why do they say that, grandpa?” asked the inquisitive Nico.

Vasiliki observed the clouds moving in behind Hydra: “I really don’t know, Nico. It’s just one of rhymes that fishermen and sailors have repeated for centuries.” Vasiliki sniffed the air: “The weather will be clear only for us up till tonight, Nico. Who knows, we just may see a rainbow.”

“Only for us, grandpa?”

Vasiliki smiled: “Well, we’re the only ones out on the sea this morning, right?”

Nico nodded. Indeed their vessel was the only one seen on the whole wide horizon. The boy looked up — white puffy clouds plodded across the blue like camels over desert sands.

The motor raced them out into an Aegean smooth as silk. Gentle wavelets slapped the sides of the dinghy. The plodding caravan continued it’s heavenly voyage, the sun peeping over and to the sides of their creamy white humps. Nico gasped, he was witnessing an amazing spectacle of Creation! The early morning breeze stung his cheeks a crimson red. It was his first time out on a fishing expedition with his grandfather. How excited he was. He shot a glance behind him: a few dark clouds rose above the bleak cliffs of Hydra.

“The northern winds, grandpa,” he informed the steering Vasiliki, his voice a bit shaky. “They’ll be on us.”

“No bother, my boy, we’re out-racing them thanks to our new motor. That’s why I didn’t hoist the jibe, you see. Don’t forget : ‘red at night is sailor’s delight !’ Anyway, we’ll be at Pontikos in a few hours, long before those nasty black clouds chase or swallow those lovely white puffy ones.”

“Like the sea monsters that swallow boats and their crew, grandpa?”

Vasiliki offered no reply.

Three hours later, Vasiliki slackened speed by gradually easing up on the motor until he pressed the choke button on the throttle. He then took up the oars and began rowing strenuously, the muscles of his arms and shoulders contracting to the rhythmic movements of the current.

“Why have you cut the motor, grandpa?”

“Cause we’re entering the creek where our cave is. We have to be very careful to avoid snags. The strong current will also help us through the creek and push us right to the mouth of the cave. I know these waters well, my boy. You see, I’m not even rowing, it’s the current that’s doing all the work. Just look at this creek, Nico. It’s magic to the eye.”

Vasiliki gazed dreamily at their surroundings. He had indeed pulled up the oars and now let the current eddy them through sprays of seaweed toward the sandy beachhead. With the rising mist, the towering cliffs of Pontikos loomed eerily before them, encircling the indented crescent creek, although paths could be discerned on the pebbly strand, widening and snaking amidst the huge fissures and cavities of the cliffs. Tiny maritime parasols clung precariously off the jagged crags. The ruddy colours of the late afternoon bathed the whole scene in a marvellous fairy-tale aura. Nico sat mesmerised before the slightly rolling reflexions of the craggy palisades in the turquoise waters of the creek, over which his grandfather was now rowing prudently to avoid any collisions with the flat rocks that surged up here and there on the foamy wavelets. He envisioned himself on a page of A Thousand and One Nights, or on one in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island which he had just finished reading …

“There she is, Nico … the mouth of our cave. That’ll be our home for a few days.”

Suddenly Nico cried out: “Grandpa! Look, a seal on the rock, I heard her cry … There she is!”

Nico stood up at the bow to get a better look. “It’s a fat seal with tiny white eyes.” The seal squealed in delight and dived into the cool, clear waters. “What a beautiful seal, grandpa!” added an overjoyed Nico.

“She sure is, Nico. Now let’s do the same. We have to jump into the water to haul the boat on to the beachhead. Take off your sandals and roll up your trousers.”

“I’d love to dive like that fat seal,” Nico called out as he hauled away. “I’d be able to catch so many prawns and sea breams and …”

“Get a hold of the rope and tie it to a few of the trailing vines that criss-cross the beach,” broke in Vasiliki, rubbing his calloused hands. Then he dropped anchor. “Get our bags out of the dinghy, but leave the fishing gear inside.”

Nico gathered up their bed-rolls, firewood and spittle, carrying them into the cave. Meanwhile his grandfather busily cleared and smoothed the floor of the cave to make it comfortable to lie on and build a fire. “I hope she comes up again,” Nico said, listening to his echo.

“Who?” 

“The seal, grandpa.”

“She’ll come up. My father and I always saw her come up and dive back down.”

“Can seals live that long?” Vasiliki glanced at his curious grandson.

“Well, I’m not sure she’s the same one. It may be her baby.” After that rather enigmatic reply, Vasiliki vanished into the deepest shades of the cave in search of prawns caught in the many shallow pools of water. Nico sat on the strand watching their boat dance suavely upon the wavelets that lapped the shore like ripples of laughter. The sun was setting over Hydra. The seagulls were laughing and the cormorants crying, both now on the wing, rising from the darkening waters, lifting their wet wings, flapping them madly. Suddenly the seal jumped up again on to the flat rock with a joyous squeal. The foamy waves brushed against the flat rock, soundlessly. She dived back into them. A call from the cave! Vasiliki had netted dozens of small prawns and was now scooping them out of the pools.

“Nico, get the big pot from the boat. We’ll be having boiled prawns with goat cheese, olives and bread tonight.” Vasiliki appeared stirred by the idea.

No sooner said than done! Whilst Nico searched for the big pot, Vasiliki dug a small hole, filled it with dry wood bits and made a fire. They used bottled water to boil and drink since no drinking water was found on Pontikos. 

Nico and his grandfather ate a hearty meal that first night. Tired from their voyage, they spread out their bed-rolls and lay down in the silence of the dim, fire-lit cave. Nico used his anorak for a pillow. He observed the last plumes of smoke rising to the rocky ceiling where there, they fanned out, the wisps tracing weird configurations: shapes of birds perched upon gigantic cliffs, deep-sea fish and reptilic creatures all moving slowly … very slowly. Nico rubbed his exhausted eyes, the phantasmagoria gradually vanished into the black rock. The fire lowered, then died out …

Streams of orange rays broke into their dreamless sleep. Vasiliki awoke first: “Nico, go out and find some brush and underwood for our fire. Be careful on the paths between the boulders, there may be scorpions or snakes.”

Nico rolled out of his bed-roll, splashed his face with a bit of briny-scented seawater, then throwing a sack over his shoulder which he retrieved from the dinghy, set out in search of firewood. The agile boy had not been at it for long when he stopped dead in his tracks. On the strand lay a seagull shaking her orange legs, pecked at the reddening morning sky with her horny beak. He approached the bird carefully. She opened her eyes as if pleading for help. Vasiliki soon joined his grandson.

“What’s wrong with the bird?”

“She’s dying, grandpa.” Nico lamented. “Look, she can’t fly when she spreads her wings.” Vasiliki shook his head sadly and turned to leave.

“We got to get to the boat, my boy, the fishing will be good today.”

Nico cradled the seagull’s head in his hands then poured some seawater onto her beak. She shook her head violently, closed her eyes and lay still. The boy dug a hole in the warming sands, placed the dead bird gently in it then covered her with sand and pebbles. He erected a little mound on the burial spot. The gloom-filled boy retraced his steps to join his grandfather at the boat, his bag full of wood bits and dry brush.

“What’s wrong, Nico?” asked Vasiliki as they pushed the dinghy into the still waters.

“The seagull’s dead, grandpa. I buried her.”

Vasiliki eyes shone with warmth. “Seagulls die, my boy,” he mulled, waist deep in the creek. “Like us, we die too.”

Vasiliki took up the oars and rowed out towards the open sea. Pulling them in, he let the dinghy float gently on her own whilst he prepared the fishing lines.

“We’re not too far out, grandpa?” observed Nico, fixing his line with a plummet and baiting his hook with worms and not with pieces of fish as the fishermen of Hydra would always do much to the dislike of his grandfather.

“No … Have to keep that coastline in sight,” reminded Vasiliki. “These waters can change in a blink of an eye.”

Nico fixed his line and sent it spinning through the rod out into the choppy waters. He sat on the coil of ropes sniffing the pleasant morning breeze. The air smelt of flowers. He scanned the watery horizon where he felt overwhelmed by a strange sensation of encountering a primordial world when primitive men hunted, fished, built fires in caves … sang dirges to the dead. Would he chant a dirge for the dead seagull that night in the warmth of their cave fire?

Hours passed. Both stared dreamily into the sea as they held their rods steady, a sea so creamy, so milk-like. Now and then a slight turbulence, perhaps a whirlpool, tossed the dinghy from side to side.

“Do you see any mackerel?” Vasiliki asked, peering over the surface of the sea.

“I’m not sure if they’re mackerel or scad fish, grandpa,” answered the boy, tugging lightly at his rod.

“Well, the mackerel chase the scad, so you know that the mackerel are behind them.”

Nico nodded.

“Tell me about the seagull, Nico.”

Nico peered at this grandfather’s aging face, leathery from the wind and sun, at his deep, gimlet set eyes. “Which one, grandpa? The one I just buried or Dimitri’s?”

“Dimitri’s?” 

“Yes, remember Dimitri, he was one of my classmates … He had a seagull for a pet.”

“A seagull for a pet? That’s strange. Tell me about her.”

“She was a different kind of seagull. A domesticated seagull. She would fly up on to a rock whenever Dimitri and his father were out fishing. From that rock, she would observe them with her beady eyes. Then she would dive straight down to the boat but she never perched on Dimitri’s father’s side of it, only on Dimitri’s side. His father was a grouchy old man and the seagull never cared for him. Dimitri would throw her fishbones, picarels and other bait. His father would get angry, saying that bait was for fishing and not for that blasted bird ! Dimitri never listened to his father. He would just wave a hand and keep feeding his companion. They were an inseparable pair, you know. When Dimitri died of the flu the seagull flew off and was never seen again … »

“Where did she fly off to?” enquired Vasiliki, intrigued by this tale.

“Perhaps she flew to China, grandpa … Like the Nefeli[1] …”

“To China?” Vasiliki eyed his grandson thoughtfully.

“Yes, grandpa. Or to somewhere unknown, or at least not known to us.” Vasiliki bowed his head. They shook their rods : nothing yet …

The sun was high in the sky now. It warmed their bones and skin. Nico threw off his anorak. How beautifully the sunbeams bounced off the blue waters. They shimmered like the scales of a fish just caught on the line. From time to time, the gulls and the cormorants that glid over their heads swooped down and skimmed the surface of the white foam in search of scud or other schools of fish that were presently leaping at the surface. The birds certainly had more luck than our two fishermen. Plunging downwards, fluttering their huge wings, their graceful dives and surges hypnotised Nico. Meanwhile in the fathoms of the deep, millions of sea-creatures pursued millions others. The microscopic fish were swallowed up by the bigger fish, and in turn were swallowed up by even bigger fish! The whole lot of them were then completely disappeared in one enormous suction into the hollow vortex of the great whale. A great battle indeed was underway both in the inflamed sky and in the broiling sea. Nico felt enfolded in this chaotic struggle for life. Would he, too, be swallowed up along with his grandfather?

Nico shot a questioning glance at Vasiliki who suddenly broke the silence with cries of joy: “Ah ! Nico, here … a fish … two or three fishes!” Vasiliki, all agog, triumphantly displayed three flapping fish in his straw-weaved basket, their gills quivering silver in the intense sunlight. Nico, too, quite unexpectedly got lucky. Not only had he reeled in a mackerel, but also a big, white fleshy sea bream. He had at first lost his plummet, no doubt badly tied. But when Vasiliki showed him how to fix it properly the fish came to him as if the bait were a magnet.

“We’ll be having a hot-pot tonight, my boy,” rejoiced Vasiliki. “We’ll cook some vegetables with our catch. What do you think?”

Nico smiled. He thought it an excellent idea …That night when they had cleaned the fish, Vasiliki boiled them with an assortment of vegetables brought over from Hydra, especially egg-plant, red-pepper and tomato.

“How was the meal, Nico?” asked his grandfather when they had finished eating.

Nico, who had been listening to the moaning wind, turned to him: “Delicious, grandpa. But you know, I thought of the dead seagull all day when fishing. She should have been diving and catching fish with the others.” He paused a moment. “Grandpa, what did you think of my story?”

“What story?”

“About Dimitri’s pet seagull.”

“A good story, my boy. A beautiful story. A very beautiful one.” Vasiliki puckered his lips. “Why do you keep thinking about the seagull you buried ? Do you want to give her a name, like your boat that sailed to China?” Nico stared at his grandfather rather perplexed.

“No grandpa, I have no name for her. She’s gone far away … like the Nefeli … to another land …”

“We’ll build another boat together,” Vasiliki promised. “A bigger boat. The biggest of them all. But the seagull,” he hesitated. “The seagull has flown off to a land where we can never see her again. I’m sure it’s a beautiful land, like where the Nefeli is now on her way.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see that land, grandpa?”

“Well … not right now, my boy. Right now I’d like to close my eyes and sleep. Tomorrow we’ll be on the sea the whole day again. They’re biting out there.”

And that is exactly what the old man did …

The last embers of their fire cast undulating shadows on the walls of the cave. Vasiliki was sound alseep, snoring lightly. Nico strolled to the beachhead. The moon had risen, girt by a rosy halo. Darkened seagulls glided in and out of the misty moonbeams. They danced an eerie dance. Nico perceived Hydra’s beacon far, far off at the south-west tip of the island. A steamer passed over the sleepy waters heading for Hydra, her lights burning bright against the umber orb of the horizon. Nico thought of the Nefeli on her long voyage to China. Slicing unmanned, captainless over unchartered seas, like Dimitri’s pet seagull on the wing, perhaps she too flying towards unknown lands now that her master had long since departed. The seagull he had buried could also be flying off to some mysterious place, a paradise for seagulls where she could fly and fly and fly without a thought of ever diving for fish or of escaping the hunter’s gun. A peaceful place…

Nico’s grandfather told him that tomorrow night they would be eating mussels with lemon juice; a real regale his grandfather had beamed. With bread and olives, too. Olives always go so well with mussels, he said. Nico smiled. Why they always go so well together his grandfather never offered a reason. But Nico believed him. Nico believed everything that his grandpa told him, even about the monsters of the sea that swallow boats and their crews. Perhaps the Nefeli had been swallowed up by one of those monsters.

Nico stared at the shadowy moon. A slight wind began to groan. The dinghy tossed gently, the scraping of the pebbly strand under her bow prompted a rather strange rhythm like a saw sawing wood.

Nico strolled back into the dark cave. The fire had gone completely out. Nothing could be seen, only heard: his grandfather’s snoring, the seagulls screaming, the wavelets lapping, the dinghy scraping … He loved his grandfather. Yes, they would build a great, majestic boat, sturdier than the Nefeli — an unsinkable boat, one that would voyage all around the world like Magellan’s galleon. He would name the boat Mytho … Yes, that would be a fitting name for such a beautiful boat.

Nico stared at his unseen snoring grandfather. He would have liked to ask him why olives and mussels go so well together. And his grandfather would have probably answered: “Well my boy, it’s just a feeling I can’t really explain. But believe me, they do go well together.”

And Nico would have believed him. Would have accepted that answer as a perfectly acceptable answer …

Nico slipped into his bed-roll and immediately into a deep, deep sleep. He dreamed of seagulls on the wing, boats navigating on the high seas, underwater monsters with long, leathery tentacles chased by the great whale and caves full of gold and diamonds and other precious stones whose names Nico had not as yet learned but would surely ask his grandfather their names when he awoke.

[1] Read the story by clicking on this link.

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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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Review

The Oldest University in the World?

Book Review by Bhaskar Parichha

Title: Nalanda: How it Changed the World 

Author: Abhay K

Publisher: Penguin Vintage

Nalanda University, founded in 427 CE in ancient India, is considered the world’s first residential university. It attracted 10,000 students from across Eastern and Central Asia to study medicine, logic, mathematics, and Buddhist principles. The University flourished for over seven centuries, predating the universities of Oxford and Bologna by more than 500 years. Nalanda’s enlightened approach to philosophy and religion significantly shaped Asian culture long after its decline. The Gupta Empire, though Hindu, supported Buddhism, fostering a liberal environment that allowed it to blend intellectual Buddhism with multidisciplinary academics.

Nalanda was destroyed in the 1190s by Turko-Afghan military general Bakhtiyar Khilji, who sought to extinguish the Buddhist center of knowledge. The fire set by the attackers reportedly burned for three months. Today, the excavated site is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Numerous aspects of Nalanda continue to be enveloped in an enigma. What is the date of its establishment? Who were its founders? Which individuals engaged in study and instruction at this institution? What disciplines were available for study? What was the population of students and educators? Can Nalanda be classified as a university by contemporary standards? What factors contributed to its eventual decline? Nalanda – How It Changed The World by Abhay K. unravels these questions.

Abhay K. has authored numerous poetry collections, such as Celestial, Stray Poems, Monsoon, The Magic of Madagascar, and The Alphabets of Latin America. Additionally, he serves as the editor for several notable works, including The Book of Bihari Literature, The Bloomsbury Book of Great Indian Love Poems, Capitals, New Brazilian Poems, and The Bloomsbury Anthology of Great Indian Poems.

Writes Abhay in the introduction to the book: “There is no clear and entirely reliable interpretation of Nalanda’s past or, for that matter, the past of just about anything. Rather, there are scattered ideas that we try to string together as history, an overview stitched from snippets. And there is no single interpretation of these snippets but rather competing and conflicting interpretations. Recognizing this slippery nature of the past and its documents is part of what makes scholarship such an exciting enterprise.

“Buddhist monasteries existed all over India, Central Asia, and East Asia. However, Nalanda became a celebrated monastery in comparison to its contemporaries. What might be the reason? One of the reasons was its proximity to Rajagriha (modern Rajgir), the first capital of Magadha. Rajagriha in those days was full of political intrigue and rivalries. It became a fertile ground for the birth of the Magadha Empire. Over the centuries, Magadha was ruled by a succession of dynasties, including the Brihdratha dynasty, the Pradotya dynasty, and the Haryanka dynasty. The Haryanka dynasty was the third ruling dynasty of Magadha. It was founded by Bimbisara (c. 558-c.491 BCE). He is considered to be a contemporary of both Mahavira (599-527 BCE) and Gautama Buddha (563-483 BCE). His son Ajatashatru further consolidated it after forcefully taking over Magadha from his father and imprisoning him. He fought a war against the Vajjika League, led by the Lichhavis, and conquered the republic of Vaishali.”

Divided into eight chapters – Nalanda the capital of Magadha, the legendary sons, the rise of Nalanda Mahavihara, luminaries, foreign scholars of Nalanda, Nalandas’s contributions and its global footprint – this is an exhaustive book. The narrative chronicles the ascendance, decline, and resurgence of Nalanda Mahavihara. It delves into Nalanda’s significant contributions to various fields, including science, mathematics, philosophy, art, architecture, and poetry, supported by thorough research. Additionally, it emphasises the distinguished scholars who enhanced its unmatched status as a leading center of learning, as well as the international scholars who frequented the renowned monastery.

Concludes Abhay K: “Nalanda’s footprints to be spreading to new territories in the twenty-first century, where they have not been strong before. As our planet faces the triple threats of climate change, biodiversity loss, and environmental pollution, humanity needs to make peace, both with its inner self as well as with its fellow species, rivers and lakes, oceans, and all entities that support life on our beautiful planet. Nalanda’s timeless tradition of imparting knowledge, wisdom, and kindness can guide humanity toward overcoming hatred, anger, frustration, and greed while fostering inner and outer peace.”

The core message of the book — with numerous photographs — is that the creation of institutions named after Nalanda around the world instills in him a sense of optimism that humanity will eventually resolve all its conflicts through the esteemed Nalanda tradition of dialogue and discourse, rejecting violence and warfare permanently. In this context, the ongoing legacy and revival of Nalanda, both in India and internationally, serves as a significant beacon of hope.

Nalanda, with its expansive scope and rich historical background, offers an engaging narrative that illuminates the evolution of this ancient institution over the course of thousands of years.

Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Stories

Nico’s Boat Sails to China

By Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain

Winter, together with the northern gales, reached the shores of Hydra, an island belonging to the group of Saronic islands in the Aegean Sea. On the north-eastern side of Hydra, save a few monks in two monasteries, few human beings had built their homes. Hoary pines and cypresses intertwined with other plants, providing shelter and shade for the gangs of dangerous feral cats that roamed amongst enormous, solitary rocks and deep precipices hunting for food. Weird, colourful birds built their nests in the crevices of the towering cliffs whose plateaus were carpeted with red poppies and violet cyclamen. It was a desolate landscape unfavourable to human existence, although it was told that certain ‘wild’ islanders did dwell in the porous caves of the cliffs sculptured by the winds and rains overhanging the foamy waters far below …

It was in the south where the islanders enjoyed a relatively decent living, when of course the fish and tourists were plentiful. Now, however, the bathing areas lay silent and the villas, lifeless. Winter was the time for fishing. The sailing dinghies, catamarans and rowboats that had been hauled in for repairs were once again seen bobbing up and down upon the choppy waves. Seabass abound, as well as sea bream and sardines. Brightly painted sailing dinghies brought fish uninterruptedly to the market. But deep in this particular winter, the fishermens’ nets held little catch, and the islanders had to resort to eating vegetables that survived the cold from their gardens, the bread from their ovens, and now and then a partridge or a quail shot by those who owned rifles. Fish could be purchased from other fishermen in the neighbouring islands. But they sold their catch at a dear price. 

Old Vasiliki was preparing his multi-pronged fishhooks. The nets that he had mended long ago had snapped and ripped again. Up till then, winter’s catch proved hopeless. He had scarcely earned fifty drachma. Vasiliki still had earnings from renting the second floor of his house to summer tourists, but those savings were slipping away on fishing material, goods from the shops or fish bought from the fishermen of the other islands, where apparently the catch was abundant. Nico, his grandson, had fallen ill that winter and medicine was dear. The poor boy had not been to school for over two weeks …

School and notebooks cost money, too. So be it. Tonight, Vasiliki would go out fishing, so he carried on straightening out his turkey-feathered multi-pronged fishing-hooks, mending the rotten fishing lines, changing the rusting hooks. If he could catch a lot of fish, he could buy a petrol lamp and more candles for the house, a pair of shoes and a woollen vest for Nico. He would buy Nico a book of sailors’ tales that his curious-minded grandson longed to read. He would also buy him a huge picture of a Spanish galleon that he could pin up on to the yellow painted wall of his tiny room.

Vasiliki went out fishing in the evenings. Nico never knew when his grandfather would return …

Every night the boy dreamed the same enigmatic dream in the absence of his grandfather. He stood at the helm of a beautiful boat whose name was written in bold black letters but which he could never read. Enormous waves continuously surged and battered the solid vessel. Then a sudden volley of rocks or missiles assailed him from all sides out of a rising mist, accompanied by a deafening din of hysterical screams and raucous shouts. From above, a huge white-crested wave was about to engulf him … Nico would be startled out of this recurrent dream, never understanding how he escaped the missiles, the monstrous wave and screams because at that very instant he was startled out of sleep by the flapping of the curtains against the paneless window and the slow, heavy footsteps of his grandfather returning from fishing. Vasiliki, smelling of the briny sea, stepped into Nico’s room.

The boy sat up in bed: “Did you catch any fish, grandpa?”

“No, the sea was empty of fish tonight.”

“Empty?”

“A sea monster has surfaced, Nico. It is eating all the fish in the sea.” Nico blinked his eyes in mistrustful wonder.

“Have you seen the sea monster, grandpa?” The exhausted Vasiliki offered no answer. He shuffled out of his grandson’s room and retired to his own.

Whether Vasiliki really saw a monster always remained a mystery to Nico. He had read about weird sea creatures with lamps on their heads in the inky darkness of the deep; read about shoals of huge fish that swallowed dinghies and rowboats whole. His father, Constantine, had been swallowed up along with his crew by those horrible creatures … so his grandfather narrated, sadly. His mother, Myrto, died a few months later of tuberculosis … or of a broken heart. Or both. They were in their early thirties …

Vasiliki and his wife, Nefeli, took their grandson in. They did their best to bring up the lonely, melancholic boy. Then Nefeli fell ill with fever and died soon after. Vasiliki buried his beloved wife at the neighbouring cemetery. All that the old man cherished now was Nico, his taciturn grandson.

Vasiliki owned a small, green, two-storey wooden house, a house that belonged to his father. Summer was not far off so he could again rent out the second floor to tourists and earn a few lepta or drachma.

In the small sitting-room where the flower-dotted wall-paper was peeling off the badly cut boards, he had nailed photos of his wife and daughter, now yellowing due to the humidity. Vasiliki’s home was hardly furnished, although he had made an effort to provide low sofas, wicker chairs and sturdy tables for his guests upstairs. He even built a shower for them, a luxury that he and Nico dispensed with. They washed either in the sea or directly from the wash-basins in the garden behind the house. But since no one occupied the two rooms upstairs, ever so often they would shower upstairs and from the windows look out at the sea. Presently, Vasiliki climbed the five steps to one of the rooms, parted the laced curtains of the recently washed window and looked out towards the sea, whilst he mended his net, sang songs, thought of Nico’s future. His warm eyes slipped from his mending to the brilliant blue waters of the Argolic Gulf. That boy was all he had. His treasure. When he thought of Nico he awoke from his day-dreaming and smiled. He had promised him long ago that they would build a small boat and send it navigating on the high seas, like a bottle thrown amid the waves, and whose destination would be known to no one, a horizonless destiny for that little boat.

Vasiliki sighed: “I have to keep an eye on Nico. Those nasty children from town always take the thump him at school. He’s not big enough to fight on his own.” Vasiliki took up a needle and began stitching Nico’s torn trousers. “I have to walk him home after school so he won’t go sleeping under the olive trees or on the beach where the schoolboys could knock him up.” Vasiliki wondered where his grandson had gone …

Nico stood under a plane tree in front of his grandfather’s house. He was busy making a boat. It wouldn’t be his first boat. But this one would be the boat of all boats ! A long-voyage boat, built for the broad, open seas … the remote and unchartered seas, a boat that would weather stormy waves, glide over placid rolls, sail alongside monstrous creatures of the deep, a boat without a flag, a nationless boat, yet unmanned by pirates or corsairs, a boat completely independent. Nico put his whole heart into this project, his whole imagination of what such a boat should be made of, and how it should be navigated.

“Nico?” cried down Vasiliki from the upstairs window.

“Yes, I’m here, grandpa.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making a new boat.”

“Another one?”

“The biggest and the best, grandpa. It’ll sail to the other side of the world … to China …”

“Tomorrow you must go to school, don’t forget. You can work on your boat after school.”

“Yes, grandpa. I’ll work hard in school.”

“By the way, what will you name your boat?” Nico thought for a moment. At first ‘Neptune’ came to mind, but he quickly changed it as his grandfather’s eyes swelled with pride and joy at his grandson’s aspirations and imagination.

“I’ll call her Nefeli, grandpa.”

Vasiliki gave Nico an odd look. He didn’t know whether to smile or cry. He murmured the name several times on his lips, slowly, intimately. The old man burst out laughing: “Nefeli! Nefeli!”  he shouted. “Your grandmother would have been proud to know that her name will navigate the four oceans of the earth, my boy. Don’t forget to prepare your things for school tomorrow. We’ll be having sardines tonight that I bought from Dimitri. He sold more than a dozen at half price.” And Vasiliki returned to his mending and stitching since the yellowish light of late afternoon allowed his eyes to do so …

Nico went to school the following morning, shuffling along the dirt-packed road. What a burden to acquire knowledge that he would never use in ‘real life’. Neither Nico’s classmates nor his teachers held any interest for him. His two weeks’ absence afforded him time to dream … to concentrate on his boat-building. The boys who crossed paths with him on the way to school never wished him a good morning, nor did they enquire about his health. He was ostensibly shunned by all and sundry, even several of his teachers took a dislike to him.

Nico shrugged his shoulders, sitting in the back of the stuffy classroom, heated by a pot-bellied stove, gazing out over the bungalows to the wide sea. He envisioned the decks of galleons gleaming white from a good scrub, their sails bellowing in the refreshing breeze. Nico filled his lungs with the fresh, clean, ocean air. Yes, only the sea afforded the boy a pleasure in life, along with, of course, the voice and affectionate gestures of his grandpa. All other things to him seemed dull, lifeless … empty.

The children in his class thought only of the tediousness and boredom of their school work and the silly games they played with or against each other to compensate for that tediousness and boredom. None had any project to impassion their lives. None envisioned a future further than the next day at school or in the market. Few went swimming in the bay, where he swam too. They shrank away from his boyish laughter splashing about in the water, avoiding his company completely.

When Nico was not day-dreaming in school he was busy reading or making boats — all kinds of boats. Cutter in hand, he whittled small sailboats and rowboats … even catamarans! Everyday he whittled a raft as he contemplated the steamers’ coming and going in the glimmering Aegean. But his next boat would be huge. A huge boat with a bridge, lower and upper decks, a hold for cargo, masts, sails, portholes and a crow’s nest. This boat would be the largest, the loveliest … and the sturdiest of them all. A boat which had never been built before by a fourteen year old boy. And that day came. Nico, the fourteen year old boat-builder had completed his dream boat. For him this boat meant the world. He felt his heart swell with pride and satisfaction. Vasiliki inspected his grandson’s remarkable vessel. It was painted marine-blue. At the bow he had painted the head of Neptune. He had even cut a hole in the starboard for the anchor to be weighed or dropped using a big fish-hook tied to a long, thin rusty chain. The deck had been sand-papered to a dazzling gloss. He equipped her with a four-cornered small jibe[1], as white as the flesh of a sea bream. He had taken great pains to whiten that piece of cloth of a sail, rubbing and scrubbing away with aqua fortis. It took him days to attain that candid sheen …

All the rigging on the bridge was fixed solidly to the wide deck by thin copper wires rising high above all the rest, held securely with copper wires screwed into the thick wood of the deck and reinforced with English twine. Portholes had been carved out on both the portside and starboard for the cabins, for although Nico’s boat would be captainless — unless he himself exercised this task– his imaginary crew would be like the Lilliputians that he had read of in Gulliver’s Travels. How he had enjoyed reading those stories of sea and island adventures … Nico had even cut and inserted pieces of broken glass he found scattered about the streets to window the portholes, which he polished to a shiny, brassy gleam.

When all had been fitted out properly, he painted the endearing name Nefeli in bold, black letters on her portside. Vasiliki stood in quiet admiration of his grandson’s months of hard labour. It was indeed a work of art. He embraced him. His grandson may not be the best of pupils, but he worked wonders with his hands. Someday he would be a great boat-builder, and not just a poor fisherman like his father and grandfather …

The rising sun peeked over the watery orb of the sea. It was Saturday. That day Nico launched his boat into the placid waters of the Argolic Gulf. Vasiliki accompanied him on this long-awaited day, eager to witness her maiden voyage. The Nefeli once launched, slid with ease. At first, the boat floated unsteadily on her portside. But when the wind picked up, she rose to her full splendour and ploughed through the clammy waters with amazing ease, all sails aswell. Nico let the spool of English twine slide quicker and quicker from its spool. It unravelled rapidly, but the boy had full control of the situation. The spool held hundreds of metres of twine.

The Nefeli skimmed over the wavelets like a shark racing towards its prey. Vasiliki stretched out on the pebbly shore to mend a torn net, eyeing both the Nefeli and his mending in mute jubilation. He thought of his daughter and how proud she would have been to see her son manœuvre his own hand-made boat. His grandson, too, jubilated, running to and fro along the shore to manœuvre the cruising vessel as she swayed to the rhythm of the breeze. Suddenly an easterly gale drove her towards the shore. Nico slackened the twine. At the same time, though, he pulled her away from some dangerous rocks and uprooted pines. Any collision might have caused great damage to the Nefeli. After all, it was only a little boat and the sea a powerful force that no one should underestimate. Two hours or so later, Nico pulled her in, and he and his grandfather returned triumphantly homeward to eat.

News of Nico’s remarkable boat reached every ear on that small island. People from the big town would come to the shore to watch this young boy of fourteen manoeuvre his vessel. As promised, Nico launched his boat only after school as soon as he had finished his homework. For weeks now, the Nefeli had withstood the brunt of several white-crested waves and a slight collision against the rocky part of the shore. All in all, Nico’s boat proved robust and his manoeuvring worthy of any captain of the sea.

One fine, sunny Saturday Nico, as always, launched the Nefeli near a large grove of pine trees. A slight south-easterly wind was blowing. The twine unravelled rather quickly, the boat lying on her side, her stern twisting and turning in the foamy waters like a fish’s tail. He pulled at the twine and managed to steady her route. Nico sighed in relief … Suddenly he heard shouts, cries and screams from behind him. A gaggle of children were racing along the shore targeting his boat with huge stones, one of which, incredibly enough, after hitting its target, propelled her further away from the volley of projectiles. Two or three boys, whom he recognised from his class, had sling-shots and were letting fly stones with great rapidity but not necessarily with great accuracy. Nico ran faster, pulled at the twine, quickening the speed of his boat. But there were too many boys, many of them running faster than him. More and more stones were slung or thrown, luckily off their mark. Nico thought to haul the boat back to shore near the rocky cliffs in the hope that the scoundrels’ pockets would be emptied of stones by then.

The poor boy, however, stopped in his tracks. The Nefeli seemed to navigate on her own, wind filling her sails, skimming high and mighty over the angered waves in spite of the deluge of catapulted missiles. Then in one tremendous volley four or five of the bigger boys hurled dozens and dozens of stones at the speeding Nefeli, some of which broke through portside, others splintered the bridge and still others burst into the jibe and crow’s nest.

Nico’s wonderful workmanship managed to stay afloat for a half hour before sinking to the bottom of the sea. The last thing that Nico saw of his boat were the bold, black letters of his grandmother’s name: Nefeli.

The children vanished into the pine groves as quickly as they had appeared …

Nico turned his back to the dramatic sinking of his vessel. Opening the gate to his grandfather’s front garden, he strolled up to him.

 Vasiliki, cleaning several fish and shrimp that he had caught the previous night smiled at the approach of his grandson: “So, how did she sail …?” He suddenly noticed that Nico hadn’t the boat in his arms. He frowned and lowered his eyes.

“She set sail for the other side of the world, grandpa. She’s in route to China. The English twine snapped and off she sped out of the gulf towards the open seas disappearing over the edge of the waters …”

“Well, like a bottle thrown into the sea, right? You never know where she’ll land. I just hope the sea monster won’t swallow her up like it does all the fish.”

“No, grandpa. Monsters don’t swallow boats only fish. Did you see the monster last night?”

Vasiliki shook his head. “Can’t say that I did.” He put down his knife and scratched his white beard: “I caught some prawns last night Nico, what the Spanish call gambas. We’ll have a marvellous meal just you and me tonight.”

“It’s always just you and me that eat, grandpa,” Nico reminded his grandfather.

Vasiliki pursed his lips: “How right you are, my boy.” The old man paused for an instant taking up his knife: “Will you build another boat?”

The boy kicked up the yellowing grass in the garden with his torn sandals. “Yes, grandpa, I’ll build another one.”

“Bigger than the one that just sailed to China?”

“Yes, much bigger.”

“What will you name her?”

Nico furrowed his brow. He looked sadly into his grandfather’s eyes: “I’ll name her Myrto.”

Vasiliki eyed his grandson affectionately. “I like that name Nico. It’s a beautiful name …”

“I like it too, grandpa.” And the boy shuffled off to his room …

[1]        Triangular staysails.

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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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Categories
Stories

The Unsuspecting Suspect

By Paul Mirabile

The Murderer by Edvard Munch
The Murder by Edvard Munch
Paintings by Edvard Munch(1863-1944). From the Public Domain

The murder had been carried out with frightening rapidity and meticulousness. Roger preened before the mirror with unconcealed content at his exploit, however gruesome. At last, those evil eyes would never again stare stonily into his. Those lascivious lips curl into a sardonic snarl and snicker. And those hairy nostrils, never again to open in surly disdain. Two years of planning, two years of mounting tension … of burning desire — now that the vile individual was dead and buried, buried deep where no one, not even the sniffing police hounds could sense his other worldly lot, Roger breathed in relief and slept soundly, without apprehension or fear: his revenge had been just.

His hands, however, still trembled after the strangulation, still ached after hours of digging, his mind still aflame with abominable delight. Roger hence decided to take to the road to lead a life of a vagrant, of a wandering non-entity whose secret would lie hidden deep in a heart cleansed of ardent expectancy. He needed no one, desired nothing, only to guard that titillating secret entombed securely within that cleansed heart. Why did he leave now since his victim would no longer polluted his existence ? Because of his vile but indispensable act ? No. Because Roger had never befriended one person since his arrival at that town, never sought to marry and have children, never wished to climb the social rungs of power and prosperity at his mediocre profession. He was a person not without qualities, mind you, but whose indifference to those qualities confined him to the life of a unimaginative loner.

This being said, Roger always felt an instinctive drive for adventure, to strike out on his own so to speak, a picturesque wanderer, but at the same time terribly frightened of it. An adventurer fearful of adventure, however paradoxical that may sound! After the salutary slaying, he now experienced an élan that would send him forth into the wide horizons of the world as a mendicant, living from day to day with a knapsack for companionship, few thoughts of the future and certainly none of the past … Or so he wished …

So the fearless adventurer took to the road to experience a loneliness which he had voluntarily chosen, and this, regardless of the loathsome deed. Roger envisioned his departure merely as a reader who begins another chapter of a long novel.

Winter, spring, summer, autumn … How many seasons had come and gone ? He walked or hitch-hiked, sleeping under the stars or in abandoned, gutted homesteads, dreaming of vigilante squads at his heels, he hiding behind thick bushes or red tinted rocks, eyes scanning the horizon but never settling on his. Would the heavy rains drive the slain body upwards from its underworld plot for all eyes to see? To see and feast on the merciless truth? He dreamed these disturbing dreams, yet they never disrupted his slow but steady gait … never prompted misgivings. At times, the wanderer’s heart, albeit cleansed, longed for the silence of his act to break out of its soundless vault. Roger soon realised that his act was causing him an inexplicable sorrow, a sorrow that accentuated the mystery of his wanderings. Because in spite of his errantry he suffered the deed in lonesome insufferable suffering, the only person in the world to bear the secret of such an odious act. Had Roger fooled himself ? Had he been duped by his own vanity and puffy aplomb ?

He strode ever onwards, none the less, picking wild berries and figs during the day, laying his head on his knapsack or on lumps of grass on balmy nights. The brisk silvery air would, at times, revive his sunken spirits. His gait then would become more springy, more cheerful. There, in the violet blue above, a flock of kingfishers glided so majestically. He had an urge to join them on their migrating route. He arched his neck backwards; “Is the road not better than the tavern?” he wondered looking at the vanishing flock. As the last bird disappeared behind a cloudlet.

One warm spring evening as he shuffled along a dusty country road in an unknown shire, he was overtaken by a motley gaggle of beggars. They were singing bawdy songs of better days; days upon the bland or furious surface of the seas, of chopping wood in the mountainous forests, of pounding fists on the tables of taverns where beer and hydromel poured out of heady kegs. Roger bit his lower lip; these lewd ballads reminded him of an individual whom he had long despised and had disposed of. Yes, there was no doubt that he carried out what was absolutely essential to his well-being.

As soon as these songs died out, the beggars began arguing about something or someone, gesticulating wildly in their tattered garments, stomping their shredded boots. They stopped, hailing to Roger. One bent, glassy-eyed old fellow stepped forward and pulled at his sleeve, pressing him to bear witness on a vital issue: “Hey governor, you’ve heard the news about a murdered bloke rising up from his grave?” Roger suddenly stopped in his tracks.

The question baffled him. He shrugged his shoulders. “You see mates, he don’t know nothing about it!” the beggar cried out through rotting teeth, turning to his companions.

“Blimey, if he ain’t a halfwit,” coughed another. “Halfwit or just wanting to keep it all for himself.”

“The whole thing is rot, I say,” grumbled another, patting Roger on the shoulder. “Don’t worry governor, they don’t know what they’re on about.”

“The rains brought it up, I’m saying,” rejoined the first beggar, wheezing through his nose. “Strangled, dragged and buried he was by a pair of strong hands.” And the beggar took a covert glance at Roger’s strong hands. “The poor sod dragged like a sack of potatoes then thrown into a deep pit,” he stuttered, glancing harder at Roger’s hard hands.

“They’ll get the blighter for sure now,” added the still coughing beggar whose hair lay sticky on his broad shoulders. “They’ll hang him high. All the evidence is there.”

“What evidence?” Roger managed to ask, a bit distraught at all these insinuations, desperately trying to conceal his mounting fear.

“What evidence? What evidence?” he asks. They all howled in concert like a pack of wolves. “It’s written all over the corpse. Written in the stars, too. Just look up and read the evidence for yourself, mate.”

Roger involuntarily lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens where the stars were emerging in twinkling clusters. Was he able to decipher their twinkling? Were the beggars able to? When he lowered his eyes the whole pack had vanished round the bend of the road … Or so he thought. He wondered: “Was it a dream? An hallucination?” Roger sighed and moved on, glancing up every now and then up at the crowding stars.

Four weeks later as a harvest moon rose over some low-lying mountains, he trudged up to a cottage whose roof of browning straw and unsmoking chimney bespoke poverty. About to knock, his hand remained motionless mid-air: a woman’s voice reached his ears, a voice coarse but melodious, each syllable articulated in a maternal tone. The voice was reciting lullabies or children’s bedtime rhymes. A veil of sadness moistened his eyes. His mother, too, sang or recited nursery rimes and poems whenever her spirits had been dampened by grave or sombre events. And Roger mused: “Was the deed all that needful?” He knocked, his spirit traversed by qualms of uncertainty. A huge fat woman dressed in a thick woollen robe opened the door slowly. She stuck her red puffy face out: “Well, what do you want, tramp?”

“I’m down to the bone, good woman. Just a bit of bread and some water will do me. I’ve been on the road for so long.”

“Hungry hey! Had a good taste of the frost? And I suppose without a halfpence to your name. Well, come in and sit yourself at the table. I’ll give you some soup and bread … then off you be. I’m not particularly fond of vagrants.” The creaking of the door disturbed Roger who obsequiously side-stepped the fat, straightforward woman and sat down at a very long, knotty, oaken, wooden table. The ashes in the hearth lay cold like the atmosphere of the cottage … like the cold, dry voice of his host. Everything, cold as a grave …

She served him cold soup and rancid black bread. Roger ate with trembling hands, but without any real appetite. His head spun round; he felt estranged from his surroundings and from himself for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp. The woman wiped her huge, knotty hands on a greasy apron observing her ‘guest’ suspiciously: “Had enough? Want some more? You eat like a prisoner eats before execution.”

Roger gave her a strange look, but remained speechless. She scrutinised the speechless tramp: “Did you hear the news, they finally caught that lunatic who killed the real estate agent? I hope he gets what he deserves,” she rasped.

Roger shot her a terrified look: “Impossible!” he screeched, his mouth full of black bread.

“Why impossible? The bloody sod wasn’t very clever; he left so many fingerprints. He even left his calling card on the body. A real estate agent, they say he was. Probably a settling of scores.” Roger’s face went a deathly white.

“Did you see his photo in the papers?” Roger squeaked.

“I don’t read the dailies. It was the neighbours over the hill who told me. You act as if you know all about it. Did you know the victim?” Roger said nothing. “What’s up, cat got your tongue?” The fat woman eyed him leerily out of her beady eyes. “Your eyes tell me you have something heavy on your heart, something to hide,” she probed, a bit intrigued by the paleness of the tramp’s face, paling whiter and whiter.  “Your lips move and move but no sound comes out, and you squirm in your seat like a worm on a fish-hook.”

The woman read Roger all too well; he, indeed, had fallen into a sudden whirlpool of words, repeating events of his childhood under his breath, vainglorious events and despicable lies. His voice then rose to a pitch that shocked his host. She suspected him of evil doing.

“You know mate, if they hadn’t caught that killer, I would say that you had strangled and buried the real estate agent.” She moved towards him, arms akimbo, beetling her brows.

“Strangled? Buried?” Roger pushed back his chair, he suddenly felt very tired. His thoughts whirled about in his head, chaotically. He stood, arms limp at his sides.

“I have to sleep,” he managed to stutter.

“Words are sharper than swords, hey! And you’ve said too much already. Your thoughts are impure, weighed down by some great burden. I don’t want anything to do with you. Go out and sleep in the haystack. But I want you off my property by morning, right?”

Roger thanked the fat, beady-eyed woman and stumbled out of her cold cottage into the colder air. The harvest moon had risen high, orangey-brown and round. He had taken a half loaf of bread with him. “How could they have caught the killer?” he murmured. “I’m the killer! I’m the killer!” He checked himself, listening to the wind.

“I forgot to fill my gourd.” Roger turned back but the cottage had disappeared. The haystack, too, was nowhere to be seen. He sat down, his back against an oak tree. “Must have lost my way,” he whispered to the oak tree.

The cold wind bit through his cotton vest. The silence of the forest frightened him, penetrated the uneasy thoughts of his confused mind. Would his victim’s grave become the mirror of his ever-lasting reflection? No! He was not to be intimidated. His act was a righteous one; how long had that individual plagued his dreams … poisoned his waking existence? An act of faith! Yes, that’s it, it was an act of faith. Roger rubbed his blood-shot eyes.

The eyes of the forest were upon him, the eyes of the animals, the trees and other night creatures ; large, owlish eyes that crouched behind thick bushes and gnarled trees. Relentlessly they followed his every move. He contemplated the moon’s valediction behind the dark, wooded hills then finally fell asleep…a very restless sleep …

The morning dew dripped off his long, unwashed hair, beard and foul-smelling clothes. His muscles ached. Roger felt wretched. He nibbled on some black bread, then set out to find a path that would lead him to a village or town. Hours passed. The sun, like his lies and vainglory, lay heavy on his bowed shoulders … on his furrowing brow, dripping with perspiration and weighed down his worn-out footfalls. Roger stopped abruptly.

He heard the tinkling of goat or sheep bells to his left. The tinkling was music to his ears; it brought an unexpected joy to his fatigued mental and physical state. The tinkling was then accompanied by snatches of a young chanting voice; pastoral verses intermingled with the tinkling which created a sort of contrapuntal rhythm. Roger experienced an estranged longing to relive his childhood, so comforting, so filled with maternal attention and love. Had he really undertaken that horrible deed? Had his hands stirred up the dust of such an unforgiving reality? At that moment, to his right he espied a large grassy pasture dotted with bleating sheep and goats. And there was a shepherd boy, no older than thirteen. “Perhaps he has some cheese and milk,” he thought excitedly.

Roger limped over the thick grass towards the hobbling boy who now approached, tapping his staff in rhythm to Roger’s hastening stride. Roger put up a trembling hand: “Good day shepherd. I’m down to the bone. Might you have a bit of cheese and bread for a poor mendicant?”

The shepherd boy, squint-eyed and long-haired, stroked one of his goats without answering. The boy was barefoot. He sized up the medicant and pronounced in a reproachful tone: “You don’t look like a sponger, sir.” Roger, taken aback by the boy’s bluntness, smiled sheepishly, avoiding his cross, roving eyes.

“How so?”

“Your face and hands tell me you’re not a sponger, that’s all. I’d say you’re a townsman.” Roger stood dumbfounded; he couldn’t quite fathom what the lad was on to.

“So you won’t give me some cheese and bread?”

“Of course I will, but stop playing the sponger. You need not beg, just ask.” And the boy handed Roger a large slab of goat’s cheese and bread. 

He watched Roger eat the food with voracious grunts and groans, then asked him warily: “Did you hear about the killer … they freed him … the bloke who murdered the real estate agent?” Roger stopped munching.

“Freed ? Well, I’m glad to hear it. Then it wasn’t him after all who had killed that poor man.”

“No, it wasn’t him at all, sir. Do you know why?” Roger certainly did, but gestured indifferently that he hadn’t the faintest idea.

The shepherd lowered his squint eyes then chanted in a strange, fey voice: “The eyes, sir, the eyes are the windows of the soul. Through them all has been engraved, every word and deed all written bold. They are read like the stars by whose glitter stories are told. So put an end to your roaming days and come in from the cold.” The boy pointed his staff at Roger: “You are the murderer, sir ; the double-tongued wanderer who has senselessly misplaced the guardian of his heart and the shepherd of his thoughts.” The boy fell silent and began to caress his goat.

Roger felt faint; he wavered back and forth like a leaf clinging limply to its life-giving branch.

“I don’t understand you shepherd: guardian of the soul, shepherd of thoughts? Am I too ignorant to understand or are you having me on?”

The shepherd stared at Roger without compassion: “Like the shepherd who guards his herd, you are the guardian of your heart. Keep it simple, innocent of blood-letting, base defilement and scathing lies. Innocent like a child’s.”

“But if it has been contaminated?” Roger interrupted in a hushed voice.

The shepherd dropped his eyes, still caressing his goat. He replied : “Thoughts are like sheep; you must caress them and not let them wander into the clutches of wolves.”

“Wolves? What wolves?” All these enigmas troubled Roger dearly. The boy tapped his staff to the rhythm of the wind that had been steadily picking up, tinkling the bells of the herd animals.

“Those who wander in packs and feast upon the lone and parasitic sponger,” came the boy’s blunt reply.

“I only seek freedom, laddie. Freedom!” Roger said in a strident voice at a loss to grasp the shepherd’s intentions.

“Freedom from what, sir? Society? Your murderous hands? A bad conscious? Or free to be doomed? Doomed is true freedom.”

“That is a play on words,” the wanderer snapped scornfully.

“Is it ?”

A soft, silky evening veil mantled the wind-swept pastureland. The shepherd boy turned away, chanting a tune alien to Roger’s ears, but whose solemn undertone caused him to shudder. He suddenly turned round and shouted through the wind: “Stop bleating about the countryside like a lost sheep. You should know all this yourself. The murder that you have committed is like wind ripping through the weeping willows, a storm over the desert sands, a tempest upon the open seas. Right?”

Roger, mouth agape, could not reply to those metaphorical images as the shepherd hobbled away with his goats over the brow of a grassy hill.

Four more seasons passed in cheerless roaming …

Then one summer day, as lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the heavens, heavy rains pounded the parched earth. Roger was forced to find shelter in the dens of animals, cowering in the corners, petrified by the sudden lightnings, booms and downpours. He had never witnessed such a mystifying spectacle! Compunction pricked his heart with twinges of joy and grief, anger and jubilation, pleasure and remorse. Had the rains really lifted the corpse from its pit? Had the eyes that followed his every step penetrated the mask of apathy, the layers of indifference, the veils of contemptible aloofness? Perhaps he had never killed that real estate agent after all. Then the occult twinges and tugging made him doubtful while the lightning lit the heavens and the thunder resounded over the downs and through the dells. Was he really guilty of what he believed he had whole-heartedly accomplished, or simply pitied his empty, hapless existence?

One star-filled night when the storms had abated, Roger returned and slept in the same grassy pastureland where the shepherd boy had tended his gentle herd. Alas, the boy was nowhere to be seen. Roger felt terribly alone. And yet, he slept so soundly that night in the shepherd’s pasture; dreams of staring eyes, rising bodies, and he crouching in terror behind bushes or boulders had not plagued his slumber. A dreamless night the wanderer spent. A night without colours, without sounds, without memories … A dark night, the darkest of all nights …

So, waking refreshed, he left that green bed, glowing, strong and free like the morning sun rising from behind the dark surrounding hills … 

*

The Dunghill Daily News obituaries announced that real estate agent Roger Snider died of a heart attack at his home at the age of forty-five most probably in his sleep. On the following page, the usual, daily bulletin urged the good residents of Dunghill to provide any information about another real estate agent, Ralph Richardson, who had disappeared four years ago without leaving a word either with his family or with his friends. If anyone had any information about his disappearance they were asked to contact the local police.

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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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Categories
Stories

Hotel du Commerce

By Paul Mirabile

Paris 1970s. From Public Domain

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 du Commerce? 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.

[1]        ‘Street’.

[2]        1954-1962.

[3]        ‘Secret Army Organisation’ founded in 1954 that fought against those forces who wished to prevent the independance of Algeria.

[4]        ‘The National Liberation Front’, also founded in 1954 whose militants fought for the independance of Algeria.

[5]        Jargon in French for ‘policeman.

[6]        ‘Underground’ or ‘subway’.

[7]        ‘Father Goriot’ written in 1834. Translated into English by Ellen Marriage.

[8]        1936-1939.

[9]        ‘Communal grave’.

[10]      General Francesco Franco died in 1975, and with his death, King Juan Carlos proclamed Spain a democratic nation.

[11]      French jargon for ‘cheap, unsavoury restaurants’.

[12]      Spanish appetisers.

[13] French: Reason for being

.

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.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Rain by Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain
RAIN


The rain fell forty days and forty nights,
Flooding forests, meadows and dells;
How hard it fell, dimming the daylight
While I, at my window, experienced peculiar delights.

For forty days and forty nights, a water-logged world sang
Hymns to the low, black clouds of cascading downpours,
Tear-filled verses rang poignant pleadings.

Yet, without respite, the rains fell and all seemed hopelessly lost,
As the deluge drowned out the chantings, poured forth its wrath.
The voices rose higher and higher vexing the Source. 

At last one cloudless morning the tambourining droplets ceased,
Amok rivers, streams and brooks began to recede;
All agog people rushed to celebrate the Event with a grand feast
I, indolently, shut my shutters, rather indifferent to say the least.

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.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Interview

 Magical Journey of Worlds and Words with Lya Badgley

Keith Lyons in conversation with Lya Badgley

Lya Badgley

Lya Badgley’s life reads like an exotic adventure book you can’t put down, but she writes plot-driven suspense about women overcoming life-changing odds, against a backdrop of global conflict. In this interview, she shares her views about creativity, courage, persistence and resilience.

You’ve had an interesting life – how often do people say that to you? How do you tell the story of your life in a short elevator pitch?

I’ve been very lucky to have had choices – many do not. That said, being born in Myanmar to Montana parents, was a good start. From Seattle’s arts scene to documenting war crimes in Cambodia and opening a restaurant in Yangon, my life experiences fuel my creativity. I’ve been a mother, a former city council member, and an environmental activist and now write novels drawing deeply from my lived experiences.

So, you were born in Yangon, Myanmar. How did your parents from the Rocky Mountains come to be in Burma? What are your first memories from there?

My parents discovered the wider world when my father was stationed in northern Japan during the Korean War. They fell in love with Asia, and he went on to dedicate his life to academia, earning a doctorate in political science. They first arrived in Burma (Myanmar) in the late 1950s. One of my earliest memories is coming home from kindergarten in up-country Burma and telling my mother that all the children spoke English in class. Astonished, she accompanied me to school the next day, only to find that the children were speaking Burmese. I had simply assumed it was English. To this day, I love languages.

What kind of environment did your parents create which encouraged your creativity?

My mother was a true artist, always encouraging me to find beauty in everything around me. My father sparked a deep curiosity about the world, especially about the lives of everyday people. Our dinner table conversations were always lively, full of challenges and excitement, fueling my imagination and intellect. I was never allowed to leave the table without sharing something interesting and eating all my vegetables.

In 1987 what changed your life? How does Multiple Sclerosis affect you today?

In 1987, I developed a persistent headache that wouldn’t go away. Within two weeks, I lost vision in one eye. The diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis came swiftly. I’ll never forget the mix of terror and wonder as I looked at the pointillistic MRI image of my brain, and the doctor casually said, “Yep, see those spots? That’s definitely MS,” as if he were ordering lunch. Strangely, that diagnosis liberated me—after all, what’s the worst that could happen? Now, as I age, the disease may slow my body, but it hasn’t dimmed my spark.

In what ways has being a musician/poet/writer/artist been a struggle and challenge? Do you think that is part of process and it in turn fosters innovation?

The struggles of being an artist—whether overcoming rejection, creative blocks, or balancing art with daily life—are definitely part of the journey. But there’s also magic in that process. There’s something almost alchemical about wrestling with a challenge and, through that tension, creating something entirely new. It’s in those moments of uncertainty that the most unexpected ideas emerge, as if they’re waiting for the right spark. The struggle doesn’t just foster creativity—it transforms it, turning obstacles into opportunities. And the joy comes from watching that magic unfold, as your vision takes on a life of its own.

When did you return to Southeast Asia, and how did you come to work as a videographer on a clandestine expedition interviewing Burmese insurgents, and later helping document the genocide cases in Cambodia?

The short answer is — a boyfriend! In the early ’90s, I returned to Southeast Asia, driven by a deep connection to the region and feeling uncertain about what to do next after a failed marriage. Through a friend I met during Burmese language studies, I stumbled upon an unexpected opportunity to work as a videographer on a covert mission, documenting interviews with Burmese insurgents. That intense experience then led to my role in Cambodia, where I worked with Cornell University’s Archival Project. There, I helped microfilm documents from the Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide, preserving crucial evidence that would later hold war criminals accountable. Both experiences were life-changing and cemented my passion for telling these vital stories.

You were among the few foreigners to open businesses in Burma in the 1990s. What hurdles were there to opening the 50th Street Bar & Grill Restaurant in Yangon, Myanmar? How was Burma at that time?

Opening the 50th Street Bar & Grill in Yangon in the mid ’90s was a real adventure, and I take great pride in being part of the first foreign-owned project of its kind at that time. Myanmar was just emerging from decades of isolation, with very few foreigners and even fewer foreign businesses. Navigating the bureaucracy was incredibly challenging — layers of red tape, and we often had to rely on outdated laws from the British colonial era just to get things moving. It took persistence, creative problem-solving, and a lot of patience. I had the advantage of understanding the culture and speaking a bit of the language, and I never worked through a proxy. I handled even the most mundane tasks myself—like sitting for hours in a stifling hot bank, waiting to meet the manager, who was hiding in the bathroom to avoid me!

Basic infrastructure issues like inconsistent electricity and unreliable suppliers were ongoing challenges. But despite all the hurdles, Yangon had a special energy then. The people were incredibly warm and resilient, and there was a palpable sense that the country was on the cusp of major change, even though it remained under military rule. Looking back, I’m proud to have been part of something so groundbreaking during such a unique moment in Myanmar’s history. It’s heartbreaking to see the return of darker times.

When did you first start writing and what has kept you writing? 

In the ’80s, I began writing song lyrics for my music, which eventually evolved into poetry. It turned out I had more to say, and my word count steadily grew from there. I write because I have no choice; it’s an essential part of who I am.

Your first novel, The Foreigner’s Confession, out in 2022, in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic, weaves together one person’s story and a country’s painful history. How do you integrate in the legacy of the past, a personal journey, a war-torn country and the themes of loss and regret?

In The Foreigner’s Confession, I explore the interconnectedness of personal stories and a nation’s history. I like using conflict zones as backdrops for my protagonist’s inner turmoil. These settings highlight the psychological landscape shaped by war and trauma, reflecting the chaos within the character. I’m fascinated by the notion that evil exists in each of us, and under the right circumstances, we’re all capable of bad things. This theme resonates throughout the narrative, as the characters grapple with their moral choices amidst the turmoil surrounding them. As Tom Waits[1] beautifully puts it, “I like beautiful melodies telling me terrible things” — that juxtaposition is central to my writing, illustrating how beauty and darkness can coexist and inform our understanding of the human experience.

When it comes to writing are you a planner or a pantser? What’s your process for writing, particularly when you want to bring in the setting, the history of a place, and authenticity?

I’m a pantser all the way! Just saying the word “spreadsheet” makes me break into a sweat. I wish I could create meticulous diagrams and beautiful whiteboards filled with colorful, fluttering sticky notes, but that just isn’t my style. For me, the story unfolds as I write. I refer to myself as a discovery writer. It’s a slow and sometimes tedious process but discovering what I didn’t know was going to happen is truly amazing. I draw from my personal experiences to provide authenticity.

Does writing suspense/mystery help make a novel more compelling because it has to be well-crafted and cleverly constructed?

I write the story buzzing in my brain and then try to determine the genre.

What do you think about the power and potential of a novel to reach readers in a different way, for example as a vehicle to give insight into the situation in Cambodia or Myanmar, the wider/deeper issues (like geopolitics/colonialism), and the present reflecting a troubled past?

Yes, yes, yes! Novels have the potential to foster empathy and understanding, challenging readers to confront uncomfortable truths. Can we humans please stop being so stupid? It’s doubtful, but we can only hope.

Last year your second novel, The Worth of a Ruby, was launched, and you’ve recently been in Myanmar. What’s been your impression of the place in 2024, still suffering under the coup and with not such good prospects as in the 2010s? Could you ever go back there to live?

Sitting in the Inya Lake Hotel in Yangon as I write this, I can see that the people here carry a veil over their eyes that I don’t recall from my previous visits. Nevertheless, the cyclical nature of oppression has persisted here for a long time. My husband and I would move back in a heartbeat if there were opportunities and adequate healthcare for my situation. This country remains a part of my identity, and I dream of a future where I can return to help contribute to its recovery.

Your current/recent visit to SE Asia has taken you to what places? What have been the most memorable experiences?

I’m in Yangon until mid-October and will then spend a few days in Singapore, slogging my books to the shops there. As always, the most memorable experiences are renewing the deep connections with the people I care about.

Both your books feature people/countries having to confront their past/dark side. How do you think a novel can help navigate through the complexities and nuances of situations, or at least show that nothing is as black and white as first thought?

That’s a complex question, and any answer can only touch the surface. Both of my novels explore people and countries grappling with their pasts and confronting their darker sides, but the truth is, no single story can fully capture the complexity of these situations. What a novel can do, however, is open a window into the nuances and shades of gray that exist beneath the surface. By diving into characters’ personal struggles and the layered histories of their countries, readers can begin to see that nothing is as black and white as it might seem. A novel helps illuminate the hidden motivations, moral ambiguities, and emotional complexities that are often overlooked, offering a more profound understanding of the tangled web of human experience.

Your work-in-progress novel is set in Bosnia. What themes will that explore?

The themes in my work-in-progress novel set in Bosnia will continue to explore the complexities of personal and national histories, much like my previous work. However, this time I’m weaving in elements of magic realism, drawing inspiration from the Sarajevo Haggadah and Balkan folktales. These mystical elements will add a new layer to the narrative, deepening the exploration of identity, memory, and the ways in which the past haunts the present. The use of folklore will allow me to delve into the region’s rich cultural traditions while keeping the focus on the enduring human themes of loss, resilience, and transformation.

Where is ‘home’ for you now? How do you think living in other countries has influenced your outlook and personality?

I am wildly curious, and home is the room I’m sitting in. Though we pay a mortgage on our condo in Snohomish, home has always been more about where I am in the moment than a fixed place. Living in different countries has profoundly shaped my outlook and personality. It’s given me a deep appreciation for diverse perspectives and a sense of adaptability. I’ve learned that people’s values and struggles can be both uniquely local and universally human. Experiencing different cultures has also sparked my curiosity and influenced the way I approach storytelling, allowing me to blend personal and global themes into my work.

What do you think are your points of difference/advantages that you bring to your writing?

One of the key differences I bring to my writing is my unique upbringing. Growing up in Myanmar with parents who encouraged both critical thinking and creativity gave me an early appreciation for the complexities of the world. I’ve lived in many countries and experienced firsthand the way cultures can both clash and blend, and that depth of perspective is something I try to infuse into my stories. Navigating a chronic disease like multiple sclerosis has also shaped my writing. It’s taught me resilience, patience, and how to find beauty in challenging situations. I think these experiences allow me to write characters and narratives that explore the shades of gray in life—the areas where pain, perseverance, and hope intersect.

Why do you think that a high proportion of expats/students/backpackers/digital nomads are from the Pacific Northwest and find themselves living and working in Southeast Asia? (I know three people from Snohomish who live in Asia).

It’s an interesting phenomenon, and I think the Pacific Northwest has some unique qualities that make it a breeding ground for wanderers. Growing up on the edge of the continent, facing west, there’s always been a sense of curiosity about what’s beyond the horizon. The region’s creative spirit—fueled by its music scene, constant rain, endless coffee, and a long history of innovation with computers and tech—fosters a mindset that’s open to exploration and new ideas. People from the PNW are used to thinking outside the box, and there’s a certain resilience that comes from enduring gray skies. This drive for adventure and discovery seems to naturally extend to places like Southeast Asia, where expats, students, backpackers, and digital nomads can experience a different pace of life while still tapping into their creative or entrepreneurial sides. Though, it blows my mind that you know three people from my little town of Snohomish living in Asia!

For aspiring writers and creatives, and for readers of Borderless, what’s your advice?

My advice for aspiring writers, creatives, and readers of Borderless is simple: always take the step, go through the door you don’t know. The unknown is where growth, creativity, and discovery happen. Don’t be afraid to embrace uncertainty and take risks in your work and life. Whether it’s starting a new project, exploring a different idea, or venturing into unfamiliar territory, those leaps often lead to the most rewarding experiences. Stay curious, keep pushing boundaries, and trust that the act of creating—no matter how daunting—will always teach you something new.

Where can readers find you?

Email: lyabadgley@comcast.net

Mobile: 360 348 7059

110 Cedar Ave, Unit 302, Snohomish WA 98290

www.lyabadgley.com

www.facebook.com/lyabadgleyauthor

www.instagram.com/lyabadgleyauthor

Youtube: www.youtube.com/@lyabadgleyauthor 

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[1] American musician

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. 

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Stories

The Useless Idler

By Paul Mirabile

Alhambra Palace, Spain. From Public Domain

No one knew his name nor wished to know it. Only his face attracted those who came into contact with him. So it was said. A face whose huge, glowing eyes were turned both inwards and outwards, simultaneously. A face whose florid complexion, cheery and unfurrowed, bespoke a life of leisure, albeit not one of procrastination; a life of ease, but not sloth. In short, a life of early, unfought for independence.

I met my nameless stranger one fine autumn day in the Andalucian town of Granada, Spain, where he had been residing for several months, visiting the Alhambra Palace every day during those months. We had met in a small, non-distinct eatery, and he was very willing to converse with anyone who had leisure to tete a tete. We fell into lively conversation. Taken aback by his daily visits to the remarkable Palace, I enquired why he spent so many hours there.

“The Palace was built as a sign of religious, political and cultural power,” he began, munching energetically on his paella of rabbit. “But since 1492, that sign has been condemned to utter uselessness, reduced to a mere tourist attraction, however noteworthy. It has become completely useless since its mediaeval abandonment  because it’s been drained of its original value.” Here he paused, I imagine, for me to intercede. I didn’t …

“You see, this is what attracts me most to the Alhambra; its utter uselessness for our world today. I do not consider mass tourism as an instrument of usefulness.” I kept silent to goad him on, for the turn of conversation piqued my curiosity.  “The Alhambra epitomises all that I have spent my own life experiencing, consciously: the pleasures of uselessness.”

“Is uselessness a pleasure?” I nettled with a sunny smile.

“That depends upon whom it has been bestowed, sir. That depends for whom it has benefitted. The circumstances of my life and will to understand and decipher them, have conspired to draw me now into and outside of myself. My own self has become as useless as the objects that I set my eyes on each and every day as I saunter through the streets, gardens or palaces of wherever I happen to be. I have realised that such an absorption into social uselessness, and thus distance from social use, has constituted my raison d’être. And there lies the pleasure: this mode of existence is a project of life; a pure project of pleasurable uselessness to society and to myself.” His face, alit with integrity, bent low to attack the chorizos cooked in white wine sauce.

“When did you begin experimenting your project?” I asked, sipping my sangria.

“I would formulate it differently: When did uselessness experiment me!” he mumbled, his mouth full of chorizo. “It all began in Africa some thirty or forty years back, during my youthful days wandering through the Sahara desert en route to Timbucktoo. The Blue Men of the Sahara appeared absolutely useless to anyone or anything that we Europeans would call useful.”

“Such as?”

“Well, a roof over one’s head, a shower every hour, a steady, well-paid job, a car and such things … what we Europeans would term as useful, conditioned to adhere to the philosophy of infinite progress; to infinite social and political usefulness. All the Blue Men seemed to require were a few hours of sleep, food, water and the desire to procreate. Needs that all mankind need so as to account for our very presence on Earth. I lived in the desert for over a year, and little by little discovered that this lifestyle suited a possibility of existence, a life not of a desert-nomad mind you, but one of a useless idler, which as time went by, proved possible, be it in the cities of Europe and Asia or in their countryside towns and villages.”

“As I understand it, social success has no meaning for you at all?”

“Not at all. Success only invites humiliation or cruel jealousy, and the pursuit of wealth is a path marked by ruthlessness. I earn my living simply to eat, to dress according to the climate, to have a roof over my head when needed.”

“But a roof over one’s head could be expensive…” I intervened.

“I spend most of my nights out under the stars when the weather is warm. With the coming of winter, I seek refuge in Catholic missions, poor men’s shelters or in the numerous Salvation Army shelters. Any asylum that will not turn me down. As far as any permanent residence, I have taken up lodgings in the homes of generous people for a meagre fee, or have laboured on farms for my food and bed. Do not confuse uselessness with doing nothing. I’m no couch potato; I have done many things, but they do not fit into our social machine of imposed well-being. My life may appear negative to those who hold me in contempt, but my usefulness is as useful to mankind as it is to myself. Don’t forget what one Belgium writer once wrote: ‘It is thanks to a certain number of men who seem useless that there will always be a certain number of useful men.’”

“Who wrote that?”

“I forgot. But what difference does it make?” He wiped his mouth delicately, smacking his lips. He proceeded: “I imagine you probably believe me to be a social parasite or a social zero as Balzac once wrote, useless even as a human being. But read Friedrich Nietzsche on this point,” and he quoted: “’The value of a human being does not lie in his usefulnes; for it would continue to exist even if there were nobody to whom he could be useful.’”

“Quite an imposing thought,” I acknowledged, sitting back. “But you must admit that you have been useful to the kind people who hire you on or who lodge you, even for a small fee.”

He snorted: “Perhaps. But I cannot speak on their behalf, only mine.” I noted that he wiggled out of that one quite ingeniously. His face shone with a strange light. An aura of mystery gradually covered it like a gossamer veil. The light suddenly went out.

“I’m sure your effort to separate yourself from the social body must be a terrible struggle,” I pursued without irony. “I believe that to be estranged from the social body is commensurate with  being estranged from one’s own self. Am I right in assuming this?” 

“Perhaps, but not from the individuals of those societies. I am not a misantrope. This being said, solitude, fasts and meditation have prepared me for outer trials and tribulations, which I believe, without vanity, to have overcome.” He began picking his teeth with a very long fingernail.

“And God?” I rebounded, eyeing him steadily. His lips broke into an artful grin.

“He has been my only Friend since the beginning, sir. And why is that? Because we have been useless to each other since our initial communion.” He stood, evidently undesirous to develop this rather paradoxical statement. I let it drop …

We slipped outside and my nameless companion suggested that we have a quick jaunt through the ‘Arab Market’ in Zacaten. Indeed, the weather was warm, that Autumn weather which I have always found so stimulating in Granada; Granada, perched high in her mountainous refuge like an eagle in her lofty nest. My strolling companion strolled into my reverie.

“Look at the sky, a bluish turquoise which reminds me so much of the domes of the mosques in Bukhara, Uzbekistan. That turquoise which solicits silence and contemplation.”

“So you’ve visited Uzbekistan?”

“More than visited, my friend. I lived there for five years studying under the spiritual guidance of the Nakishbendi Brotherhood, a Sunna movement founded by the Shah Nakishbend, and which has survived the anti-religious crusade of the Soviet Union. With those kind and learned monks I learnt the virtues and powers of silence, contemplation, discipline, simplicity and periodical talks.”

“In what language did you speak to them?” I ventured, a bit intrigued by this singular experience.

“In Uzbek, of course!” he responded dryly. “I also learned to read Arabic.”

“But are silence and talks not contradictory?”

“Not at all, sir. Clusters of roses certainly grow silently, but good soil, air and pure water are needed for their basic growth. If accompanied by a soft, melodious voice, they grow better. Roses heed to that voice as silence heeds to constructive talks. It was during the alternating passages of silence and talks that our spiritual guides opened our eyes and senses to the uselessness of worldly matters, and since then, this uselessness has become my second nature, even my first! Mind you, this discovery has nothing to do either with self-love or atomistic individualism. As I said, I have relations with people, albeit brief; and although I keep aloof from community aggregation and national gatherings, I have never spend my life gloating in an ivory tower. No sir, I live for wanderlust not social or individual hubris! The lust for wandering … And when one wanders one cannot but converge with people, learn from them. This does not necessarily mean that I derive an extraordinary pleasure from communicating with them. To tell the truth, I prefer my own company, if I may say so …”

“But you surely feel a responsibility towards others?” I pursued, more and more fascinated by this nameless chap, who by now had led me into a marvellous little garden out of whose spouting fountain splashed tinkling sprays here and there.

“Responsibility?” he chortled, as we sat down enjoying the perfumed scents of honeysuckles and roses. “Responsibility is only towards oneself. My words or gestures will be felt by others. Would you harm or humiliate your fellow man? Uselessness does not mean selfishness or egoism. In fact, it disciplines you to an awareness of others, an awareness those who whole-heartedly believe in social relevance will never come to understand for they must belong to a community, club or ideology in order to give pride and reason to their usefulness. They discredit the experience of uselessness. Don’t get me wrong, I do not live in a fantasy world like those who tout infinite progress or community spirit. These are abstract schemas for me. My Way is to strive to overcome anger, hate and jealousy within my own sphere of existence. This entails peeling away the veils that dim the lucidity of reality; my reality of being useless to the devastating machine of the useful well-being of mankind.”

“I would then conclude that your manner of living may be called cynical or indifferent?”

He was mortified by my question. “Cynical? A cynic questions then condemns derisively the circumstances that emerge before him or her; I neither question nor condemn. I simply carry on from place to place, experimenting novel circumstances, accepting them as if they had always been mine. Indifference? Well, if you mean stepping back and out of the world’s commerce, and not to take either that commerce or oneself seriously, then I am indifferent. The crisis of many individuals today is that they take themselves much too seriously, much more seriously than the seriousness of their work or vocations. And when this self-seriousness is struck down or dethroned a dreadful sense of uselessness seizes them, causing depression, or worse, suicide. My uselessness to myself and to others is more serious than myself. I am in the world but not of it!”

As we sat in silence, I gradually felt myself transported to another dimension of time and space. Scenes of my own life flashed before my eyes, lively colourful scenes and gloomy ones. I could not resolve whether this nameless fellow fascinated or revolted me. My own life had been ensnared in a web of social irresponsibility and imposed representations. I had become one of the many cogs in the slow and steady vast social wheel that turns and churns, and I sensed that mine had become worn-out and useless. I had so yearned to be of some use to society … But now? Yes, now? How could I restore my previous enthusiasm that had long been abandoned? I had to admit, though, that this man’s experiments heightened my ardour to … to do what? Was he sent to me like some mentor? He suddenly stood and bid me a good day with a whimsical smile, as though he had been reading my thoughts.

Before leaving, however, he said: “Tomorrow I shall have a walk in the gardens of the Alhambra. Please join me, I’m sure we have much to discuss. Meanwhile, let silence be your companion until that walk.” And he disappeared into the milling crowd.

Waking early the next morning, I resolved to meet my new and somewhat eccentric companion at the beginning of the long avenue that leads to the Gate of Justice. An avenue lined with sentinels of cypress and other trees, within whose morning freshness ran a warren of narrow paths.

We met at precisely eight o’clock. With a sort of fraternal benevolence, he took my arm and we strolled upwards past the Gate of Justice, the pompous palace of King Carlos the Fifth, paid our tickets and entered the palace proper, almost religiously, under the storied vaulted corridors, by the pencilled ornaments and tiled walls of arabesque blue, over the smooth, shiny marbled floors.

“Have you read Washington Irving?” he asked in a quavering voice, as if not to disturb the mediaeval palace denizens.

“Yes, a marvellous story-teller and keen observer,” I replied softly.

“You know he led a life of ridiculous usefulness until sojourning within the walls of this soporific fairyland. Gradually Irving fell under the pleasant and industrious spell of uselessness.”

I stopped walking.

“How so? That’s contradictory!”

“Is it?” he beamed, smiling that wide, wicked, whimsical smile. “Yet so it was. He learnt through daily experience that this whole palace of enchantment lies under the layers of absolute uselessness. Layers and layers of poetry, conversation, lyrical jousts and insignificant gestures which disappeared as quickly as they were conceived. Nothing! Nothing remains of that imagined uselessness. And that is precisely why he wrote his Tales of the Alhambra[1] ; it was out of the need to express his useless life within these lyrical stones.”

My sauntering companion fell silent. Only our footfalls could be heard weaving in and out of the slender colonnades, intermingling with the chanting fountains. The blue ceramic shone on the walls like a mirror reflecting the azure …

“I see your point, I think. Before dusk, at times I watch the sun glide from East to West over the Palace walls, the dark greys slipping into ochre reds, soon to be daubed, as the sun sets, by the overglow tones of chestnut, roan and dun.”

“Yes!” he whispered excitedly. “That is perfect uselessness. It serves absolutely no purpose to anyone … even to yourself. For, unlike Irving, who snapped his experiment in uselessness,  succumbing to the desire of writing it down for all and sundry to share, I presume that in your case you have no urgency to express any posthumous glory?”

I shook my head thoughtfully, then asked: “You don’t feel the desire to keep a diary?”

“Write? A diary? What for — to satisfy my blotted ego seeking a useful outlet? These are vain insinuations, my good friend. No, it is quite enough to feast my sovereign eyes, to feed my independent emotions on this marvellous honeycomb frostwork and these fine, mullioned windows[2]. These artifices are as useless as the ephemeral poetry and conversations that rang euphoniously within the hallowed halls and courts. And indeed, why should we, mere strangers to this mediaeval marvel, impose an artificial usefulness to it all? Why should we break into lyrical extravagances of the budding rose or the flight of the owl? Into flights of phantasy poeticising upon the Towers above us where verses of love spilled forth their honied fragrances into a void of mute forgetfulness? None of that for me, sir. Within these courts and gardens I have come to the inevitable conclusion that my Destiny lies in perfect uselessness; namely, in my refusal to reanimate the beauty or the ugliness that has crossed my path for the past fifty years in Asia, Europe, the Americas and Africa. I decline to spoil the uselessness of beauty and ugliness, to encumber my spirit and soul by searching for a ‘proper use’ for such human emotions and achievements.”

We had walked through the remarkable Court of Lions and were now entering the gardens of Lindaraxa, Sultan Boadil’s[3] wife. We sat down inhaling the gay scents of roses, oranges and lemons.

He sniffed the air, then murmured: ”A vague of indescribable awe was creeping over me,” here hepaused, lifting his eyes upwards: ”Everything began to be affected by the working of my mind, the whispers of the wind among the citron-trees beneath my window had something sinister…” My companion had chanted this broken sentence in a sort of drawn-out litany. “Yes, something sinister, indeed,” he ruminated to himself. “That point of inspiration led Irving from absolute uselessness to the search for putting uselessness to use. I enjoy reading Irving, but will never convert a ‘something sinister’ to a million-copy, world-wide read book.”

The sun rose higher and higher coating the pink tongues of dawn with a purplish blue. I turned to him: “Still, I cannot see how we as humans can escape from being useful Beings!” He looked at me, his facial features had suddenly hardened, or perhaps it was due to the effects of the shadows off the sun-lit fruit trees.

“Does my speaking to you now fulfil an emotional need? Was our conversation a psychological issue to such a profound hoarding of uselessness?” I asked.

He laughed so loud that a few puffy-eyed guards turned their heads in our direction. “Dear fellow, you have hardly understood our morning jaunt. We are simply idling our time away as uselessly as possible, as useless as a leaf dropping from that citron-tree, as a person who labours all his life to survive, a hermit in his remote cave, a desert-dweller, a traveller without name or record. How many of those intrepid souls took refuge in monasteries of the East and there left no trace of their earthly footfalls? They experienced true uselessness …”

“Even to God towards whom they must have addressed their prayers?” I enquired. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“That is neither for you nor me to answer, my friend.” He stood, shook my hand and left the gardens back through the Palace halls.

I felt a bit put out by his prompt and unexpected departure. It were as if he had abandoned me to unravel that last enigmatic thought of his. A silly feeling of course, but one that clung to me like the scents of the roses, oranges and lemons. My mind slowly became dull, my body numb. Had the nameless wanderer put me under a magical spell? The redolence and balminess of the gardens added to my discomfiture. At the same time, however, I understood that idleness is not a state or a condition which I could bear or champion as he does. I rose, heavily. Enough of this palatial beguiling and futile jaunting. That man, whoever he is, taught me a sound lesson: a person is born into our world to accomplish a particular use, one that is his or hers alone. There is no doubt in my mind about this.

I dragged myself from the gardens back to my hotel in the Old Market at Zacatin, an effort that enlisted all my emotional and physical strength.

I must confess that during the following days, in spite of my firm resolution towards usefulness, I idled my time away seeking out that nameless idler, tramping from street to street, garden to garden, restaurant to restaurant. Every morning I rose early and scoured the halls, courts and gardens of the Alhambra.

He had vanished into thin air, as the saying goes …

*

A few years later back in Amsterdam, my eye caught sight of a book entitled The Denizen of the Underworld : The Art of Uselessness. I bought it out of some urgent curiosity that I could and still not explain rationally. The first sentences read : ”I am without shame, without guilt, without bad conscious. I truly prefer my cave swimming with mermaids, dwarves labouring at the furnaces, fairies hunting out medicinal plants. Here I breathe the air of pure uselessness, shielded against the charm and seduction of use.”

The author of the book had an odd name — Vigilius de Silentio — a name that might have fitted the face of my nameless companion whom I had met so many years ago in Granada. On second thoughts, though, that name could have fitted any face.

To tell the truth, the book bored me to death …                   

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[1]        Washington Irving, edition Edilux, Granada, Spain.    

[2]        A vertical element made of wood or stone that divides a window in two. It is applied in Islamic and Armenian architecture.

[3]        The last Sultan of Muslim Spain, exiled to North Africa.

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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Poetry

Autumn of Life

By Paul Mirabile

Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851); From Public Domain

I’ve performed upon many stages of the World

Have donned many masks,

Am today like a ship whose sails furled

Floats listlessly upon the horizonless seas of uncertainty.

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Passed are those days of fury and adventure,

Of desert crossings, mountain passes and oceanic swells ;

The hour has come to lie down and venture

Forth towards a novel existence of tolling kneels.

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All has become pensive, still and Silent

Amidst the glorious illumination of nightly bidding ;

Where vivid Dreams and Tales invent

An irrevocable identity, so unexpected, yet so fitting.

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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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings

Watery World

We live on a huge planet, a watery world, which is a small cosmos in itself. Keith Lyons discovers humanity in his local swimming pool.

In recent years, I’ve increasingly sought an elixir of life. Even though I know this magical potion won’t grant me eternal life — not even eternal youth. The elixir doesn’t even promise to cure all diseases, though it seems a lot of other people are taking this tonic as treatment for every kind of ailment. 

My pursuit of this higher realm means that most days, if I am able, I take a break from work, life and the busy-ness of it all to replenish, relax, and rejuvenate. My woo-woo astrological friend reckons that because my star sign is Cancer (one of the three water signs along with Pisces and Scorpio), I am drawn to water. But then, we all need water. Water is Life. It keeps all life going – for without water, life cannot exist. As the saying goes, “No Blue – No Green.” We need water to survive, to thrive, for our hygiene, for our wellbeing, and for the ice cubes in our virgin piña colada cocktails. 

When I heard about the prospect of a new swimming pool opening up nearby my home, in the dark days of the Covid-pandemic, I was doubly happy and expectant. I even turned up to the new venue before it had actually opened, when they were still finishing the build and checking all the systems worked. The local government funded facility offered not only a swimming pool, but also a point of contact for interactions with the council, and the pool was twinned with a modern library. In my mind, I imagined that it might be possible to go swimming, then to glide over to a cafe or bar to get a drink, and then to select a book to read while reclining on an in-water lounger. Could it possible? I know I had stayed at a fancy hotel with a wet bar in Macau, where the bartender served cocktails to me and a photographer as we lived our best lives — until the next morning when we didn’t feel so flash. 

Water, as you may know, makes up over 70% of the Earth’s surface. Up to 60% of the human body is actually water — depending on how much fluids you’ve drunk. A cucumber is made up of around 96% water. I recall these facts from a high school science project as I push the button of the water dispenser and a half circle of cool water arcs up for me to catch as much as I can in my mouth. I’m thirsty and know I need to drink lots of fluids, as I’ve just spent the last 80 minutes exercising and soaking in warm water. And I feel like I’m dehydrated from all the exertion. 

Ever since a new indoor swimming pool opened in my neighbourhood, I’ve been making the effort to go as often as I can, to move and stretch in the warm hydrotherapy pool and then relax in the even-hotter spa. It has become something of a pilgrimage for me, even on the coldest, rainy days of winter. My route there from my house goes along a new cycleway, through a park (where a dog recently tried to attack me on my bike) cuts through a local ‘secret shortcut’ beside offices and a new church, then tracks along an industrial area of factories, warehouses, and commercial premises. After 6pm, the road to the pool has little traffic, just the occasional truck and security vehicle. If road conditions, traffic and winds are favourable, I can be door-to-door in under 10 minutes. But once I enter the new complex, change into my swimming gear, and walk down the ramp of the hydrotherapy pool, time becomes less important. I change from the demands of a busy world to more me-time. 

But there’s more than devoting an hour to honour and exercise one’s physical body. Moving in water offers benefits beyond the physical realm, whether one’s aim is to help the heart, the waistline or the body’s strength. Because water is a lot denser than air, water provides more resistance — around 12-14% — compared to doing the same exercises on land. That resistance assists cardio and strength training. There’s another factor for water-based activities: buoyancy. The feeling of being lighter or weightless when submerged in water means you take the pressure off bones, joints and muscles. It is the closest thing you or I might get to being in space. You don’t even need one of those NASA t-shirts with the iconic blue, red and white logo of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. 

The 1.4-metre-deep hydrotherapy pool, which is kept at 33-36C, sits alongside the traditional 25-metre swimming pool, which is kept at 26-28C. The therapeutic pool’s inclusion in the new community complex was the result of lobbying by locals, who previously had to drive across to the opposite side of the city to access a suitably warm pool. 

Photo Courtesy: Keith Lyons

It has only been a few months since the pool opened, but already many come to the waters, from when it opens at 5.30am each weekday (7am weekends) to when the last are forced to leave at 9.30pm (8pm in weekends). I’m more of an afternoon and evening swimmer, preferring to go to the pool after work or at the end of the day. Some attend the twice-a-week gentle exercise class, where the average age is 65+. Others visit almost every day at nearly the same time. 

Some arrive in wheelchairs, pushing walking frames, or hobbling on crutches. Others walk from the changing rooms to the water smiling expectantly as they pace towards the transformative pool. At mid-morning, with the light from the wall-to-ceiling windows slanting across the pool, it could easily be a scene from the 1985 movie, Cocoon, where the retirement home pool helped them rediscover their youth (it was full of aliens). If you had to paint the scene, there would be a lot of blue hues, along with off-white and grey tones, with silvery reflections off the water.

While some exercise by themselves, focusing on their routines, the set prescribed by their physiotherapist, or whatever takes their fancy, for many it is also a social time, as they aqua jog up and down the lengths, or stand at the sides doing calisthenics. If you listen carefully over the music soundtrack of upbeat, positive songs playing over the public speakers, you can hear the water gushing and flowing. It bubbles up from the floor of the pool. Jets roll in from the sides of the hydrotherapy pool. In the spa pool, there’s a force field strategically placed around the pool. Modern water treatment means there’s no smell of chlorine. 

The pool is a very tactile, sensual in-body experience. It is also somewhat humbling. Patrons must change into suitable bathing costumes, which can be as skimpy and revealing as bikinis and togs, though some prefer full body covering for modesty or self-perceptions. The water in the hydrotherapy pool is so warm that there’s never any hesitation on entering. People are only limited by the speed at which they can move from the air environment to the watery world of buoyancy and drag. 

My local swimming pool is a microcosm of the wider community, and the big wide world. As where I live has experienced significant migration in recent decades, it is certainly a diverse multi-national cross-section of the community. Chinese are the largest group, with a swim school, coached sometimes in Mandarin, operating most weeknights. There are also families from the Philippines, a group of learn-to-swimmers from Nepal, and occasionally a non-swimmer from India who needs to be rescued from the deep end of the main pool by lifeguards. On one afternoon and evening, the whole pool becomes ‘women-only’, with the blinds drawn so women can use the pools without the glare of men. With more refugees from other countries now making up our neighbourhood, there are often people from Afghanistan, Eritrea, Kurdistan, Ethiopia, Somalia and Bhutan venturing into the pools for the first time. 

Is the swimming pool I go to special? Can such a multi-sensory, multi-cultural, relaxing-yet-reviving experience only be found in my swimming pool? Nope. Seek out a public swimming pool in your area and discover another world. 

Photo Courtesy: Keith Lyons

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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’sEditorial 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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