Adelaide Literary Magazine No. 51, November 2021

I LOVE YOU LIKE
BROKEN GLASS

by Frances Wiedenhoeft

How many times had I scrubbed until my “Sit,” she commanded as blood flowed
fingertips were raw and blood trickled across the callouses on my palm and
into the wash water? Any witness to this dripped into a small pool on the floor.
stooped washerwoman would have seen
the emotional precipice I teetered on. Banishment to ‘the chair’ was punish-
ment for breaking a windowpane in our
First, I would clean the sinks, then the back door. I was seven and in charge of my
countertop and stove. I moved on to the brother Michael, who was five, and baby
appliances, the cabinets, and the floor. The Stevie while my mother ran to the store.
scrape of the nonabrasive sponge and the Michael locked me out and wouldn’t open
swish of the rag in the cleaning pail followed the door. I was terrified something would
an internal rhythm. I scoured and rinsed happen to Stevie. I smashed the glass and
until the smell of bleach and Pine-Sol per- turned the handle not even noticing as the
meated the house. It was nauseating and jagged shards sliced deep into my palm.
never did anything to erase the bitter taste
of anger which I gulped so hard it settled My mother hadn’t been willing to hear my
and seethed in my stomach. reasoning. All she saw was the broken glass.
And so, I sat for what seemed like hours with
Lydia and I fought with passion and inten- blood snaking down my hand and hot tears
sity. on my cheeks.

‘How could I have such fury at my own When I became a mother, I spent most
daughter?’ and, ‘when did we start shouting?’ of Lydia’s early years worried that somehow
cycled through my mind in perpetual motion. this cruelty could be passed down geneti-
cally. I cut myself off from my daughter and
My experience as a child was that loving denied her the soft embrace of love I felt for
mothers lived on TV. My mother tolerated her. By the time I noticed her pulling away
my silent and distant Korean War veteran during the occasional bedtime cuddle and a
father but frustration at the isolation and book it was almost too late. The ‘I love you
suffocating role of a 1960’s homemaker had mom’ was a cool reflex at the end of a call to
shown itself in periodic cruelties.

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let me know she wanted to stay at another, conversation. She used her anger as a shield
warmer, family’s home for dinner. against my love. ‘What do you care, you left
me,’ and, ‘One day here, then you’ll be gone,’
The grooves of my self-deprecation were thrown around our tiny rose-colored
were as well-worn as the floors I scrubbed. kitchen along with my recipes, pots, and
I wasn’t affectionate. I rarely hugged or cud- pans. The symbolism was clear to me. We
dled. I lived my fears in compulsive cleaning, don’t share that connection anymore. She
and routines that I thoughtlessly passed to was always careful never to throw anything
Lydia. I never even noticed her pain or anger. directly at me and never throw anything
I never saw her except as a reflection of my- that would break.
self. I was a bad mother. My daughter spent
her childhood teaching me to love, until my Less than a year later I welcomed a new
first trip to ‘the Sandbox.’ My deployment grandchild into the world with equal parts
for Desert Storm was the catalyst for raised joy and terror. Lydia was a teenager. So was
voices and rising tension. the father who was off fathering another
child before Robert was even born. It never
“I will never be a soldier. I’ll never be like occurred to me that she would get pregnant.
you!” Lydia had screamed through a locked She signed a chastity agreement by her own
door, “I will never leave my child.” choice. She mentored other younger girls to
stay clean, sober, in school and not fall into
I stood with my palm pressed against the teenage motherhood. I had so many wor-
door. ries. Could she do it? Could I do it?

“Come out, please? We need to talk.” When they put the baby on her belly, she
held her first son as he pushed his head deep
The door opened. She walked around into her bosom and tried to suckle. They
me with exaggerated care. slept like that for a year. The hurled obscen-
ities of her youth were replaced with soft
I stood with my eyes locked on a pattern murmurings.
in the floor panel and my jaw jutting out. I
held a stack of recipes for the favorite foods ‘Look mom, look what he can do now. He
I was teaching her to make. smiled when I smiled,’ or, ‘he held up his head,’
or learned to crawl, or took his first steps.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were de-
ploying. You must have known. Why did you I thought we had passed into a time
tell me the day before you go?” when the Tigger ringtone of her call inspired
my curiosity rather than dread.
My only explanation was that I was a
coward. I was afraid of just this. Then a fist of buried rage hit the win-
dowpane of calm. Jagged shards splintered
While I was gone, I could take shelter across our lives.
in the cold, numb detachment of trauma
care. I wrote Lydia every week, sent recipes, “Your so fucking stupid, get out of my face!”
asked her about school, friends, Christmas,
her birthday. She sent one letter in return. I ran towards her raised voice a half a
She had developed her own form of numb. house away, but not fast enough. As I got to
Now I was on the outside of her life. the door, I saw Lydia push Robert hard. He
was barely a toddler and lost his balance. I
When I got back, I sat close, forced hugs,
and made ‘I love you’ the end of every

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heard his head crack as it hit the corner of in the corner of his closet, but I couldn’t see
the doorframe. past my rage.

I held a cool cloth to his bruised head “I’m his mother, not you, I decide what’s
and tried to sooth him. Silent tears ran best for him.”
down his face. He didn’t even know enough
words to ask what I knew was in his heart. “Then stick around and take care of him.”
‘What did I do wrong?’
“Somethings fucking wrong with him.
“What are you doing? This is your son,” I You’re just fucking him up. What the fuck
was shouting too. Blood beat so hard against are you doing to my son.”
my inner ear I could barely hear myself think.
We played the same scene over and over.
“I’m going out,” she jeered in an ‘I dare you’ On those days I never got past tears of frus-
tone. tration. ‘I probably am fucking it up. I was a
horrible mother. Lydia is evidence of that,’
“No you’re not. Not like this. You think were added to the thoughts in perpetual
you can just do this and then leave?” my ve- motion through my mind.
hemence must have carried halfway down
our quiet street. How did we start talking?

“I’m grown,” she turned back from the I let ‘I’m sorry’ slip through my lips in a
open door to face me, “I can do what I want.” lull between harsh words in both directions.
No breast beating, just a quiet acknowledge-
After that night Lydia was home for ment.
every birthday. In between I would text her
phone when he passed another milestone, “For what?” she faced me midargument
spoke his first sentence, started preschool and then paused and asked again, eyes wide
and then kindergarten. She would be home with astonishment, “what are you sorry for?”
for a few weeks and Robert would shine like
a full moon basking in his mother’s sun. “For fucking it up, with you.”

Then she would be gone, and I would be “Mom, I…” she left the sentence hang.
left with the inconsolable sobs of his aban-
donment until he fell into an exhausted She couldn’t say the words that we both
sleep. knew were a lie, ‘You didn’t fuck it up.’

‘I love you’s’ between Lydia and I were a I filled the space between us with ‘Had
dry creek bed in a draught. I prayed the rain I only known: what it was like to be an only
would come again one day. child of a single parent and then to have
me leave, to live with a fathers rejection,
When she was home, I begged her to to never have teachers favor you, not the
give him the love he craved, be the one at bright one or the one from a ‘good family.’
Back-to-School Night, the one he ran to with
a skinned knee. Wary of more than five words between
us that weren’t jabs meant to draw blood,
Years passed. Her standard reply was, we eased into chairs at far corners of the
‘He’s still young, I’ll have time for that later.’ living room.

My decisions for Robert were never right I continued with ‘I wish I would have:
for Lydia. I knew our fights left Robert shaking held you close when you cried, made sure
a loving smile was the first thing you saw

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in the morning and the last thing you saw I cupped her hands in my palms and
before lights out, listened more, talked less.’ kissed them as I savored an ‘I love you’
spoken warmly instead of hurled through a
It wasn’t a confession. I didn’t expect her slamming door, addendum to an argument.
to forgive.

“Mom,” she pulled in on the couch close
beside me, “I love you…” with a fleeting hand
squeeze.

About the Author

Frances Wiedenhoeft studied journalism and creative
writing at Madison College, where she received a
Journalism Certificate in 2015. Her work can be found
in The Wisconsin State Journal, on warwriterscampaign.
org, in the 2015 Ariel Anthology, in a collaborative peace
poem in Praxis Magazine Online, the American Journal
of Nursing, and the Spring 2020 issue of Deadly Writers
Patrol. Frances completed a Write On Door County
residency in March 2021. She is a writer, poet, mother,
grandmother, and twenty-two-year Army veteran with
service in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Desert Storm.

102

THE GIFT OF THE
RAIN GOD

by Nigel Pugh

Maybe a god of the rain forest slumbers As spring turned to summer, the tarp
on a mountain ledge high above the valley gathered dried pine needles and was slow-
and the lake, his ample stomach rising and cooking the timbers beneath. Earlier that
falling, with his ethereal entourage, plump morning, Tito pulled off the tarp, spread it
hand-maidens, sweetly-perfumed, fanning on the lawn, brushed off the needles, and
him with banana leaves, and six stout eu- folded it into ever diminishing squares. He
nuchs standing guard, each with a fine- needed to be alone. To think about his con-
ly-honed scimitar that could slice a guava versations with Anne. The boat, the lake,
into eighths in a second. Some down in the the island. No one would disturb him there.
valley claim they can hear the rain god sigh,
turn in his sleep, feel the breath of his ex- With Robert’s help, he righted the row-
hale, and see the occasional glint of a scim- boat. It was lighter than Tito had imagined,
itar in the mid-morning sun. Others claim… the planking sun-bleached and the bronze
oarlocks green and stiff. “Got me some WD
“Chu talkin’ about, man? Ain’t no rain 40.” They carried it down to the lake where
god. Get real, brother. E’rebody know that.” Tito showed Robert how to tie a nautical
knot. “Didn’t know my hands remembered
The rowboat belonged to the house by that. Ain’t tied that knot in years.”
the lake. Last fall, two residents, now gone,
Tito didn’t know where, hadn’t spoken “Can you swim, Tito? It’s deep out there.”
much with them, some people you friends
with and others you keep out they way, had “Born on an island, man. Tropical.” He
pulled the rowboat out of the lake, turned told Robert about the clear waters, white
it upside down and wrapped a tarp around sand and chattering fronds of dried palms.
it, roping it securely against the winter gales. “Everyone learn to swim. Mother’s womb
They expected to stay till spring but hadn’t. to salt water. Just like that. My family, they
Some argument about firewood and not fishermen. Where the oars at?”
paying for it. Some folks want a viaje gra-
tuito. He didn’t find them in the shed, the
storage space under the stairs, the kitchen

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junk room or the root cellar, so Tito went parochial school. Maya’s quinceanera. Luis’
from room to room tapping on doors. “You braces. Kids never wanted nothing.
seen the oars for the rowboat?” And if
there was no response he knocked a little That the kids had wanted nothing made
louder then eased open the door, opened it his shame all the more difficult. After all
wide so he could be seen from the hallway, those years of sweat and a wrecked back,
and spoke loudly to himself once inside the cast out by his own kids. Shame coated him
room, “Los remos, los remos”. And only like a great creamy crust. Anyone who saw
stood where he could be seen from the the chalky cloak of shame would suspect
hallway. Just because. Until he found the that this man had betrayed his own family.
oars, the tiller and the rudder under the Shattered a sacred trust. But the great in-
bed in the new kid’s room. justice was that he had done nothing. He
would never hurt a child. Family. His own
Now in the heat of late morning, Tito nieto. It was all in Michael’s wife’s jealous
lay in the rowboat crossways on the bench, imagination.
calves propped up on the gunwale, feet
sticking out over the water, staring up at Tito drew his feet into the boat, levered
the lush mountain towering above. Anne’s his backside up and shifted his bulk back-
words, her coaxing questions, she was ward a few inches, then let out a grunt of
leading him toward a self-discovery that relief. The heat was relentless. What was it
had been hiding from him. He was so close Anne said? All that matters is what he, Tito,
to quashing that doubt. knows.

A raptor rode the thermals, gliding effort- After Michael’s wife accused him in front
lessly as she scanned the forest floor. Tito of his own son, he left the apartment. It was
envied her ease of movement. “I been like late, he had nowhere to go but he knew he
you once, Mami.” His triceps were still sore couldn’t stay. The things she had said, and
from the row out to what they called the Michael saying nothing. Staring at Tito like
island, no more than patches of saturated he was a stranger and not the father who
marsh not far from the cliff, neither land nor had carried him home from the hospital,
water. The island was shrouded with reed nursed him through a dozen childhood ill-
and bullrush, and there was no shade. The nesses, sacrificed to give Michael what he,
rhythm of the oars and the swift movement Tito, never had. He had walked all night.
of the boat had taken him back to child- Couldn’t remember where. Dark streets.
hood days, rowing beyond the breakers to And the next morning he buzzed Maya’s
the calmer waters where his father would apartment. She let him in, but had already
throw out nets. And the pull of the oars heard the story. The fiction. She made him
against the water had felt good, a soothing breakfast, gave him some money, he hadn’t
resistance that activated the forgotten mus- taken anything when he left Michael’s. No
cles he had once used to haul stuff, to put phone, nothing.
food on the table. Back in the day when
this body did what it told. No arguing. No “I have kids, Papi. You can’t stay here.”
por que? Years of lifting, stacking, carrying
furniture to fifth floor walk-ups, plus over- That hurt. “Where you ‘spect me to go?”
time and Sundays, had paid for Michael’s
“Papi, I have my own concerns. It’s not easy.”

Perhaps Michael’s wife was right. Maybe
he had hit the child. As a younger man, he’d

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done alcohol in times of stress. When his “Lady, take it easy. I’m a get your shop-
marriage was dissolving. He’d done things ping. Don’t get up. See if anything’s broke.”
with no recall. But he hadn’t tasted alcohol He gathered up the six oranges and placed
in years. All the same, this sliver of doubt them back into the shopping bag.
further grew the shame that hung heavy on
him like a second skin. The shame tasted “Nothing’s broken.”
too, a bitterness around his gums. When he
spat it out, the taste returned threefold. “‘Cept your eggs!” Tito held out the egg
box and it dribbled yoke onto the sidewalk.
Luis didn’t want to anger Michael. “Papi,
don’t make me say no.” “And my pride!”

“I ain’t touch the kid.” “I’ll toss them?”

“That’s not what she says. Says there’s “Please.”
bruising. Extensive. Says you’re lucky they
didn’t go to the Emergency Room. Then the Tito helped her to her feet. She thanked
police get involved.” him. She was a little shaken and asked him
to help her walk to a coffee shop the other
“Anyone ask the child? Didn’t think so. side of the street. Tito carried the grocery
You need to believe me, Luis. She doesn’t bag and the lady leaned on him. She was
like me. Never did. You know that. You seen hobbling. “I’m Anne. I need to sit.” She took
the way she treats me. Did I ever harm you? a ten dollar bill from her purse. “Please get
Or your brother? Your sister?” us a coffee each. Or whatever you want. I
don’t know what I would’ve done without
“Papi, you can stay two nights. I’ll go to you.”
Michael’s and get your stuff. Then you go.
Michael’s pretty pissed. If he knew you While waiting for her coffee to cool off,
were here…” she quizzed him gently. Not wanting to pry.
She was good at asking questions. It’s what
The shame intensified. Three children. she did for a living. Asking questions and lis-
Three rejections. tening to answers. And asking more ques-
tions. Tito told her that he had just arrived
Two days later Tito, with a small bag in town. “I’m a look for a room.”
representing all fifty-seven years of his life,
boarded a bus at Port Authority. He had “Maybe I can help.” Anne told him about
bought a one-way ticket at random. To a the house by the lake where she lived with
town he’d never heard of. As he rode the her husband, Robert, and others. “There
bus, more shame oozed out of his pores and are six rooms. It’s a collection of people.
congealed on his skin. He got off where the We’re a mixed bunch. One is empty. You’re
bus stopped and guessed he should look welcome to visit, see if you like the place.
for a room but had no idea how. Or how far The rent is cheap. It’s an older place and not
the money Maya had given him would go. A everyone likes old houses with their drafts
Caucasian lady walking toward him tripped and leaks. And we won’t be at all offended
on a broken sidewalk and fell, dropping her if you say no. If it’s not to your liking.” That
shopping bag. Oranges rolled out over the was a year ago.
sidewalk and into the street. “Damn!” She
was trying to get up. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since,
not Michael, not Maya, not Luis. The only

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one he really missed was his nieto. No one the lake, a rush of wetness, heavy pods of
knew where Tito was. Slowly, the house dense water, a sheet of rain flapping back
was healing him. Robert, Anne, even poor and forth in the gale, slapping against the
Juliette. They family now. boat and the man. The lake, ruffled by the
chaos, spun out into swirling eddies and
Over the months, Anne spent time with spooling whirlpools.
him in the sunken garden and during walks
by the lake asking and listening. There was As the rain cascaded down upon him,
something about her that made it easy for Tito grew less heavy. Not diminished,
Tito to talk. To tell her intimate things that rather buoyant. Puzzled by his new levity,
he had told no one else. She asked about he looked down at his arms, his legs, and
drugs and alcohol and anything else that saw the heavy second skin peeling off. The
might have clouded his memory. sluicing rain was washing off the creamy
crust, liquid shame ran off him and col-
A distant growl of thunder, a low-bellied lected in the bottom of the rowboat in a
vibration, a taut goat-skin drum far up in the greasy swill. Chalky shame ran down his
mountain, rolled out across the lake. Tito face, washing out of his hair, staining his T
glanced up at the sky. Still clear blue with shirt, down his ruined back.
wispy feathers of cloud, the light almost too
bright. Michael’s wife’s lies ran down his chest
in lines of black print, whole sentences
Tito spoke to Anne about Michael’s wife and paragraphs and exclamation points
and how she had treated him once he had streaking down his body into the base of
moved into their apartment and Anne took the rowboat where they diluted with rain
him to a place where he almost knew Mi- and lake water, dissolving before his eyes.
chael’s wife had been lying. “Tito, it doesn’t
matter what Michael, Maya or Luis think. All Tito stood up in the rowboat, balanced
that matters is what you know.” with feet straddling the base, held his arms
out like a Christ without a cross and tilted his
A shift in the universe, the sky drained head back, letting the rain god cleanse him,
of light, sun absorbed by a huge sheet of the waters stream down and around him
desk-top blotting paper, the daytime dark- and rinse away the bitterness. He laughed
ness of a sudden Catskill storm. out loud into the face of the storm, the first
time he had deep-laughed since Michael’s
A skittish breeze, gentle at first, stirred wife’s lies. The storm stole the laughter and
the air. Startled by the thunder, the slum- blew it here and there and across the lake
bering god of the rain forest resting high but Tito didn’t mind. He just laughed some
up above the cliff, attended by those very more from deep within his belly, louder this
hand-maidens and eunuchs, had woken, time, his wild laughter competing with the
and, in a great gasp, sucked the leaden air storm.
deep into his lungs. The god’s chest rose and
his cheeks filled wide like a pair of leather Unmoored, the rowboat rocked and
bellows, two bulging, almost bursting, bags turned and headed out into the lake into
of hot summer air. The god held steady till a the depths of churning water. He grabbed
tickle in the throat provoked a divine cough the gunwale to steady himself, exhilarated
that expelled a stampede of storm, charging by the liquid chill and his new lightness.
toward Tito, whipping up moisture from

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About the Author

Nigel Pugh is an educational leadership consultant working in the US and the EU. He lives in
Manhattan and Woodstock, NY. This short story is adapted from a novel he is working on. He
has had live theater pieces performed and has written for children’s TV. Should you visit the
Catskills, you may see him trail running.

107

THE LAST DAY OF
MY CHILDHOOD

by Lotus Zhang

That year looked the same as all of my earlier hands… Even with all of these hobbies, and
years. I didn’t do extra studies after school, my
grades were great enough to beat all of my
I was eleven years old, in my last semester cousins, my neighborhood kids, and my par-
of primary school. ents’ friends’ children easily.

Different from most of the other simi- I was a kid every parent wanted to have;
lar-aged kids, I was quiet and obedient, never I was the example to all of the other kids.
made any trouble: At school, I was a good But sometimes I felt unhappy—I wasn’t
student. Each class, I sat straight-backed in pretty; I didn’t have nice clothes to wear.
my seat, listening and interacting carefully, Everyday on my way home I could see an
wrote down every note that I thought nec- old man selling some little bamboo bas-
essary; when my father taught me and my kets; I longed for one but my pocket was
younger brother that the best way to prac- forever empty. The boy to whom I paid se-
tice our hand writings was following the dic- cret attention, liked another girl who was
tionary, I did. So, all of my homework and as pretty and proud as an elegant swan. I
quiz papers were written neatly and beau- was jealous of her: Why could she change
tifully, like a piece of calligraphic work; after her clothes everyday, but I always wore
school, I always walked back home accom- the same ones? Why could she wear one
panied by a few classmates. They loved to pair of black leather shoes, but mine were
listen to me telling them stories—I had read just cloth fabric, on which my aunt embroi-
a lot more books than them. They scram- dered two large gaudy flowers? I didn’t ask
bled to walk closer to me, they repeated my my parents to buy them for me; I knew
stories to the others; plus, I made sketches, they had no money. Only once a year they
especially those beautiful ladies’ sketches: bought me new clothes, and that was for
Some were reading, some were playing in- Spring Festival. My other clothes were all
struments, and some others were wearing second hand—Either from my cousins, or
army uniforms holding swords in their my parents’ friends’ children.

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That was the first time I felt inferior, but entire holiday homework hurriedly during
I could do nothing. In spite of the fact that the first few days of my Summer holiday,
my grades were higher, I could tell stories then I would beg for my mother’s permis-
and sketch, that boy had never noticed me. sion to let me go to the countryside, other-
To him, I was just an ugly duckling, while he wise nobody would buy me the bus ticket.
had his proud princess. My relatives used to But that Summer, my mother looked upset,
pity that both my parents were quite good- and one day I even heard her arguing with
looking, so why wasn’t their only daughter, my father in their room. I knew I couldn’t
which meant me, pretty at all? ask her to give me money for the ticket. I
had just learned to ride a bicycle, so I de-
When I heard that, I became unhappier. cided to ride to the village. One morning
I started to look into the mirror, trying to I got up very early, left my mother a note,
figure out how to make myself look better. then took my bicycle heading for the vil-
My mother read my mind. She pulled me lage. That sixteen miles’ adventure took me
into her arms, comforting: “Don’t worry, you about three hours: I rode as fast as lightning,
are my and your father’s little princess; you even though I knew my mother had no way
are the princess in this family. A golden heart to chase me; the route was vague in my
and merits are more important.” I listened; I memory. Sometimes if I got lost, I jumped
kept those words in my mind. I looked up at off the bicycle and asked someone passing
my mother’s face: She was still young, in her by. When I finally arrived at my uncle’s
thirties; she was the most beautiful mother house before noon, my mother’s telephone
among my classmates’—In the meetings call had just been received by my aunt.
that were held for the students’ parents, al-
though my mother’s clothes were plain as That was the first time I could remember
well, as she had no leather shoes to wear, the that I fought for myself without my moth-
men were staring at her, and all the women er’s permission. My mother didn’t criticize
looked defensively at my mother’s presence. me, she even never mentioned it a few
weeks’ later when I saw her in the village.
I was proud of my mother; I wanted to
be a mature woman like her—Until later, In my child’s heart, I couldn’t really ex-
when I realized that I didn’t know her at all. plain what the magic of the countryside was.
The food there was simple, everyday was
That Summer, after finishing the enroll- about the same: Congee was the breakfast
ment examination for middle school, I went with a little pickled vegetable; white rice for
to the countryside—The village where I was lunch, eating with simply stir fried vegeta-
born and where some of my uncles were bles which were just freshly picked in the
still living. kitchen garden; Dinner was soup noodles—
Handmade wheat flour noodles, on the sur-
I wasn’t worried about my examination. I face of the plain soup water, floating some
was sure that by end of July, I would receive vegetable leaves. The villagers seldom ate
an acceptance letter from the best middle meat—It wasn’t because they couldn’t af-
school in the town. I had no homework or ford it, they just didn’t reward themselves
holiday work to do. That Summer was des- randomly; they showed no desire for the
tined to be wild and fearless! things which they considered to be be-
yond their basic necessities. They lived
I loved to spend my summers in the
countryside—Usually I would finish my

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instinctively and contentedly; while there I was on. I sat behind it, sending the straw
was happy and healthy too. into its chamber. The fire was only one foot
away, baking my face and arms. My clothes
That summer, every morning I rose were thoroughly wet from the sweat when
around six a.m. with my cousins. I followed the meals were done. But I loved doing that;
them to the fields to cut some fresh grasses I wanted to be needed.
for their lambs and ox; then we went back
home and dried the grasses in the shade. Once during that Summer, we went to a
My cousin told me that the lambs would be market event in a neighboring village: We
ill if they ate the grasses with dew. When the took a little ferryboat to cross the river first,
grasses were carefully dried, we collected then we walked for nearly one hour. It was
them and carried them to the barn. I loved an open-air market, crowded with the vil-
to watch the lambs and ox chewing grasses— lagers coming from nearby like us. You could
The grasses looked so sweet and juicy that I buy everything there at a bargain price, such
almost wanted to try some myself. as farming tools, clothes, woks, flower seeds
etc,. We passed one booth, from where I
After the lambs and our breakfasts, we was attracted immediately by a blouse in a
would go to the vegetable garden to check yellow and white gingham pattern. I had no
the vegetables. The villagers there loved money to buy it, I was too shy to mention it
to plant eggplants, cucumbers, tomatoes, to my aunt or cousins, and I knew my mother
peppers and loofa. So, the whole village’s wouldn’t allow me to do so. I walked away
lunches were very similar—You could tell from the booth, pretending that nothing
from the bowls of the neighbors’, who used was interesting; then I turned back and took
to gather under the tree at the entrance of my last glance at it in the crowd. I felt sad.
the village, carrying their own lunches. They
ate and chatted cheerfully, considering it as The next morning, my mother came to
one of their precious entertaining moments. the village with my younger brother. She
didn’t talk to me very much, but dropped
I barely could help my cousins with my younger brother at my uncle’s house,
the heavier physical work; the only things then hurried to somewhere else.
I could do were wash vegetables, sweep
floors, and take care of the kitchen range That day looked the same as all of my
while cooking—During those years, the earlier days.
main fire source in the country kitchens was
straw, whose ashes could be used as fertil- My mother came back in early afternoon,
izer in the fields as well. The kitchen be- while I was reading a book under the eave, and
came super hot in Summer when the range my younger brother was napping in the bed.
My mother came to sit next to me. She didn’t

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say anything, just using her fingers to comb my that, my mother left because she couldn’t
hair, and looking at me lovingly yet pitifully. I stand the poverty anymore. She married
looked up at her, called: “Mother”. She nodded, my father considering he was a handsome
put her arms around my neck, her chin was to hardworking man; she thought he would
my head. She spoke: “My poor little girl, you have a future and give her a comfortable
look so messy. What can you do in the future? life. But after thirteen years’ struggles, end-
You are just a peasant girl, you are not pretty, less disappointments, she finally decided to
you even don’t know how to make yourself leave—She was not that old, she was still
prettier.” Her tone sounded like complaining, pretty, and she could have another chance
but the way she was holding me showed only if she was determined.
intimacy and love. I still remembered what my
mother told me before—“Don’t worry, you are My father never talked about my mother
my and your father’s little princess; you are since; and I never saw her again. My last
the princess in this family. A golden heart and memory of her was that day—Her little talk
merits are more important.” I was about to re- to me; her green polka dot blouse that grad-
mind her of that, a teardrop fell on my front ually disappeared on the dam. I had lost my
placket—My mother was crying. I swallowed mother since.
back my words.
I suddenly understood a lot of things
That afternoon, my mother left the vil- before my twelfth Autumn: My father’s
lage. My nine-year-old younger brother shame and failure; my mother’s unwilling-
and I watched her walk up to the dam. She ness and tiresomeness; the truth of life and
turned back and smiled at us while waving the harshness of growing up.
her hand. Then she walked along the dam,
until she became a small dot and eventually At the end of that July, I received my ac-
vanished at the end of that dusty road. That ceptance letter from the best middle school
was the last time I saw my mother. in my town. Nobody to celebrate it. Unsur-
prisingly but sadly, my childhood was gone.
She left us—She left her family, left her I never go back to the village anymore.
children, left her husband. She divorced
with my father the next day. Months later, I forced myself to grow up, quickly and
I overheard the talk between my relatives stubbornly—After that Summer, before that
Autumn.

About the Author

Yuting “Lotus” Zhang, born in Henan, China in 1983,
received her college education in Beijing then worked in
Shanghai in the foreign trade business for twelve years.
In 2017 she came to New York city with her American
boyfriend who now is her husband. She currently resides
in Brooklyn. Self-taught oil painter, poet and prose writer,
designer, she has a great passion for everything that pokes,
prods, and stimulates the imagination. She worked for 15

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years in the international trade business in both Shanghai and New York, taking responsibility
for the successful development and delivery of millions of dollars of apparel and accessories.
While in China, she also traveled extensively around the country, which experience she
chronicled in a Chinese blog. During the Pandemic, while sequestered at home, she decided
to start a blog in English; that led to the idea of writing stories, later novels, in her second
language. She found that she had tremendous, almost obsessive passion for her stories and
her characters; they were very real to her. For passion’s sake, she gave up conventional
employment to devote herself to her creative impulse full time. She writes her own work
as well as translates great poems from the original Chinese. To date she has written about
seventy short stories and completed two novels. All her short stories are enhanced with an
original sketch or oil painting. Most notably, she has done all this in a second language.

112

LUZIA’S DOWRY

by Jozef Leyden

The plane bringing me from Copenhagen Giving up hope for the tranquility of
to Lisbon was half-empty. So was the ‘Arriv- sleep, I got up in the middle of the night.
als’ at the Lisbon-International on that late Wide-awake, frantically I hurried through
warm October evening when I came across the brightly lit downtown Lisbon boulevards
her ̶ my inamorata-siren ̶ for the first time. and narrow alleys of the old quarter. Intox-
icated by the memory of her image, I des-
With no checked baggage, just a back- perately wished to miraculously cross paths
pack, I smoothly sailed through ‘Immigra- with the mysterious airport-beauty again.
tion and Customs,’ briskly pacing toward the For a second, I thought I caught a glimpse
‘Exit,’ bypassing people in the hall, anxiously of her, entering a seedy bar with a flickering
waiting to welcome landed travelers, those pink neon sign ‘Vila de Rosas’ above its en-
who expected to be expected. I avoided any trance. Delusion of an insomniac.
eye contact; no one would be there for me.
All of sudden, about ten feet ahead, a young Exhausted, I returned to my hotel; had a
female waved her hand. To me! In sheer few hours of sleep that gave no rest.
surprise I looked closer ̶ a breathtakingly
beautiful woman, standing still, an inviting Early in the morning, I took a bracing
smile on her fine face. A serene Iberian walk to the National Institute of Oceanog-
Aphrodite, impenetrable dark eyes, a tiny raphy to join the introductory meeting of a
pink rose, more like a rosebud, in her thick team of scientists participating in a tropical
black hair, crimson cape loosely draped over Atlantic plankton migration study. A great
her slender shoulders. A mirage ̶ invoking international expedition was kicking off in
a sensation of indefinite longing. Like an a few days. With me onboard, representing
intriguing portrait in an art museum which, the Danish Marine Science Institute.
once seen, is remembered forever.
The cruise was advertised as a ‘signifi-
I looked around me; there was no one cant international venture encompassing
else near to be hailed. Hesitantly, I raised transdisciplinary coordinated research, in
my hand in greeting... toward an empty pursuit of deep planktonic layers in the
space in front of me. She was gone. oligotrophic waters of the Sargasso Sea.’
There, about one hundred meters under
Sobered up from the momentary en- the surface, the answer to the mysteries of
chantment, I returned to reality, took a taxi oceanic bio-chemical processes was to be
to my hotel downtown; settled for the night. found, the key to improved global climate

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change modelling. Or so it was believed and And there, out of the corner of my eye,
emphasized in the funding proposal of the she stood! My airport-siren.
initiators of the venture.
The magic of her allure had not waned
A modern, well-equipped Portuguese since yesterday. A touch of melancholy in
Navy hydrography vessel ‘Vasco da Gama,’ her face; she chose to stand alone, solitary,
and a crew of experienced seamen were apart from the chatting mob. White blouse,
chartered for the sail. Experts in marine black jeans, rosebud in her hair ̶ now dark
sciences from all over the world had been red, the color of the Port in our glasses.
invited to join the explorations.
She was beyond pretty, and she was aware
The morning meeting was a stormy af- of it.
fair; disturbing news was announced by the
expedition leader. Our departure would Yet, I would dare to intrude on her solitude.
be delayed for at least a few days due to a
strike in the harbor area. The gathered re- No time to lose ̶ she might vanish just
searchers were not happy, loudly expressing like she did at the airport. Swiftly, I moved
their discontent. Not me. More time for my through the socializing crowd to get closer
absurd quest for the airport-nymph in the to her, close enough to read her nametag ̶
neighborhoods of Lisbon. Luzia DaCruz, Ph.D.

Despite the setback, the farewell recep- “I found you, Luzia!”
tion was still held in the aula of the insti-
tute that afternoon. The aula ̶ a large, open “Nice to meet you too, Jacob,” she said,
space decorated with photographs of fa- reading my badge. She did not seem to be
mous naturalists ̶ had a small podium under intimidated by my bluntness. Not even sur-
a portrait of Darwin and a registration desk prised.
at the entrance, where each of us was given
a badge with our name, tittle, and affiliation. “Yesterday ̶ after you greeted and then
abandoned me at the airport ̶ I roamed
Uplifting speeches were given by the in- through the streets of Lisbon by night, des-
stitute’s director and an important someone perately seeking you,” I blurted out, shame-
from the Ministry of Science and Education. lessly.
Greatness of the forthcoming oceano-
graphic endeavor and indispensability of its “Why would you look for me, Dr. Andersen.
anticipated outcomes for global warming You don’t know me. Don’t delude yourself.
studies were emphasized. The crowd of At the airport, I mistook you for someone
seafarers and a few invited guests mildly else. Someone who had pretended to be my
applauded and then moved to the back true lover forever, until yesterday, when he
of the room, where tables with bottles of didn’t show up, and cowardly stayed put
Port and trays loaded with snacks stood in with his wife in Amsterdam.”
celebration of the upcoming launch of the
grand project. People dispersed through With a small, intriguing smile on her face,
the space, eating and drinking, excitedly she looked into my eyes.
talking ̶ many of them bemoaning the delay
and its consequences. “You West-European thirty-something
globetrotters ̶ blond and tall ̶ easy to mis-
identify from a distance. I had left my
contacts at home. If you had waved back,
maybe, I’d have embraced and kissed you.”

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She didn’t seem to be overly mourning glances into hidden corners of our traits.
for being dumped by the coward from Am- Neither of us bothered to hide liking each
sterdam. other’s’ company. An hour, two ̶ who was
counting ̶ passed.
“Are you unhappily married to a compli-
cated wife too? Just asking.” “My father left me when I was twelve. It
was because of my hysterical extravagant
She spoke in a soft alto, hardly opening mother. First, I was sad; now I don’t care,”
her mouth. Luzia confided. Too zealously to be true.

“I deeply regret that I missed my chance, “When my parents’ divorce became final,
Luzia. I was fascinated merely by looking at I stopped brushing my teeth and began
you. Can I make it up, somehow?” compulsively crunching tons of hard can-
dies and nuts in shells. Within a few years,
“Who can tell, Jacob. But I must leave my teeth were rotting away and needed ex-
now. Hate these busy gatherings of com- tensive restorative dentistry. A great met-
placent scientists. Meet me for coffee to- allurgic job. It is my burden, my sentence,
morrow, here in the cafeteria after lunch. ever since. I can’t laugh loudly, don’t cheer,
If you are interested in paleontology, I can don’t sing, keep my jaws tight. Do pity me,
show you my lab. You have nothing better Jacob.”
to do anyhow, the strike may take weeks.”
She looked around, checking if anybody
Forthwith she left, not looking back. I was watching our tête-à-tête. To my uncon-
felt euphoric and anxious at the same time. cealed amazement, she widely opened her
Would there be a tomorrow? mouth. Aladdin’s treasure trove, gold glit-
tering under the fluorescent lights of the
She kept her promise; the next day after canteen!
lunch we found each other in the brightly lit
cafeteria of the National Institute of Ocean- “Luzia, you know, there is a simple remedy.
ography. You can have your treasury replaced by
white ceramic, so nothing can prevent you
The space was deserted, silent after from laughing again.”
the buzz of the lunch break, except for a
slacker in overalls reading a newspaper in a “No can do, Jacob. My father paid in full
remote corner of the room and a lady in a for this precious dental work. It was his
blue smock who was vigorously closing the goodbye present before he died.
metal covers of the empty food-counters.
“Your dowry,” he told me on his deathbed.”
Time stopped when we settled at a table
beside a large window facing the Tagus, I wasn’t sure if Luzia’ was telling the
small cups of espresso in front of us. truth in her sentimental account or if she
was just pulling my leg, to feed our dialog
After some introductory clichés and pro- with captivating tales.
fessional chitchat, we soon abandoned any
formality in our conversation, gradually slip- “Now, that’s a moving confession, Dr. Da-
ping into a capricious verbal intimacy. ‘Sci- Cruz. However, your father’s gift doesn’t
ence’ quickly evaporated from our dialog. seem to have you brought any luck in ro-
Suggestively, neither of us was shy sharing mance, so far. I don’t see a shiny rock on your
details of our lives, permitting one another ring-finger.”

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“Well, Jacob, true love does not need The white-haired chief-curator, Dom Mi-
any affirmation with precious stones and guel Hurtado, Luzia’s uncle, gave us a private
metals; you must know that. No wedding tour through the museum’s fossil collections.
band is adorning your finger either.” During a moment when Luzia was out of ear-
shot, he informed me that ‘DaCruz’ is a re-
“True. Since we are being so frank with spected, old family name in Portugal.
each other, Luzia, I must admit that I am cur-
rently wading through a separation process. “Luzia comes from a well-established
Nothing too dramatic, no kids involved, just Iberian lineage. Treat her with dignity,” he
being dumped for a wealthy dentist. You advised me when we were leaving.
see, we are both cursed by some teeth-re-
lated misfortunes. Nothing could spoil the glorious rem-
nant of that sunny autumn day. Luzia was in
My ex and I blame ̶ rightly or wrongly ̶ my a jubilant mood and so was I. It felt fantastic,
frequent and lengthy oceanographic cruises exhilarating to be close to her; I took her out
for destroying our marriage. Her new guy is for dinner to a simple fish place in the old
my antipode, short and fleshy, thick brown city. Live Fado music was played that eve-
cowlick. Intellectually, not what you’d call ning. Luzia tipped the lead songstress, clad
an academic type.” in a black silk dress, to sing a sentimental
song about burning love for us. Or so I was
We were overtly enjoying our animated told as we parted for the night.
chat ̶ a prelude to a serious flirt? It was getting
late; the slacker was gone, the lady in the blue She brought me to her apartment only
smock was reopening the counters for the tea- on our last evening together, just before
break. We stood up. I accompanied Luzia to her my departure to the wide ocean. Tenderly,
lab in the marine paleontology department. we seized each other, entangled our secret
realms, fantasized about our forthcoming
“See you tomorrow,” we promised almost life in blissful affection; no vows. Our pasts
in unison. did not exist. Until dawn.

“Same time, same place,” she added and The last embrace ̶ we pledged not to lose
walked away. I followed her with my eyes sight of each other, to keep in touch during
and noticed that this time she quickly, sur- my sea voyage. We would write ̶ old-fash-
reptitiously looked back, checking to see if I ioned email would be best. Internet avail-
was still there, capturing each second of her ability may be limited for voice and video
presence. I was. streaming onboard a ship in the middle of
Atlantic.
It took a full week before the research
vessel was ready to weigh anchor. I didn’t I made it on time to the hotel, packed
mind. Each day, after lunch, Luzia and I con- my rucksack and caught a taxi to the harbor.
sorted at the window table in the institute’s The great international expedition in pur-
cafeteria, talking or silent, absorbed by our suit of the layers of plankton, hidden deep
growing mutual affinity. No wonder that we under the sea surface, was about to begin.
were finding professional reasons to be to-
gether also after work. Our boat set sail in the afternoon; many
of the crew and staff leaning on the gun-
“A visit to the Paleontology Museum is a wales, watching friends, wives and hus-
must for a field-scientist. I’ll take you there,” bands gathered at the pier, all merrily
Luzia professed. No doubt about it.

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waving goodbye. Luzia was nowhere to be “Jacob,
seen; she hated farewells.
I guess, you have found your vein of deep
If all went well, the ship would be back green algae. Consumed by hard labour? Too
in Lisbon at the end of December, making a much to drop a line?
stopover at the Azores on our return journey.
It was my seventh trans-Atlantic research Missing our afternoon confessions. And
cruise. Oddly, during this takeoff, still within more.
sight of the homeport, I was already imag-
ining the homecoming. Luzia. Your Luzia”

The October weather, rough only for Overwhelmed with sudden euphoria, I
the first few days, appeared to be on our read the laconic message several times;
side. Steadily, full steam sailed the ship could not wait to reply.
south-westerly towards the blue desert of
the Sargasso Sea. It felt good to be at sea, “Luzia, my Luzia,
smell the salt of the ocean, to take part in
the daily routines ̶ water sampling, meal Well, you did find me in the wide ocean.
shifts and evening discussions in the mess No, I am not hiding in the swell, forgetting
about everything and nothing. Within a or avoiding you.
week, we reached our destination. Below
the shifting water surface, the riches of the Must admit, I feel overpowered by the
deep plankton layers were easily located. intensity of affection which overcame me
(us?) during those few joyful days in Lisbon.
The first days of each hydrographic en-
deavor are filled with working frantically to So, now I am dealing with an emerging
set up the labs and test the equipment. As addiction. I yearn to listen to your voice
a rule, none of the instruments brought on- and the way you talk, to hear what you
board function as they should. Work was oc- are saying, to watch your expressive face. I
cupying my brain, suppressing my infatuation am addicted to being near you, addicted to
with Luzia. For a while, she was just a sweet opening up to you.
memory.
Not regretting my weakness in the least.
Subsurface oceanic surveys could be a
fascinating experience. During nightly water This may all sound overly dramatic.
column profiling, strong searchlights pene- Cannot help it; it is candid.
trate the sea surface to greater blue-green
depths, revealing clusters of brightly col- Jacob. Your Jacob”
ored jellyfish and solitary stingrays gliding
through water saturated with fluorescent Our emails travelled back-and-forth
algae. Suddenly, I wanted to share this al- across the Atlantic at irregular intervals.
most surreal sensation with the marine pa- Only in our early messages we tried to re-
leontologist left behind in Lisbon. frain from sentences conceding our intimate
feelings, not sure who would be reading
Back in my cabin, coincidentally, an email over our shoulders. At the institute and
popped-up on my laptop screen, a sign of a onboard, our ‘thing’ was no secret; we had
distant promise. no reason to hide it. Innocuous comments
were made by colleagues; Luzia seemed to
be popular at the institute.

We had been crisscrossing the Sargasso
Sea for four weeks. Only sporadically was a

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distant vessel spotted on the horizon or on “Jacob,
the radar screen. So far, the weather had
been favorable, except for a few clouded It’s been a busy week, work and some
days when swell and breeze ruffled the sea personal stuff. As many of the staff are gone,
surface. The work was progressing well ̶ keeping you company during the mid-At-
hundreds of water-quality surveys recorded, lantic adventure, there are only a few of
bottom cores taken, common and rare fish us to do the real work ̶ analyzing a huge
species caught in nets and preserved in big backlog of observations collected during
freezers. The rhythm of vertical migration past surveys.
of plankton in the water-column was being
intensively studied, as intended. That’s not what upsets me. I badly miss
you, feel lonesome. So, when R. ̶ you know
Life onboard had become an agreeable him, the bearded geologist you met a few
routine ̶ breakfasts in the mess, mornings times in my lab ̶ asked me to go out with
and afternoons of concerted underwater him, I agreed. Why not? We had sort of a
measurements and sampling, analyses romance in the past.
in the labs, lunches and dinners in shifts,
evening briefings. Occasionally, modest We had a couple of drinks in a tavern
partying and drinking took place in the downtown, and a few more at my apart-
common room; wild oceanographic adven- ment. It was nice to be with him. As you can
tures were recalled. Multicultural fraterni- imagine, we got nostalgic.”
zation. Of course, there were conflicts too ̶
the exact position of a sampling site and the Startled, I paused reading; my distant
order of activities on deck could be matters siren’s typed confessions were hurting,
of life and death for some self-absorbed sci- hurting awfully. I knew I had no claim what-
entists; instrumentation broke and had to soever on Luzia’s sole affection; she had no
be fixed; rivalry among international teams accountability to me ̶ feverishly, I was rea-
flared up now and then. The longer at sea, soning. Reasoning! Intensely, I wished that
the more heated arguments accompanying nothing, nothing had happened that eve-
the incidents became, eventually requiring ning in Luzia’ apartment.
resolution by the expedition leader in ac-
cord with the captain’s instructions. Hesitantly, I went on reading.

For a week now, there had been no sign “It was a cold evening, outside and in my
of life from my remote flame. I pretended house, so we snuggled under the blankets.
not to care. In vain. Fellow seafarers from It felt good not to be on my own that night.
the institute had noticed my unease. Loneliness is depressing; you can under-
stand, I guess.
“Luzia forgetting you, Jacob? She is a gen-
erous woman. A butterfly. You should have So, tell me dear Jacob, this acute emo-
known, old boy. Half of the institute has had tional emptiness, us not being together, can
her,” the ostensibly-friendly head of the ma- you feel it? Do you have a cure for it? Hard
rine biology group mocked me. “Don’t you work?
worry, the institute is not so big,” she added
sarcastically. Today, I started counting the days sep-
arating us; biting restlessness consumes
Yet, Luzia had not forgotten me. my heart. Still too many lingering days and
nights ahead. Don’t abandon me.

Yours, Luzia”

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Dark misery clouded my soul. The dim high rollers were rocking our ship, impeding
laptop screen reflected my instantaneous our survey schedules. The internet connec-
thoughts as I pounded the keyboard ̶ tivity was unaffected though. Not yet.

“Luzia, butterfly Luzia, you did me, us A message was delivered to my Inbox.
wrong! I won’t meet you; won’t see you
again. We are not meant for each other.” “Jacob, my (?) Jacob,

Words of distress; I deleted them all. No Adverse weather for the expedition was
answers, no absolution would be coming announced today on the institutes’ elec-
from me. Not now, not ever. tronic bulletin-board.

Time flew by; I was working hard in Do you feel wronged? Seasick? Met a
twelve-hour-shifts. Avoiding the nightly as- mermaid? Not many of them in the Sar-
semblies in the mess, I drank Aquavit from gasso Sea. Maybe one of my charming col-
the bottle in my cabin; trying to heal my tor- leagues onboard? Don’t trust their fables.
mented ego, craving to forget. Smoke and mirrors, gossips.

While a redeeming oblivion stayed out of I am not seeing R. anymore; just so you
reach, unwittingly, my attitude was making know. Do come back.
a U-turn. Could it be that a breakup with
my far-away mistress was making me feel Yours (?) Luzia”
more miserable than a stoic acceptance of
her concept of affection? A weak spot of light in the tunnel under
the mountain of misery and heartache. Not
Would humility be a remedy? all is lost; there may be a cure, a hopeful
passage back, back to Luzia. Past be for-
“Luzia, Luzia. In severe pain, I hate to gotten, future be ignored.
admit; I cannot erase you from my mind.
There is nothing to be understood or for- “Luzia, my Luzia,
given. Nothing matters anymore, only being
with you. I want to come back into your Your instincts don’t fail you. For a while
arms. Please keep them open. Our time to I was fiercely rejecting the idea of you and
come ̶ we will figure that out later.” me being together ever again. Pretending
that the noxious potion, you mixed to abate
Lines of desperate pathos. Once again, your loneliness ̶ snake oil ̶ leaves me cool,
I made my feeble reveries disappear from would be a thin lie. Proclaiming I could
the screen. easily forget you, would be a hollow preten-
tion as well. Inevitably, you’d find out.
I saw no point in sending more emails.
What could I say? A lie of forgiveness when Losing each other in bad weather ̶ for me,
there is no guilt? Another lie of tolerance now ̶ the most lamentable option.
which would be just a self-delusion? The
bitter truth of the scorching wretchedness Is your gold dowry still waiting for a suitor?
of the betrayal, when there were no vows,
no promises to be transgressed? I am coming back. Wear a rose in your
hair and wave your hand when you see me
The weather was changing in the Sar- at the port of Lisbon. I’ll wave back. Don’t
gasso Sea; westerly winds were picking up, just disappear as you did the very first time
our eyes met.

Jacob”

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Never minding the drama in my words Our investigations in the Sargasso Sea
anymore, I clicked the ‘Send’ icon. A mo- were almost complete; the conclusion of
ment later, the speakers of the onboard the program was in sight; in a week we
PA system announced upcoming stormy should be sailing full steam to the Azores for
weather. Securing the lab instrumentation a deserved break. All of us were looking for-
and lashing on-deck equipment was ad- ward to feeling solid ground under our feet.
vised. We all knew the drill. Had been there Now, with broken engines, the scheduled
before; not a big deal. grand finale of the cruise became uncertain.

A few of us ascended to the bridge to Because of the motor-failure, the elec-
watch the screen of the weather-radar. A trical power, provided by an auxiliary gen-
thick reddish blotch on the monitor was erator, was available only on the bridge and
approaching our position. Not a hurricane, for emergency lights and freezers. Cabins
just an ordinary storm; nothing to be overly and labs were cut off. The batteries of our
concerned about. Find some buckets for laptops, tablets and smartphones would
seasickness sufferers. soon be depleted. Which happened a
couple of days later.
It was a respectable squall, a true spec-
tacle like they showcase in action & adven- The lack of warm food and disruption of
ture movies ̶ wind of Beaufort 10, foam- our research were not catastrophes, losing
crested towering waves, a wildly rolling the internet was an unforeseen drag.
ship ̶ the whole nine yards. Only hardened
sea-wolves were in for a cup of coffee while Engineers toiled around the clock to
it lasted. get the diesels back and running; calling a
rescue boat in the middle of the ocean was
The storm raged for a full day before a costly matter. After two days of hectic re-
the wind weakened to a Beaufort 8, still a pair attempts, the captain bit the bullet and
strong gale. For those who were up to it, a radioed for help. A tugboat was ordered to
warm lunch was served in the mess. The Save-Our-Souls. The nearest port, Ponta
last one for a week, we learned soon. We Delgada at the Azores, was two days away.
were finishing our generous portions of rich Two more days lingering on our uncontrol-
paella, when the ever-present background lable, rolling and pitching Flying Dutchman.
roar of the engines lessened and finally Not good for the moral of the seafarers. Fa-
completely died. We had to grab and firmly tigue was taking over our minds and bodies.
hold our plates as the rolling of the vessel, The consumption of booze among the
now freely drifting on the choppy ocean oceanographers sharply increased. Rumors
surface, escalated. Thirty minutes waiting, flourished and proliferated.
joking, guessing.
Fatalistic, we idled, played poker, read
The LED of the ship’s PA system turned on. books, and penned gloomy journals and
“Attention, attention, the skipper speaking letters on white sheets of printer-paper.
on the. I have some bad news, guys ̶ our two
diesels stopped cooperating. It may take an Doubts and melancholy ruled. A sheet of
hour or so to fix. Keep calm and carry on,” paper can carry a load of drama.
the captain instructed in an artificially jolly
voice. Annoying news. Dessert was skipped. “Luzia, Luzia,

Our ship is drifting, not getting closer to
Lisbon.

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I feel the distance, I feel the angst of a much of a welcoming party; the ceremony
menacing loss. Will you be waiting at the was planned for our later arrival in Lisbon.
shore when I land?
We could see a small group of people at
Madly, deeply I long for your embrace. I the pier ̶ waiting, anxiously observing the
shall lock you up in my arms. Won’t let you cumbersome landing maneuvers of the
go. paralyzed ‘Vasco.’ Among them, I recog-
nized the director of the institute and some
My holy pledge. high-ranking Navy officer, both apparently
relieved with the happy-ending of our
Jacob” eventful return journey.

I reread my handwritten rash declaration A few meters from the group ̶ there
of love, tore the sheet of paper into small she stood! With a tiny red rose, more like
pieces, climbed the steep iron stairway to a rosebud, in her thick black hair. Waving
the rocking deck and released the scraps her hand.
into the wind on the leeward side. The grey
surf of the raging Atlantic devoured my pa- I was among the first ones off the ship
thetic revelations. when the gangplank was lowered ̶ rushing,
running to my unfaithful siren. Wildly, she
The tugboat arrived on time. Less than locked me in her arms.
three days later, the lame ‘Vasco da Gama’
was anchored half a mile off the port of “Jacó, olá! Meu amor!
Ponta Delgada, ready to be towed into
the harbor, weather permitting. We were I found you, Jacob!
counting the hours; it took almost a full day.
All those nine trying weeks ̶ madly,
The wind eased, the sea was calm, the deeply I have longed for your embrace. I
sun was shining as we approached our won’t let you go.”
designated pier in the old port. The same
scene as at our departure ̶ crew and staff An echo of my own words that had scat-
standing on deck, leaning on the gunwales, tered over the ocean. Her face was beaming
watching the shore. We did not expect as she spoke, not shy to open her mouth,
exposing her perfect white teeth.

About the Author

Jozef Leyden (pseudonym) lives in Ottawa, Ontario. He was born and raised in Bohemia,
lived for a few decades in the Netherlands before he found his third home-ground in
Canada. His writings often reflect on his eventful walk of life. During his career, he switched
between professions of a physicist, sailor-oceanographer, satellite-earth-observation
scientist, executive for institutions that protect our environment, and an independent
environmentalist. Currently, he combines his entrepreneurship with creative writing. His
non-fiction pieces were printed in numerous popular-scientific journals. Recently, his short
stories were published in Canadian literary art magazines and in ‘Just Words,’ an anthology
featuring Canadian writers.

121

THE WAITRESS

by Clark Zlotchew

You know, people really suck. I’ll give you an bastards! I’m ready to stick a fork in their
example: Here I am, just me on duty at the fat faces! Then the eight-year-old drops her
Come‘N Get It Eatery. The place is just filled cherry pie on the floor where it makes one
with all these people wanting to get served big-honkin’ mess, let me tell you. Looks like
right away, can’t wait a minute. You’d think someone got shot full of holes and bled all
they were starving or something. You’d over the freaking floor. And I actually have
think they haven’t eaten in days. Some seen people get shot and bleed, where I live,
of them looking like they could afford to so I know what I’m talking about. Anyhow,
stop eating for a week and it wouldn’t hurt there’s no busboy on duty this afternoon, so
them none. People waving me to their ta- I have to clear away the dirty plates with all
ble, some snapping their fingers at me. I their slop on it, and now I have to clean the
really hate that! Here I am, running myself damn floor next to the fat bastards’ table.
ragged, trying to write down their orders as That takes a little time with brush and pan,
fast as I can, and bring them their food. But then with a mop and a bucket of water. I’d
the cook isn’t fast enough to get the orders like to serve them that water for soup.
ready, so the customers think it’s my fault,
or at least I’m the one they take it out on. So, while I’m cleaning up the mess
They must think the food magically appears the kid made on the floor, sweating away,
all cooked and all. I’m the only one they see, people asking where’s their order and such,
so it’s my fault if it takes longer than the one of the fat bastards has the nerve to
creeps would like. Jerks! Probably won’t tell me to hurry up. Hurry up?! Here I am,
leave a decent tip. working like a goddamn slave, damn it, and
they’re telling me to hurry up?! I feel like
There’s one table where there are four pouring the filthy cherry soup in the bucket
fat adults and two fat kids. The nasty little all over her Royal Immenseness. Okay, now
tykes must be eight and ten years old. The they have their bill and are heading to the
ten-year-old boy keeps sticking his tongue cash register. And what the hell did they
out at me. That really burns my ass, the little leave as a tip? Two bucks!! Oh, and thir-
son of a bitch. Then he gives me the finger, ty-four cents in nickels, dimes and pennies.
the little shit! You’d think his parents, or Can you believe it? Two freaking bucks plus
whoever they are with him, would tell him small change!. Who the hell this side of
not to do that, that it’s rude. Not only don’t 1950 leaves a tip like that for four immense
they not scold him, they actually laugh, the adults and two rotten kids?! Their total bill

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added up to seventy-eight dollars and six- So, I get real pissed off, turn around in a blue
ty-six cents! I mean, ten percent of their funk, cursing under my breath, and head for
bill would be eight bucks, right? And if they the kitchen to place their stupid orders.
cared about how hard I’m working, a decent
group would have made it twice that. Yeah, The cook has it ready real fast, for once.
twenty percent. I feel like throwing it back I pick up the tray and take it out to the
at them and giving the finger to the whole sailor boys. Two of them looked satisfied
bastardly bunch. But I won’t. I need to keep with their dishes, but dark-haired lover boy
this job. looks at his plate, puts on this disgusted
face, gives me the stink eye and says, “Hey,
Okay, now I see these sailor boys in their this ain’t what I ordered.”
white summer uniforms –they don’t like
me calling them sailor suits --sitting around “Whaddayou mean it ain’t what you or-
a table. Two blondies and a good-looking dered? You ordered the turkey sandwich.”
dark-haired one. They’ve been sitting there And he says, “Yeah, the turkey sandwich,
guzzling their beers that I’d brought them, but the cold turkey sandwich with lettuce,
talking and having a grand old time while tomato and mayo. Not the hot open sand-
watching me, the slavey, break her back. I wich with gravy, French fries and mixed veg-
know I should’ve gotten over there to take etables.”
their orders sooner, but it was so busy and
other people were so damn impatient, and Now, I gotta admit I don’t really re-
I had to clean the damn floor, that it took member which one he really ordered, I’m
me extra time. So, I finally crawl over there so damn busy and harassed, but I sure as
–well, of course, I’m not really crawling, but hell don’t want to get charged for the hot
I feel like I’m crawling, in my head, you turkey sandwich, even though I’d be able to
know—and ask for their orders. I write it eat it later. So, I figure maybe I should use
down fast as I can, put on my fake smile and my feminine wiles on him, and that might
tell them they’d have their orders in two make him change his mind. So, I smile –not
shakes of a lamb’s tail. The dark-haired one, sweetly, but like I’m hot for his bod, gazing
a handsome guy, asks me if it’s on the menu. at him with narrowed eyes, running my
tongue along my lips, while at the same
“If what’s on the menu?” I say. time I jut my hip against his shoulder and
leave it there while I’m talking to him..
The wise-ass gives me a crooked smile
and says, “Lamb’s tail.” Okay, so he thinks Now, this maneuver has got me some
he’s a funny guy, but I ain’t in the mood, so I really big tips. Of course, those well-heeled
give him that fake smile I learned how to do big spenders expected some off-duty action
and tell him, “No, it’s not on the menu. We with me. But I don’t do that kind of stuff
only get it once in a while, and some other for tips. Well, hardly ever. But that move
guys already beat you to it. No more left. of mine used to make some of those guys,
Come back tomorrow for breakfast, we’ll mostly bald, paunchy guys maybe having
have plenty then.” a mid-life crisis, trying to recapture their
youth… You know. You could see their pu-
So, they laugh it up and I’m thinking okay, pils get big, like something else they have,
that’s nice, we’re all having a good time. But when they gazed at my face, their faces get
then I think Wait a minute. What if they’re nice and rosy, and I could even hear them
not laughing with me, but laughing at me. pant. Idiots! So, I tell this good-looking

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young buck, using my breathy, bedroom won’t leave me a decent tip, if any. But
voice, “Oh, come on now, honey, why don’t whaddaya know? I see they left a decent
you take the hot one. You’ll be happy you tip, after all, unlike those lard-ass slugs with
did,” and then flash my fake smile. their obese kids. Nothing to write home
about, of course, just a ten percenter. And
But does it work on sailor-boy? Afraid not. that’s after I gave them the evil eye. Gee,
Hate to admit it, but that wise-assed swab maybe I shouldn’t have lifted the top slice
just keeps saying that no, he did not order of bread and spit on the lettuce and tomato.
the hot sandwich. The bastard just keeps in- Oh, well, I don’t have a cold or anything. No
sisting he ordered the cold one, and doesn’t COVID symptoms. Can’t cry over spilt milk.
want the hot one, and sure as hell doesn’t But, why would they give me anything, in
want to pay for the hot one. Then he stops, exchange for the curse I laid on them?
looks at me right in the eye, and says, “Hey, Maybe they believed I could really do a job
lady, who’s the hot one you keep talking on them, and didn’t want to make me an-
about? Is it you?” And then he laughs his ass grier, ‘cause I might make it even worse if
off, and so do his stupid buddies. A-hole! I they stiffed me. But now I’m thinking how
was freaking mortified! The bastardly bas- maybe if I hadn’t given pretty-boy a hard
tard! Now I’m thinking, okay, so my feminine time, just took the hot sandwich back, so
wiles have no effect on him, eh? I figure he’s I could eat it later for supper, and brought
probably queer. Yeah, must be. Which is a him his cold one and was all cheery and all,
shame, ‘cause he’s so damn good lookin’ an‘ they might have left me a twenty percent
all. Anyhow, I warn the conceited dickhead tip. Well, lesson learned.
I’d give him the evil eye, if he insists he wants
the cold sandwich. The guy raises his eye- Oh, crap! There’s a bunch of people just
brow like he’s really pissed off and again tells came in: five adults and ten kids. A couple
me to get him the sandwich he ordered. of the women frowning at me, looking dis-
gusted, because I’m just standing here in-
So, I bring the hot one back to the stead of trotting over there as soon as they
kitchen and the snot-nosed dishwasher kid reach that table. The grey-haired skinny guy
laughs and says old man Tedesco would with the creepy pencil moustache, wearing
take it out of my pay. I feel like shoving the a beret, who looks like he hasn’t eaten
plate down his gullet. Or up his wazoo. No, in three days, hasn’t sat down yet even
I guess the beer bottle would be better for though the others have. No, he stands there,
that operation. Ha! Anyway, the cook gives squints at me, squeezing death rays from
me the cold turkey sandwich and I bring it his eyes at me, and claps his hands. Actually
out to his Royal Bastardship and tell him I’m claps his freakin’ hands at me! Twice! Does
putting the evil eye on him and his buddies, he think I’m a cocker spaniel and I’ll gallop
and it will make him lose his temper more up to him, lick his hand and peer soulfully
and more and he will suffer because of it. I into his eyes? I drag my ass toward him. Not
tell him it will drag him right down to the fast enough, I guess, because he’s putting
bottom of hell, so I hope he likes tropical two fingers in his mouth. I don’t believe
climates. Who knows if it’ll have any effect it: he’s going to whistle at me for service.
on the wise-ass homo, but it felt good to me. You know, one of those loud, shrill whistles
made with two fingers in the mouth. I gotta
I’m glad it feels so good to me, for a control myself, smile a lot, you know. So I
short time, of course, because I know they

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can take their piggish orders and bring them
the eats just like they like them. Plus a little
extra seasoning, my compliments. Now
which cupboard in the kitchen do they keep
that rat poison in? Well, here I go. Yeah, I’m
goin’ in. Wish me luck.

About the Author

Clark Zlotchew is the author of 18 published books, only
four of which consist of his fiction: two espionage/thriller
novels and two collections of his short stories. Newer work
of his has appeared in Crossways Literary Magazine, Baily’s
Beads, Scrutiny Journal, The Fictional Café and many other
literary journals in the U.S., Australia, U.K., Germany, South
Africa, Sweden, India, and Ireland from 2016 through
2021. Zlotchew’s Spanish versions of his stories had been
published in Argentina, Uruguay, Mexico and the state of
Colorado in the 1980s and 1990s.

125

AGAINST TIMIDITY

by Chuck Teixeira

I am grateful to the tenant who left the lav- “I heard that,” Giselle says. “Grossman
ender liquor in the kitchen drawer. Right can tolerate my Catholicism, but he recoils at
away, it feels fabulous, a sensation I might my having been Saint Joan in a previous life.”
never have again, especially if I go to law Giselle is beautiful, and none of her eccentric-
school to escape poverty. Apart from eu- ities can diminish Grossman´s attraction to her.
phoria, nothing remarkable occurs as I walk
onto the porch of my humble rowhouse and “I ignore the other incarnations,”
then onto the drizzle-spattered sidewalk. Grossman says, “but the Maid of Orleans
But in front of Grossman’s ornate building, won´t let me rest.” He turns to Giselle and
near the community garden with the broken implores half in jest, “Please use our separa-
fence and trampled flowers, there is a car tion to sever your connection with her. There
with two officers on patrol. I can’t decide if I must be some way to expiate this karma.”
want to puncture their necks and swill down
their lives or just ask Dr. Cooper to rip the “I’m sure there is, dear,” Giselle says, “but
lips off their faces. I am sure Dr. Cooper will not likely without Joan in the mix.”
say good-bye to Grossman’s fiancé, Giselle.
Grossman´s eyes are a darker brown
“Dr. Manolo, you alright?” Grossman than the beard along a jaw he immodestly
says when he answers the door. He calls claims is just like Jussi Bjoerling’s. But Gross-
me Doctor because we have been working man’s vanity does not extend to his Swedish
toward Ph.D.’s in the English Department idol’s lungs or throat: Grossman is asthmatic
at Homewood University. Staying focused and baritone. In good weather, nonetheless,
on the title was the only way to endure the Grossman claims he can deliver a dozen A’
program. Although I am leaving, Grossman s any evening, solid. At Princeton, he has
continues to call me Doctor. “I want to repeatedly reminisced, he received enthu-
know how things went in D.C. yesterday siastic applause for his Purcell and Britten.
with your friend from the Peace Corps in
Africa,” Grossman says then drops his voice “I fear Joan’s being around less often. We
to a whisper, “Don´t worry if Giselle tells may miss important guidance. Now please
you anything about her past lives, but call give me a moment with Dr. Manolo,” Giselle
immediately if she starts sharing personal waves Grossman away then turns to me.
stuff about this one. I´ll be in the bedroom “Come here.” She beckons me to the chair
on a call with my family.” next to the sofa where she is smoking an
unfiltered cigarette. She wears a gray wool
dress, knit like mail armor from her past

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lives as a warrior. It is the same shade as her “No.” I say. “She may attack the only plea-
eyes. “Tell me truthfully,” she says, “does sure I have – as pure or tainted as it may be.”
my Catholicism impair my charm?”
“Then you´ll have to defend it.” Giselle says.
“You are sleeping with a man you’re not “Summon your courage.”
married to,” I say, “and you believe in rein-
carnation. Either you are deluded in consid- “I have lost all courage in matters con-
ering yourself Catholic or you are practicing cerning Cooper.”
a novel form of it.”
“My point exactly,” Giselle smiles trium-
“In this life only,” Giselle defends herself, phantly, “although tonight you seem dif-
“and I am wary of its novelty.” ferent.”

Giselle savors the friendship of gay men, “I am a little,” I say. “And as the lavender
and Grossman seldom exhibits jealousy. extends its sway, I will become increasingly
I like the candor the three of us have ap- bold.”
proximated or dissembled in the two weeks
since Giselle arrived. “I told you to throw that poison away,”
she scolds then continues, “now back to to-
“Nor does your charm impair your Cathol- morrow´s feast? Guess again.”
icism,” I say.
“Is it a protectress of the Franco-Amer-
Giselle smiles, “At convent school in ican imperialists in Viet Nam?”
Rouen, almost every girl passed through
a reincarnation as Joan, generally during a “No! It is Pentecost, the feast of bondage
lesbian dalliance.” to language and literature. The Holy Spirit
sets fire to the scalp of everyone in the
“Your connection lingered?” upper room and impresses them into
service. Each head burns with a different
“Yes,” she says, “but at increasing cost. Do flame; each flame confers facility in one of
you know what feast we celebrate tomorrow?” the tongues of the world – facility sufficient
to preach a gospel and not do much of value.
“A wild guess,” I hazard, “Saint Joan?” In Paris, we still see them strap-hanging on
the Metro. They paraphrase the same few
“Later this month, but not tomorrow.” paragraphs in an idiom too foreign to con-
nect with their own hearts or ours.”
For me, between Easter and Christmas,
the calendar is a blur. “I don´t know,” I “A first thrust into effortless language
concede then add, “Grossman says Cooper learning,” I say, never having learned
may come over to wish you good-bye.” anything effortlessly. “Unfortunately, very
few upgrade to the premium version of the
“I think Dr. Cooper is going to Annapolis program, so misunderstanding is inevitable.”
before dawn,” Giselle says. “Anyway, I hope
he doesn’t come while you’re here. You sink “With legalese,” Giselle says, “the pre-
into anguished longing around him.” mium versions of the program create the
most misunderstanding.”
“Maybe,” I say “but it´s what´s available to
savor.” Grossman returns, reading glasses
down a little on his nose. “My family is still
“If you wish,” Giselle says, “I can summon disappointed that I didn’t accept Uncle
Joan for guidance. Hers is a perspective
from centuries away.”

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Richard’s invitation to join him at Cambridge. about the incipient struggle for gay rights.
They hope I’ll transfer after the M.A. here.” “Today, I worked a little on the invocation.”

“England is much closer to France,” Giselle “An invocation! Rather daring, no?”
says. “Why are American men reluctant to Grossman says as he backs into the kitchen.
accept help?”
“Or pretentious,” Giselle says, “and probably
Grossman pleads for understanding, “I the manifestation of desperate desire.”
hadn’t met you yet.”
“All three,” I agree then ask if Giselle is
“Had we met, would you have decided excited about returning home.
differently?” Giselle asks then addresses a
more important issue. “How will you decide “Yes, perhaps,” Giselle sighs then says,
now?” “Grossman won’t ask why you are leaving the
Ph.D. program and applying to law school.
Grossman turns to me, “Dr. Manolo, can He is so tactful it’s embarrassing.”
I fix you something to drink?”
“No secret,” I say, “I couldn’t read fast
“Bring us the chilled champagne,” Giselle enough to complete the seminar assignments.”
says then turns to me, “You see how pleased For a second, my chest fills with the self-
he is be rid of me.” revulsion that often accompanies disclosure
of weakness. I will seal the channels by which
Grossman blushes, “What does that mean?” it invades my life. Law school should help.

“O, he does not love me!” “What seminar was that?” Giselle asks.

An arm out, loose and abrupt, Grossman “The Victorian novel.”
falls backward onto the sofa, his mouth
open, tongue lolling. Giselle coughs, tries not to choke. “Bad
choice for a slow reader.”
“No,” she says, “he is not amusing. For
two weeks I have cleaned the flat. Yesterday “The other courses too,” I say, “If I read
I made beef burgundy in the mode of Rouen, fast, I don’t enjoy the literature. And no
a secret convent recipe, after scavenging matter how fast I read, I never complete
for ingredients throughout this distressing the assignments.” One more weakness out
neighborhood. And today, when I ask if I of the closet. The lavender has started to
should wash his socks, he yells, ‘Are you fortify my candor, as well as my cravings for
crazy?!?’” Cooper and my impatience for his arrival.

Grossman covers his face a moment then Grossman sticks his head into the living room,
raises a hand and waves to me, “Would you “Did someone say enjoy literature? That’s not
like some champagne?” for teaching professionals. Enjoyment is how
we market our courses to students so enough
“Yes, please” I say, “to show how happy will enroll to protect our jobs.”
Giselle’s visit has made us.”
“Something beyond enjoyment,” I
“Have you written today?” Grossman asks. counter. “Cooper says that, when he was
in Viet Nam, he survived by reciting poetry.”
I frown how little by suggesting, between
my thumb and index, the smallest wafer of “Imprisoned by Viet Cong?” Giselle asks.
text. Most law school applications require
an essay on the aspirant’s motivation and “That, yes,” I fib, “and later tethered to a
skill. I have been composing a mock-heroic desk in Saigon while his mother was dying

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back in the States.” No harm in puffing up “Not at my farewell,” Giselle pleads.
the beloved’s credentials, especially in a
competitive job market. “The homeless man rolled off the bench,”
I say. “I could almost feel the thud when he
“I didn’t know that,” Grossman says. hit the ground. He lay there, dead, I think.
“The retired lieutenant and you have be- I was too fearful of contagion to approach
come close friends.” him, and nobody else seemed to notice at
all. Not even the pigeons bothered to come
I blush at the mention of the bond I have around and peck at him. After a while, the
created with Cooper, despite mistakes in park police showed up with a stretcher and
raising sensitive subjects with him. Cooper hauled him away.”
quickly flees any praise, so I have learned
to resist comparing myself unfavorably. But “Such terrible indifference,” Grossman
I miss triggering panic in his large chestnut says, “You won´t see that in Paris.”
eyes. “The poetry is why Cooper is here to
get a Ph.D. – to repay his debt of gratitude “No,” Giselle says, “our pigeons are more
to literature and impart its survival skills.” aggressive.”

“He is a beautiful man,” Giselle says, “but Grossman moves to a less morbid sub-
I don’t understand how someone with so ject. “What poems did Dr. Cooper recite in
many muscles can have such a tiny waist.” Viet Nam?”

Tiny waist is an odd point of entry, I think. “I never asked,” I say. “I thought that might
There probably is a thick blue vein running be prying.”
along his stomach. But my interests lie in
nether parts, the richest blood, the most Giselle cannot conceal her frustration.
exquisite agony as it leaves the body. “Another male paralyzed by tact!”

“What happened in D.C yesterday?” I laugh, “I was afraid he might say Coleridge
Grossman says. “Is your friend from the or Tennyson.”
Peace Corps okay?”
“And then,” Giselle smiles, “his choices
“I still don´t know why he couldn´t would have hurled you more deeply into love.”
complete his assignment in Africa,” I lie, “but
he´s a resilient guy, and now he´s safe from “Dr. Manolo, I can handle your being gay,”
the draft.” Grossman says, “but if Dr. Cooper also is gay.

“Then why are you depressed?” The doorbell rings. Cooper, at last.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he says upon entering the
“Something happened while my friend apartment and produces a bottle of Evan
was finishing his exit interview. I was waiting Williams. Another confirmation of our
in a park near the building. It was sunny, shared tastes. Cooper probably can spend
near noon. There were people eating picnic a lot more on liquor.
lunches on the lawn and pigeons gathering
around for crumbs. On the other side of the Grossman holds up the bottle. “Bourbon
park, there was a homeless man stretched after Giselle has gone. Tonight, we’re
out on a bench. It bothered me.” serving champagne – ersatz alas. This late
in the semester my stipend’s run thin.”
“War and academia are hell,” Grossman
says, “but don´t surrender.” Giselle greets Cooper and points him to
the chair a distance from mine. “Dr. Manolo is
about to declaim the invocation he composed

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today.” From the kitchen, Grossman calls Dr. Cooper smiles, “No one could survive
Giselle to help with the glasses. “Excuse me,” frequent bouts of the kind of leisure you’ll
she says. Hands up, fingers resting at her likely need.”
shoulders, she sashays from the room.
I recall the bus ride to the army depot
Cooper remains seated but leans forward that morning, past a cemetery hill, one of
and says, “May I ask how things went at the oldest in Baltimore. What once were
the draft board this morning?” Cooper is terraces have blurred into sinking plots of
the last surviving male of a wealthy family land. The white and gray tombstones are
from Mt. Zoar, a community in rural Vir- no longer erect. They lean in all directions
ginia. He has just finished military service and look like monstrous maggots burrowing
that allowed him to avoid combat, perhaps out from the ground where they’ve been
through the network of alumni at Sewanee gnawing at bodies beneath the surface.
or another citadel of the Confederacy. Thoughts of carrion spike the warm feeling
that the lavender has produced.
“No surprises,” I avert my gaze. I have
never desired anyone as much as I do Giselle interrupts with a smile, “Grossman
Cooper. I can almost taste tearing into his wants to know whether you would like
flesh when we leave. I anticipate devouring something to eat.”
with such abandon that one of us will
render the other enslaved or dead. “The Cooper smiles yes. “Okay,” I say. I re-
draft board questionnaire asked whether member a girl across the table in the library
I am sexually attracted to other men; and earlier that evening. She slipped a large
I answered, under penalty of perjury, yes.” yellow gum drop from her purse and held
it a moment between her teeth, like con-
“It’s an unjust law that excludes gay men gealed bile, then chewed her way slowly
from the military,” Dr. Cooper says. toward the exit. Across the room, at his as-
signed carrel, Dr. Cooper, in brown boots and
“But it also spares cowards the risks of tight khaki trousers, stood up and stretched
combat,” I say. every half hour or so, then shifted from side
to side. To display his glutes, I guess, or ward
“I’m indebted to I don’t know what for off cramps in his legs. On the lawn behind
my own survival,” he responds, “and it the library, there was a protest against the
comes with less stigma than yours is likely University’s military research. The assembly
to receive. As a lawyer, you can advocate raised candles for the dead and wailed like
changing such things.” an animal helpless on its back.

“As a lawyer, I hope to do every good The bright clinking of glasses, their stems
thing that won´t interfere with making down through Giselle’s fingers distract
money,” and, unable to control my candor, me from reverie. “Champagne!” comes
add, “I am afraid of remaining as poor as Grossman from the kitchen and places, on
the parents who conceived me this time the table next to Cooper, a bottle stopped in
around.” a saucepan filled with ice. Delighted, Giselle
applauds the sommelier from Tour d ’Argent.
“Teaching literature, I won’t earn a lot,” Tossing his hair loose across his brow, his
Dr. Cooper says. arm out, Grossman beams, “Three stars!

“I can earn enough,” I say, “but my slaving
that many hours won’t leave much leisure.”

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Five forks! and other things that make mad “Dr. Manolo,” Cooper asks, “do you really
the guilty and appall the free.” Then he sug- think that will get you into Harvard?”
gests other things, “Piper Heidsieck? Veuve
Cliquot? No, gentlefolk, my stipend’s run “Not the prose alone, but it’s followed
aground.” Nonetheless, he offers a glass of by an anagogic jingle.” Before I can resume
generic sparkling, “to Giselle’s safe return my recitation, Grossman moves to another
to France and to Dr. Manolo’s invocation.” track. With one hand on Giselle’s knee, the
other at his chin, he mimes drawing from
“Yes, let’s drink first,” I say, valor threatening his chest the lure of “Cara Selve”:
to desert this post.
Come, my beloved,
Grossman kneels in front of the stereo
and his large collection of vinyl. He ushers an Through the Sylvan gloom,
Angel recording from the ranks and shows it
to Giselle. Hair in check at her temple, she I wander day and night;
examines the cardboard jacket then urges
Grossman to release John McCormack, his Oft I call thee,
other opera idol, into the evening. Giselle
herself has freed Grossman from his own Come, my joy and my delight.
restraints by pulling out all stops a few
weeks the previous summer, as only a Gentle zephyrs, fan her,
French girl can, Grossman has boasted. She
had risked finding herself alone in an airport Banish love’s alarms.
terminal; but Grossman was waiting to help
with the luggage. He eases the record down Tell her how I languish here.
the spindle of the turntable, then lowers the
diamond stylus into the wax grooves. While Guide me safely to her arms.
McCormack sings “Il Mio Tesoro,” I drift into
a vision of Cooper’s interior, all sinew and Cooper says he has never heard longing
silk, and peopled with magical, pastoral as elevated as Handel’s and asks to hear the
creatures whose long tresses emerge as aria again. Grossman obliges then narrates
hair along his stomach and chest. an apocryphal encounter between Jussi
Bjoerling and John McCormack. “Bjoer-
When the song ends, I force myself ling asks, ‘How is history’s greatest tenor
to recite. The invocation takes longer to today?’ McCormack answers, ‘When did
lumber through than I had imagined it you become a soprano?’” Grossman laughs
would. Half-way in, all audience interest has at his own irreverence. Soon it is time for
fled. But I continue to the end. Grossman Giselle to finish packing for a morning flight.
displays disapproval with, “Massive and Thoughts about her own lives have softened
concrete! And Saint Joan? Her appraisal?” her disapproval of my love for Cooper. Per-
haps too late for me, her final admonition
“Joan is enthralled by its boulevard is against timidity.
monumentalism,” Giselle says,” but
apprehends it may be too cluttered for any Outside, the earlier drizzle has become a
rational traffic plan.” storm. I begin to waiver, but there may be
no other opportunity to be this close again
“And yours, Dr. Cooper?” Grossman probes. before the end of the term. I ask Cooper
what poetry he recited in Viet Nam.

“Whatever I could retrieve from memory.”
He is eager to get out of the rain but adds,
“Marvell, Herbert, Donne.”

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A man of such refined taste. The thought “Classmates!” Cooper teases, “You mean
propels my cravings beyond any the I’m not the only man you’ve been stalking
lavender alone could have wrought. We here.” Both of us laugh. Cooper pauses at
reach the community garden and are about the garden gate. I touch his shoulder. He
to separate for shelter. doesn’t wince or resist. I examine then ca-
ress his bull neck.
“One more thing,” I blurt, “I’ve fallen in
love with you.” When my mind and the night sky clear, I
can retrieve nothing of the pleasure or pain
“Don’t worry,” Cooper says, “Your secret’s for which I had hoped, but our clothes are
safe with me.” spattered with dirt and blood. “I’m high
maintenance,” Cooper says.
“It’s not the crush that’s secret,” I say. “It’s
the underlying appetite. At first, I just wanted “I can earn enough,” I say, but the idea of
to become friends because most of the other working that hard has become as insipid as
students were married. Then this longing too much to read or the ability to feign.
arose and messed things up between us.”
“Not with money,” Cooper says. Although
“From the start you fixed on me,” Cooper he has to rush away, he asks about seeing
says, “then damaged our chances by con- me again, after the wounds have healed
cealing what you craved.” completely or, at least, enough to arouse.
This early he avoids risking boredom. None
“It’s too late now, I guess.” of my friends would understand this disap-
pointment, except perhaps the one gone
“In a few hours, our veterans’ group mad in the Peace Corps in Africa. I head
leaves for Annapolis.” Cooper offers to back to my rowhouse, the wretched law
shake hands and says, “You’re wise to give school application and the other aids or
up literature. But don’t ruin your law school snares prior tenants may have left.
application. And if you’re serious about
money, no quirks at interviews.”

“Law school should require less reading,”
I say, “and pose fewer risks of infatuation
with competitive classmates.”

About the Author

Chuck Teixeira grew up amid the anthracite collieries
of northeastern Pennsylvania. Early on, he earned four
university degrees, including an M.A. from the Writing
Seminars at Johns Hopkins and a J.D. from Harvard Law
School. For many years, Chuck worked as a tax attorney
in San Francisco, California. Now he teaches English in
Bogota, Colombia. Chuck’s stories have appeared in Esquire,
Permafrost, Portland Review, Two Thirds North and Jonathan.
Collections of his work are available at Amazon.com.

132

GALAH OR GREY

by Bashir Cassimally

He is a parrot, our neighbour’s bird. But of sunflower seeds, chips and corn-based
don’t ever call him one. He becomes touchy crunchy snacks, all food delicacies to him.
and will reply emphatically from inside his He would call the cat by her name to taunt
cage that he is an African Grey. I took note her, meow back exactly as she did, would
of it and so in the next visit I remembered even cry out loud the word lettuce as soon
not to call him a parrot. Instead I greeted as he saw Tico, the lettuce-loving turtle. In
him jovially with a hello to you, Galah. I all, quite a fun character he is, the African
tend to confuse the African Grey with the Grey though his level of understanding was
Australian Galah, both of the parrot family. starting to unsettle me.
The mistake was costly and the retort, de-
livered in a pompous tone, was immediate. He was now slowly tilting his head down
in an oblique direction while scrutinising
“I’m an African Grey, not a Galah, you me all the same, his eyes rolling upward to
twit.” keep me in his line of vision. Like he wanted
to gauge my emotion after his retort. So I
I was astounded, not to say confounded. laughed tensely to release the uneasiness
The Galah is a pink and grey cockatoo bird that had taken hold of me. Immediately
widespread in Australia but it also means he started bobbing his head to show joy
idiot in Australian slang. So it makes perfect but more likely to scoff at my nervous
sense to use the word ‘twit’ as a response laughter. My ego took a knock. I lost it and
to ‘idiot’. All fair and square. But how could while leaving, could not help letting out in
he could possibly understand concepts like a sarcastic tone, “A naughty boy stays be-
being an idiot or not, let alone a galah, a hind bars.” Disarmingly, he greeted me out,
slang word not even listed in most diction- wishing peace be upon me.
aries. Admittedly, he did grasp the meaning

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About the Author

Bashir Cassimally lives on the Island of Mauritius where he loves to do gardening, go hiking
and snorkel. He writes for local magazines and has been published in Brittle Paper, The Island
Review, in a poetry anthology, Love and in an anthology of COVID stories published by the
Arts Ministry. He is lucky, now that he’s a retired engineer, to be able to devote more time
to writing.

134

THE WELL OF THE
ENLIGHTENED

by João Santana Franco

The four men were sitting at the table of steppes of Asia. He did not care about pol-
the decadent Uighur tavern, eaten by time itics, was not a supporter of Hitler by any
and dust, full of cobwebs in the ceiling, means. In fact, he was a materialistic man,
drinking museles, the Uighur wine, to clean not willing to die for nothing, a meager pay,
the dust of the steppe from their throats, he wanted to receive a good compensation
accompanied by kawaplar, meat roasted on for his talent and now he got it, flying a
skewers. The four were European, ex-ser- Douglas B-18 for Sheng Shicai, the mighty
vicemen that were now earning a living as ruler of the province, carrying men and war
mercenaries in Xinjiang, one of the poor- material when necessary.
est and most desolate Chinese provinces.
Knowing the more advanced tactics of the Marcus Allen was another German of the
armies in which they served, they received group. He was a friend of Christian and had
high pay, that was often dissipated at the deserted with him. His head was consider-
local taverns. Their payment was received ably thicker than Christian’s, but he was a
in banknotes, American dollars, although faithful comrade, specially to his friend and
they would prefer to be paid in gold, British was capable of smash some bones using his
sovereigns would do just fine. They were muscles without hesitation, and he did so in
far from everything and did not have many the brawls that arose from time to time in
chances to spend their money other than the taverns frequented by the mercenaries.
drinking, but life in Urumqi, the capital, was He was not though, the archetype of a thug
far safer than in Europe, where the Second and had some manners and ideas, from
World War raged at full blown, although time to time.
sometimes depressing for men used to live
in Berlin, London or Athens. The third man, Nico Theodoropoulos,
was a Greek in exile, he escaped the Italian
Christian Lindner, the taller and stronger, invasion of his country, and his need for ad-
fair hair, had deserted from the Luftwaffe, venture pushed him towards Asia. He was
that was attacking the USSR, flying away a good comrade, but very superstitious, his
with his Junker Ju 290, to the desertic life, in battle or in peace was filled with rites

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and prayers. His dark hair and tanned skin and to leave elsewhere. But wherever he
made him popular among women but in looked he saw war. To the East, China was
Xinjiang he was much more taciturn and fighting the Japanese Army, to the West and
careful, he would not like to attract a razor North the USSR faced a bloody war against
in the guts from a jealous husband, in a for- the German troops and to the South, India
eign land. was also at war, involved in the British effort
against the Japanese Empire. He was better
Peter North, the last and older element, off in Xinjiang for the time being, far and
was in Xinjiang for several years. He had a away from the most troublesome regions
turbulent youth, with some problems with of the world, although with a feeling of un-
the authorities, visiting some correction fa- explainable solitude.
cilities, and thus left England to try his luck
in India, the jewel of the British Empire. His Free time was spent by the four merce-
temper and his expertise in fist fighting put naries drinking, playing cards, and pursuing
him in trouble once again and he had to flee the harlots that they could find in filthy and
India, seeking refuge up North, crossing to dark taverns and basements. There were al-
China, and offering his services to the best ways many beggars and drifters roaming the
bid. streets of the city, some of them refugees
fleeing from battles, hoping to get enough
Looting and pillage were always on the money to eat a bowl of rice or noodles. The
minds of the four men, they were mer- authorities were harsh on them. Since the
cenaries that were in that region for the beggars were always covered in fleas and
money, nothing more, but besides what their hairs swarmed with lice, besides the
they received from the warlord there was police, merchants and shop owners were
not in fact much more to seize. The people, also displeased to see them nearby, they
be it peasants, shepherds or shop owners were bad for business.
were poor, there was not much money or
values around. Near the inn in which the four merce-
naries resided when they were in the city,
By that time Xinjiang was in fact almost a there was usually a poor old man asking
puppet state of the USSR that exploited the alms. It was unclear his age that was unusu-
resources of the land. Russian and Mongol ally advanced, and for most of the time he
mercenaries also helped the governor to was Olympically ignored, when not kicked
fight against the central government of the by the passers-by including many of the
Republic of China, that sent several times mercenaries and troops loyal to the au-
against the province strong armies of Han thorities of the city. Peter North regularly
and Hui Chinese. felt sorry for the elderly man and gave him
some coins. This time the man seemed so
Peter was the one that had been there weak and despaired, so close to collapse,
longer, serving as a mercenary in the civil that Peter ordered the servants of the inn to
wars involving the Xinjiang during the 1930s, carry him inside, to give the beggar a strong
fighting in both Battles of Urumqi. The luck drink and try to cheer him up.
of the province was that it was far away from
everything, so logistics was exceedingly dif- The man’s voice was barely a whisper:
ficult for the central government. Peter had
had so many plans, to save some money — I was there for hours, lying, thinking
of what would be of me on the street. In

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the name of Allah, the Most Beneficent, the of death. Peter closed the eyes of the dead
Most Merciful, you appeared! I know that and was willing to pay for the man’s funeral.
you have a good heart, the money you gave In this silence, Christian’s voice trespassed
me in the past allowed me to eat something the air like a sword or a whip, making Peter
and keep on living, despite everything, de- tremble with the surprise.
spite everything... You see, I have no family,
and for a man like me, that means poverty, —What was this old geezer mumbling
hunger, and a lonely death. I see that you about treasures? And he gave you some-
are young and strong, so I am going to tell thing, what was it? A map? I think the four
you something. of us will make a long and fruitful journey
through the countryside, my dear.
The old Uighur looked around to see if
someone else was present at the room and Damn, if it were any other of the three
sighed at the confirmation of solitude. His comrades of arms, he could pull off some-
eyes were bright with the excitement of thing to bypass the situation, but Christian
something undisclosed. was smart as a fox and dangerous as a rat-
tlesnake. He could not cheat him with small
—When I was your age, I traveled across talk. Christian proceeded:
most of this territory, trading, smuggling,
even robbing some cattle. From the frigid —Anyway, I am already getting sick
deserts to the snowy mountains, I have seen and tired of this little tyrant to whom we
many things. In the mountains to the South- work. Soon the war in Europe will be over,
west, across the big desert, in the Kunlun and I want to return to Germany, but rich.
Mountains there is a temple, ancient as I reckon that some gold and diamonds can
the world, where you can find many riches! open a few doors and help clean my past,
There are diamonds, pearls, and gold! But while making me a prominent member of
beware of the traps that guard the temple! the society of the new Germany.
Act fast and do not be long! I was the sole
survivor of my group and so scared that I The Englishman was thoughtful, ca-
never went there again and returned empty ressing his pistol in the holster. He could
handed. kill Christian at the spot, but he would be
in trouble with the Chinese authorities, and
The old man took an ancient parchment he would need help for sure, to reach the
from the interior of his filthy shirt, the vellum mountains, facing eventual dangers along
yellowish by time. Peter’s eyes shone at the the way. It would be the four of them. The
sight of the map, his mind in a turmoil. If what natives were talkative and would spread
the dying man said was true, he could forget the word about the expedition, and if so,
that lame life and live with comfort in a cap- soon hordes of curious, adventurers and
ital city or perhaps in a large ranch, enjoying soldiers of fortune like them would swarm
life and leisure. His thoughts ceased wan- the mountains and outrun their group, they
dering and he stared again at the old tramp. had to go alone.
The eyes of the beggar were open staring
blankly at the ceiling, and he would not see The best way to cross the Taklamakan
another sunrise. Curiously, his face was se- desert would be travelling from oasis to
rene, even with a touch of joy. The old Uighur oasis, on the backs of camels. It would be
had been embraced by the comforting veil wiser to take a longer path to avoid crossing
the center of the desert, totally inhospitable.

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This journey had to be planned with care, let them drink, while themselves took some
since a mistake could be fatal. The use of rest. They moved towards Turpan, after-
vehicles was put aside since a breakdown wards they passed at the Bezeklik Caves and
in the middle of the desert could most its oasis and then in the direction of Dun-
probably mean death for the four of them. huang, taking the precaution of avoiding en-
Camels could survive with little food and tering the cities. In the outskirts they could
water, storing them in their humps and their find water and supplies. Passing through
flair for water was also not to be neglected. these poor and decrepit settlements where
half-naked dirty children played with skinny
Peter was intimately worried. It would and lazy dogs in the middle of the dusty
be a dangerous journey. He could not fully paths, Peter could not help thinking that it
trust his companions since riches were was imperious that the four of them find the
involved in the equation. Any of the four riches. The poor Uighurs would not know
surely would feel the temptation of getting what to do with them. Buy more goats or
rid of their pals and pouch what riches they sheep? Build a bigger hut? The four Euro-
could find in the mountains, heading next pean knew other types of life, they could
for the civilization, to live like a king! not be satisfied by a simple one. For the Ui-
ghurs happiness was a fuller bowl of rice, or
The Englishman had not much to pack. another lamb chop in a holiday. They lived
A nice sum in dollars, his faithful dou- in their huts and shacks, in a primitive way,
ble-barreled shotgun for hunting, the ubiq- drinking, eating, mating, and sleeping and
uitous Mosin-Nagant rifle that he used in starting over the next morning. This routine
combat, the Browning Hi-Power in his hip was their happiness and they accepted it as
holster and not many things more. The four if life was only those basic physical needs.
did not want to raise suspicions by taking
with them all their belongings. Half a dozen The Taklamakan was ferocious. Sand
camels were rented in the city outskirts and and more sand composed tall dunes, that
the group travelled South through the Tak- changed periodically with the wind, making
lamakan desert, towards the Kunlun Moun- orientation worryingly difficult. Regular
tains, with the excuse of a hunting trip. sandstorms were also dangerous. Vegeta-
tion was very sparse, and the wild beasts
Christian, regardless of his moral flaws, did not venture through the center of the
was an excellent organizer and knew how desert. Even at the borderlands, vegetation
to lead men. They had acquired compasses, was scarce, twisted, and thorny, appreci-
maps, food, water, and ammunition. The ated by the herds of goats belonging to the
supplies would be carried on the back of nomads that roamed those lands, and by
two of the camels, and the men would ride wild camels or the occasional herd of ga-
the other four. Due to the possibility of ma- zelles. Peter had shot one gazelle himself,
rauders and bandits in general, Christian using his rifle. From that animal nothing
had discussed with the group strict rules of would go to waste. Necrophagous birds and
behavior. No smoking or bonfires were al- foxes would clean its carcass quickly, letting
lowed after sunset, and three of the bunch its bones shine under the desert sun, until
were to sleep while the other one watched the sand covered them up. The bulk of the
out. They would try to follow ancient routes clean meat was taken by the men, which
across the desert, stopping in chosen set- used the occasion to stop in a nearby oasis
tlements and oasis to feed the camels and

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and take one full day of rest, cooking the say that the only thing that I am willing to
gazelle meat over the campfire. give them is lead, not gold!

The pond at the center of this oasis at- It was certain that they would be at-
tracted birds and mammals. During the tacked, and the group would need to find
hours that ended the day, herds of herbi- some rocks or shrubs where it could hold
vores sought that source of life. At night, and give the robbers a run for their money.
the four were well wrapped in warm blan- They behaved as nothing abnormal was
kets, shaking a bit due to the night’s cold, happening and sought refuge for the night
under a sky so clear that millions of stars near some large rocks.
were visible to them, a spectacle that only
the desert could provide. Peter did not The nocturnal battle was swift but in-
sleep very well during the journey. In his tense. The attackers thought they would
mind he was struggling with the idea of catch them by surprise, but they could
killing Christian before he killed him. One not be more wrong. Peter remembered
night he went to wake up Christian for shooting several times his shotgun, useful
his watch, and for some seconds his hand for close range combat. Marcus used the
sought the pistol in its holster. He could kill machine-gun that was hidden in a canvas
the German on the spot, but how could he bag on the back of one of the camels, and
justify it before the others? Was he a sol- the other two also shoot their rifles and
dier or a murderer? Peter gave up the idea, even their pistols. Christian had two hand
after this moral struggle with himself, but grenades stuck in his belt and was willing
was worried about the outcome of the ex- to use them if everything else failed and
pedition. He had to sleep with one eye open, the robbers got too close, even at the risk
never totally relaxing his vigilance. of a spray of shrapnel flying all around. The
air was filled with the bitter stench of gun-
The next day the four proceeded, de- powder and flashes of light from the gun
parting from the oasis. Christian was always flares. Eventually the night went silently,
sniffing the wind, looking around, even over lighted only by the mesmerizing glow of in-
his shoulder. Or using his binoculars to gaze numerable distant stars, shining from afar.
at the far horizon. He had the ways of a
predator, acting like a tiger that was step- They did not sleep that night, staying
ping into another tiger’s turf. Crossing the alert and well awaken, but at dawn they
sky, flocks of ravens passed by, filling the si- could see the damage that they inflicted to
lence with their caw, and making Nico look the assaulting gang. Animals and men were
at them like a sign of bad omen. Around scattered on the desert sand and if there
noon when they were to stop and eat, using were survivors they had run for their lives,
some sticks and blankets to provide an im- the posse should give them no more prob-
provised shelter and some shade, Christian lems, that was the main point. In the sky
approached Peter. flocks of dark vultures gathered up, flying in
circles, waiting for the men to depart before
—We are being followed, at least two feasting with the remains of the dead.
men. I am sure they want to relieve us of our
possessions. Their posse is not far, for sure. The voyage went on. The heat and the
Our camels, our guns, plus our wallets are a hot wind made them sweat all the time,
treasure to these poor bastards. But I must they felt dirty and tired, their faces un-
shaven and burnt by the merciless sun. In

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Christian’s mind similar ideas to the ones of Christian was the first to spot the en-
Peter were born. The Englishman remem- trance of the temple, that was carved on
bered of having woke up one night and the dark rock, maybe making use of an
Christian was just some feet away, staring existent cave in that place. The four men
at him under the pale light of the Moon, as dismounted the camels and stood side by
driven by an almost irresistible force. The side facing and examining the façade of
tension was visible in his hands and face, the temple. Two horrendous stone statues
his muscles contracted. He seemed like a stood by the door, one at each side, each
beast, ready to jump on his prey. Peter did statue represented a human, with a ter-
not sleep the rest of that night. rifying expression of pain and terror. The
door, of smooth stone was closed, fitting
After a few more days of riding the the walls in a perfect manner.
camels, finally they entered the foothills
of the mountains following the maps and —There is a silence of cemetery– com-
the parchment of the aged Uighur man. plained Nico. And he stared at the statues.
The Bactrian camels were tough animals, —Even if we have hired someone, I am pretty
enduring the heat and the cold, drinking sure that they would never come in here!
water, or eating snow, and chewing all
kinds of plants, bitter, salty, harsh, or even —Damn, the door is closed and pretty
thorny. The mountains replaced the sand tight– voiced Christian. —I should have
by stones and rocks, but the landscape was brought dynamite! With the pickaxes we can
still desolated. Here and there, ponds and be here all day without almost scratching
lagoons served as the main source of water the surface!
for gazelles, yaks, antelopes, and the other
elusive wildlife of the region. Sometimes, —Maybe there is some secret to open it
small herds of goats or sheep were brought –said Marcus.
by shepherds desperate to find some fresh
pastures, even if they had to face the lonely —Hmm, maybe…
desolation of that place. It was like a land-
scape from a distant and barren planet, in Soon the four men were touching and
a galaxy far away from Earth, so quiet and probing the door and the wall. They spent
bare that gave men a feeling of oppression. almost ten minutes in this task, scratching
their skin and breaking some fingernails.
The temple was invisible from afar, it was Suddenly the door opened, sliding noisily
in a narrow canyon, whose entrance was al- into the wall that was at the right side, with
most totally closed with small bushes. After a sound of stone scratching stone. The inte-
the entrance of the rocky canyon, its width rior of the building was in the twilight. They
was larger. Camels and men ventured for- had brought torches with them, but Peter
ward, into the unknown. Advancing through gave the idea of waiting at least one hour
the canyon, the air was still and quiet, not before entering the temple, since the air
even a bothering fly could be heard. Be- inside was barely breathable, moisty, and
sides the sounds that the beasts produced low on oxygen. They ate and drink in the
walking, and the heavy breathing of men, meanwhile, talking excitedly about what
the silence was complete. At the furthest they had found and their plans, if the riches
wall… it was written in the map. were there. Just Nico seemed a little mo-
rose. Before they entered, he was nervously
playing with the crucifix he carried in a silver

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string around his neck. Being Greek he was to surround the room, at least for the most
viewed by the others as a little superstitious part, was not empty. It had in the bottom
and having his own rituals, but this time it hundreds of corpses, human skeletons of
was different. The other three were in the all sizes, from the ones of small babies to
mood, Nico was scared. the ones of adults. Could the temple have
been the center of an obscure and violent
—There is something in there–he started. death cult?
Christian interrupted him.
Nico stepped forward, decided to show
—Nico stop with your bullshit and forget his friends that he was not afraid, but in-
all the mumbo-jumbo they have put in your side he was not calm at all. He was about
mind when you were a child. I reckon you halfway through the strip of land, when the
heard too many fairy tales during your pavement opened, creating a slide that led
childhood. to a hole filled with sharped piles. Peter and
Christian could only be spectators of the hor-
The other two laughed, Nico was kind rifying scene, whilst Nico, terrorized, landed
of clumsy and upset, the short hairs on the on top of the piles that pierced through his
back of his neck standing up. body, giving him an instantaneous death.
Both men peeked appalled into the trap.
—I have a bad omen, that’s it. Nico was a corpse now; he had hit three of
the piles and dark red blood ran copiously
—Cut the crap and get inside! –ordered from his mouth. His open eyes had an ex-
him Christian impatiently. pression of utter horror and surprise.

Uneasy, Nico had no other option but With a loud mechanism sound, Peter
to enter the temple with a torch in his left and Christian watched as the pavement re-
hand and his pistol in the right. Peter and sumed its previous condition, making the
Christian also entered, Christian holding his trap operational again. They crossed the
Luger and a torch, and Peter just wielded strip of land walking on the edges, having
his faithful side-by-side shotgun. Marcus in mind that other traps could await them.
would stay at the door, watching over the They had been careless, eager to find the
camels and for any possible undesired sur- treasures of the temple, the old Uighur had
prise. Christian did not like to take unnec- warned about the dangers. Reaching the
essary risks; he was grinning feeling himself center of this cave, they saw an exit on the
in charge of the operation. The floor of the opposite side, the path continued into the
temple was paved, maybe in the past it had heart of the Kunlun Mountains. But in the
much movement, but know seemed really center of the room, happiness of happiness,
nothing more than abandoned and with there was an altar or something like that
signs of decrepitude. From this entrance and close to it, riches were piled! Shiny and
hall, a corridor entered the mountain. The brilliant scattered offerings!
three men started walking, their jacked
boots echoing in the stone floor. The cor- Peter and Christian rushed in and
ridor made a turn, and they could see that it plunged their hands in this cornucopia of
led to a grand room. The center of the room wealth. Both had brought some saddlebags
was like a small island, connected with the to fill, and they were not enough. Their
corridor they were following by a short and hands where trembling with the nerves, but
narrow bridge of land. The pit that seemed

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their eyes were happy and smiling like the the narrow strip of land that connected the
ones of children. The two men even hugged bulk of the room with the corridor, but the
each other. Peter was more and more con- figure walked through the edge, avoiding
vinced that Christian would not kill anyone the trap. Christian thought to recognize the
after all. There were so many riches in the figure of Marcus and shouted his name:
room that someone had to be really greedy
to not be happy with his share. Peter and —Marcus!
Christian started to fill the bags with hand-
fuls of gold coins, mixed with other values as A shot echoed in the cave like a thunder
pearls, jewels and precious stones. The air and a bullet ricocheted against the altar
was heavy and somewhat hot, they cleaned near them.
the sweat that dripped down their faces
with their sleeves. Peter felt his eyes burn —Shit, he is shooting at us! –whispered
from sweat, had to pour some water from Peter nervously.
his canteen on them. From time-to-time
Christian stopped and listened. He almost —So, it seems. Let us hide in this niche
smelled the air, to see if everything were behind the altar. I want to confirm if it is
fine, if he somehow feared that someone really him.
would surprise them and steal the loot from
them. He was trying to pick the precious There was something funny about
stones and pearls from among the coins, Marcus if it was really him. His steps
when Peter grabbed his arm, and made him seemed uncertain and mechanic at the
a signal to remain silent. same time, not human, they had something
of forced and unnatural. When he passed
From the entrance a sound was ap- by, both men could see that his face was
proaching, a rhythmed sound of footsteps rigid and tense like the one of a cadaver and
echoing in the flooring. his eyes were empty and devoid of life, like
they were staring not at the world but at
—What did you tell Marcus? –whispered the soul of Marcus. Peter could not help but
Peter. to feel a colic. Maybe poor Nico was right,
maybe something eerie lurked inside the
—I told him to stay put at the entrance, temple after all. Marcus had passed and
and to fire a round if anything strange hap- Christian left the niche behind the altar. He
pened! And you know he is not the cleverest was at Marcus’ back and again called his
man, but for sure he has proved that he is name. Marcus, without a minimal change
loyal and obedient. in his expression went for his pistol in the
holster and only Peter’s intervention saved
—Maybe someone surprised him? And the German’s life. Marcus was pointing
now they are going to take care of us! his pistol and would shoot in a fraction of
second, but Peter shot a discharge of lead
—Shut up! I’ll throw the torch there, if we against his head pointblank and he felt to
hide in the dark, we will have more chances. the floor, in horrible spasms, like an animal
mortally hit by a car.
He did it, the torch kept burning in the
floor to their left, and the big room had also Marcus death shook both survivors. His
some residual light from quartz and other death was slow and weird. Not human, not
stones that shined in the ceiling and walls human at all. He did not scream as someone
of the cave. The steps were almost reaching else would have done, nor moaned, his

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breaths just got shorter and more desperate, Peter had to fire at him, hitting Christian in
like a clock that his winding down until it stops. the chest at close range. The German felt
Even the cold Christian passed his hand on his to the floor without uttering a sound. Peter
hair in a nervous gesture. None of them was was so nervous that he could barely reload
capable of speak in that moment. the shotgun. One of the shells fell to the
floor, and he had to look for it in the dark-
They could not be much longer absorbed ness, cursing during the process. He was
in their most intimate inner thoughts, be- breathing with deep and irregular breaths,
cause a sound of stone scratching came his lungs burning. The first thing to do was
from the entrance of the temple. The heavy to calm down, light one of the torches and
door was closing! They ran to the entrance, look for a way out. The riches seemed to
carrying as they could the loaded saddle- have lost its glow, and some gold coins lied
bags. When they got there the door was al- on the ground like small pieces of metal
ready fully closed. Marcus belongings and junk, worthless.
the stool where he sat were scattered on
the floor. They could start hitting the door Having verified the pistol and the
with the pickaxe, but the cleverest thing to shotgun, Peter went back to the room of
do, was trying to find a mechanism to open the altar. The walls seemed as solid as steel.
the door from the inside. He decided to investigate the tunnel that
entered deeper into the mountain. This
—Listen Christian, you search to the right tunnel was narrower, and the stone walls
and I’ll search to the left. There must be had been worked by dedicated masons to
something to open this goddamned door. become smooth, being covered with an-
cient drawings and paintings. The tunnel
—Sure thing. went downwards, and it ended in another
room, large and dark. This room was all dec-
Peter started probing the wall to the orated with a strange language, whose signs
left of the door, eager and hopeful to find a were carved on the wall, and four large
way out of the temple. Not even a minute paintings, corroded by time, of horrible
had passed when Christian approached him, and painful deaths of human sacrifices, but
and he asked: also of humans in scenes of laughter, anger,
sexual rapture, and other emotions.
—So? Did you find anything?
In the center of the room there was a
—Peter, what was I going to do? circle, like if there was a well, and in the
air the curious and vague smell of bitter al-
—What?! monds. It was indeed a well, but something
seemed abnormal, the water just seemed
—What was I going to do? I knew I went so dark, and the smell of almonds was
to do something, but I cannot remember stronger as he peeked inside.
what it was. It is like… my mind… is just…
shutting…down… He could see his reflex on the water
lighted by the torch he was holding. The
Pearls of cold sweat rolled down the water was dark and still, shining like a mirror.
back of Peter and a painful knot hit his Suddenly a small swirl formed at the surface
stomach. His mouth was suddenly dry and of the water. Peter was caught by surprise,
bitter. Christian was gone, he was standing
near him, but his eyes were dead and blank.
Like Marcus, he went for his pistol, and

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and stood there stupidly, just staring hyp- mind. The Enlightened fed on emotions and
notized at the surface of the liquid that on the vital forces of other beings. In their
seemed to gain life. home planet those beings were simpler
and archaic forms of life, simple animals.
—Diamonds… On Earth they fed on human emotions and
the vital energy of Homo sapiens sapiens, a
—Pearls… much tastier food plate. The hordes of the
Enlightened, led by the three elders sur-
—Gold… rounded Peter in a tourbillon of light. He
was engulfed by the starved beings and
Three voices, that sounded old and an- felt like if his body was being bitten by a
noying echoed inside his head. Peter had cluster of small fish. The feeling of fear over-
the notion that his immaterial inner self had whelmed him, and he felt like fainting.
left his body behind and dived into the well.
He found himself in panic and surrounded Peter woke up in terror, sitting automat-
by strange beings, like small spheres of light ically in his bed. His body was soaked in
that danced and twisted around him. Three sweat, and his heart was racing like a wild
of these spheres, that seemed larger than horse. He was so shaken by this vivid dream
the others, appeared and the others pulled that he could barely think. The windows fil-
back ceasing the chaotic dance. tered the yellowish light of day that entered
the room, and he could hear the noise of
He had never been so scared before. It traffic and city life. He got up, feeling the
came to his mind the occasion when he tension leave gradually his body and giving
took his first exam at school before three thanks that all was nothing more than a
old and austere teachers. The three voices nightmare. Passing at the feet of the bed,
echoed in his head like a thunderstorm, he started screaming, screaming, screaming
giving him a headache. They started telling like someone that had lost his mind. Soon
him the story of the temple. The remnants strong arms knocked down the door, and
of an alien species had fled to Earth and set he was dragged from the room and thrown
there, when the desert was smaller and the into the street. Peter was sobbing and trem-
climate gentler. Soon humans found that bling. He had looked at the room’s mirror
something special was happening there. and it was the face of an old man that he
Worshippers came from East and West, con- had seen, wrinkled, and worn, and his hair
structing paved roads, bringing with them and beard were white as the snow.
riches, music, and human offerings. The
well granted wishes and always gave some- Tales spread. Some say that he is still
thing in return. Fathers sacrificed their first- there, roaming the streets of Urumqi,
born, husbands their beloved wives, kings looking for the suitable people to whom
their subjects. Wizards and prophets, kings to tell the story of the temple and to de-
and emperors, philosophers, and heroes, liver them the map that shows the path,
they all crossed the arid regions to obtain according to the will of his new masters,
the favor of the aliens, the Enlightened. the Enlightened. Others say that he already
died and that around that date a group of
Peter was taken by the elders on a be- people riding camels left the city, moving
wildering journey, across the Universe. He towards the desert, and no one heard of
saw many planets, many species, and civ- them ever since.
ilizations, he knew the past and the future.
Suddenly, the elders withdrawn from his

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NONFICTION



EATING SALAD
WITH A SPOON

by Marisa Mangani

You’re a gorgeous bride at forty-six. Your third a crab boat motored by sporting a sign that
marriage, the one you never thought you’d said “Got Crabs?”
never do, suits you. And your husband-to-be,
ten years older, handsome in his cute, little You fiddle with the ring, your still-smooth
boy way, is beaming like a school kid. This is hands moisturized, nails manicured and
really it, you think, my true love. You found painted a frosty orange. (Something you’d
someone (well, he actually found you, con- only do for a special occasion, such as get-
vinced you—forced you—to love him) who ting married. Again.) His hands, sun-gnarled
accepts your quirks and demanding ways. from all those years of shark fishing.

It’s a glorious April day. The wedding is And you think of a long ago night as a
outside like all your weddings—no let’s not little girl, driving home from a Hawaiian
say it that way—your other two weddings wedding with your grandmother, so dark
were outside. On the beach that is, one in inside her giant Buick, when she told you
Hawaii, one in Destin. But this one, this one, that tin ring you’d gotten in your gift bag
is above the water, on a deck of a banquet would bring your true love if you put it
hall, formerly a restaurant funded by smug- under your pillow that night. He would be
gling money, in the fishing village of Cortez, handsome, and he’d sweep you off your
Florida. How’s that for a lucky start for a lat- feet. You believed her, so you did, hoping
er-in-life union? a prince would come and save you, but no
one came. Until now.
It’s windy, the teal toile is flag-flap-
ping along the railing leading to the alter. After the wedding you start saying,” I
Which is the entry to the little hexagon of a married for love, not money.” And this be-
wooden tiki bar. Later, a friend tells you that comes 150% true. You don’t know it yet, as
during the ceremony while your tan self and the seagulls congratulate you in the salt air
your husband’s shaky voice repeated after this spring of 2007, that the house you just
the pastor, and you couldn’t wait to say I do bought together—“The Brady Bunch Man-
and kiss your hubby and get to the mojitos, sion,” you like to call it—will soon take a deep
dive in value. And your current house will

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

finally sell at a short sale, and you’ll lose your orchids, and your writing, and outings with
retirement home in Apalachicola, and your your sweetie whom you love even more
other two rentals will also be underwater, than the day you said, “I Do.” So it’s worth it.
and it will be hard to keep them rented, and
your income will go down, and your new hus- You’re leaning back in a metal folding
band will lose his hourly wage job. chair, exposing a baby blue garter, and your
husband kneels down before you with the
The sun is your friend for pictures after microphone. He looks at you with so much
the ceremony. You have your mojito and love and you know everyone is staring, and
a wide grin, you have your man. Everyone it is so quiet until your musician friend starts
remarks how beautiful you are, and you ac- strumming and your husband nervously
tually feel beautiful, for a change. Your mu- sings “Making Memories of Us” by Keith
sician friend plays parrot-head and beach- Urban.
rock music while everyone mingles. Happy,
sunny, hopeful. There is not a dry eye in the house, in-
cluding yours.
You had to get that big ole house be-
cause you both own teenagers. Also, this Ten years later, you shake off all the dead
overblown house has two living rooms to real estate and with enough equity you buy
house your two TV’s and two stereos and a 1923 cottage by Sarasota Bay. In an area
two sets of books. Both of his blue-collar of town both you and your husband have
boys have stinky cats (you hate indoor cats) always wanted to live long before you met.
and will be upstairs. Your thespian-lesbian You nickname the house The Love Shack
daughter will be downstairs. Enough sepa- and get to work making it your own. You
ration for the two different species of teens. garden, entertain, build an orchid house,
Your husband’s oldest son is on his own, ei- hang out on the porch and drink wine and
ther living with a tattooed girl or in jail or on laugh with your love. (There is always a lot
the street. There will be bail and attorneys of laughter in your marriage.)This, you both
in your future. Because you’re the one with agree, is your happily ever after.
the money. Sort of.
The setting sun creates orange ocean
As the sun sets, you all repair to the win- murals in the windows of the banquet room.
dowed dining room for pre-dinner toasts. Dinner of mahi, black beans and yellow rice
You point out to your friends the fake bales is over, and the colorful, sea-themed, three-
of pot among the nautical décor: “square tier cake is presented with fairy lights. You
grouper” this is called. Your husband’s do NOT smash such an elegant (and ex-
brother, a racist-homophobic-alcoholic of pensive) cake into each other’s faces. Your
the worst sort, spews an awkward speech. first dance is to “It’s a Wonderful World”
Your daughter repairs the mood by singing by Louis Armstrong and, as your husband
“When You Say Nothing At All” by Alison lightly rubs your bare back with his warm,
Krauss. You cry. It’s now time for your hus- retired fisherman’s hand, you think, Wow, is
band to sing to you. this really happening?

You’re in that monster house for ten *
years, five years longer than planned, three
years of it as empty nesters. You hate that You stare at the overflowing laundry bas-
house. But you enjoy the pool and your ket. Dishes are piling up in the kitchen, and
dead oak leaves cover the driveway and

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