by Anna Tambour
The cloth merchant acted as calm as he could manage. He had never believed in Fate until now. What else could explain this meeting—this inspiration?
He dipped his fingers into the dish of rosewater wielded by his servant. “Make up a bed beside me,” he ordered, then turned to Faldarolo.
“Your Effusionness,” he said (a term known to expert appreciators of bladder-pipe music) . . .
Cover story
“TEA, UNCLE?”
Savva entered 3C with a steaming glass and a smoothed issue of Truth. The cover story, “Women hide their wisdom beneath stupidity” drew a grim smile from the Omniscient, who pointed to it. “What do you think of this, young man?”
Savva closed the door and made himself comfortable. They’d become great friends, not that Savva would tell anyone, even Galina, about this camaraderie with someone who was an intellectual parasite, harmless but still a parasite. Who else had such a fine waistcoat and a sunflower-yellow trunk? Savva had had a difficult time hiding the yellow trunk and didn’t know what he could do with it, but it was generous of the old man to give it to him once it was empty. Uncle, as the old man insisted Savva call him, had previously given Savva all the contents of the trunk once he’d read it all. Who but an intellectual parasite would travel with a trunk filled solely with stuff to read? Still, the parasite treated Savva with unbelievable respect, and it was a novel experience to be considered an intellectual. It felt good, too, to be able to share the joys of Truth with someone, and to discuss its depth. It had never occurred to Savva what difficulties passengers have keeping up with news and stimulating their minds till he caught the old man borrowing those little squares of Truth hung in the toilet. It particularly delighted Savva that of all the sections in that newspaper to choose from, they both enjoyed the same section the most: Anomalous phenomena.
“If not for this,” Uncle had told him, “my studies in science, law and nature would have stagnated.”
“Enquire Within” has an answer for every question you put to it.
—Enquire Within Upon Everything
Questions to a man of experience
“SO, YOUNG MAN,” said the Omniscient, “you’re experienced in the ways of women. Do you think, as this cover story says, that they hide their wisdom beneath stupidity?”
“It’s important enough an issue that it takes a second reading,” said Savva, flattered and embarrassed at the same time. He often skipped the first page in his eagerness to read his favourite section, and once having turned to it, never got around to reading much else.
Savva stretched out on the opposite bunk, a model listener.
The Omniscient cleared his throat, utterly delighted.
“Women hide their wisdom beneath stupidity. That’s the title, remember. ‘First off’, it says, and I’m just clarifying the voice here, ‘the above statement’—meaning that headline, you see—Yes? Yes. ‘The above statement used for identifying the nature of a problem is more complex than it seems. It requires a detailed analysis on the part of a full-fledged intellect, which simply cannot exist without examining something carefully and in detail so as to identify its causes, key factors etc. In other words, “pure reason” is prone to finding a problem in all places so that the former’—The former hmm,” said the Omniscient.
“The former is irrelevant,” he declared after moving the paper towards him and away. “As this says, ‘Pure reason dah dum deed dum may be properly analyzed. As a result, it is also inclined to call into question all kinds of postulates including the above one (“all the females are stupid”), which is seen by many as axiomatic and self-evident.’ ”
Savva sat up. Otherwise he would not have been able to stay awake. He nodded sagely, thinking that in any worthwhile revolution, words like aksiomatic would be purged.
“ ‘First’,” read the Omniscient, poising a finger in the air exactly as he’d seen Aristotle do, “ ‘what is a “female?” ’ ”
Savva only just suppressed a giggle. He twisted his lips into a tight frown.
“ ‘Second’,” continued the Omniscient, mightily encouraged by Savva’s knitted brows. “ ‘How can we define the concept of “stupidity?” Third, does such a high degree of generalization really apply in this case, at least theoretically?’ ”
Savva caught a yawn, turning it into the opportunity to raise his hand. “When you said ‘stupidity’, that was of course—”
“Of course.” The Omniscient rubbed his waistcoat, making the paisley pattern of gold-embroidered bent-necked teardrops shimmy. “You are so perspicacious. So young, yet your mind is tuned to the nuances of all these nested quotes.” And he continued.
Nested quotes. Savva balanced his chin in his hands just before his heavily pensive-looking eyes beheld Uncle turn into a matrioshka of quotation marks. Gold double-quotation marks curling around single quotation marks—then double to single, each enclosing a shiny black, individually carved group of letters, till the eye would never be able to find nor the mind understand . . . ‘what is “female” ’ indeed! And in the pit of the nest, a tiny perfect question mark turns, every curve exposing a new facet of allure. On its top is perched at a rakish angle, a white cloth hat, for what first looked to be a question mark, is infinitely curved Galina. She is holding a knife to a potato, the peel dangling to her suckling toes. Importunate whistles and comments fall upon her, as men climb down the faces of every building in sight and fill the streets, each man running to join the stream of men, each intending to sweep all others away and lock this Woman of women into his arms to, first ravish her lips with kiss—
“And so, you see, young man—” Savva shook his head clear, hoping he hadn’t snored. All that inked paper that Uncle had found so useful for his mind, was just the printed matter that Savva cut up into squares.
The stuff that this professor type loved so much that he couldn’t see its sleep-inducing properties, was just the stuff that had always sent Savva directly to the Anomalous page, for actual reading matter. He didn’t know what anomalous meant, but the articles there didn’t waffle and ask questions. They were news, so they stuck to the facts. Beheaded human body can stay alive and kicking! A mushroom collector came across an explosive device in a forest. The device went off in his hands. As a result, his head was blown to shreds. The headless body of the man kept walking some two hundred metres and crossed a narrow bridge over the creek. Straight talk for the people. None of this impossible- to-understand theory so beloved of intellectual parasites. He was wondering whether Truth had been infiltrated when the old man raised his voice.
“ ‘Thus it can be concluded’,” boomed the Omniscient. But like all speechifiers, he didn’t conclude. He followed this false promise with so much more impossible-to-understand theory (except when it asked silly questions), that Savva was hypnotised yet again by that waistcoat.
He woke to Uncle announcing, “Here is the conclusion: ‘all those females’ ”—and though the Omniscient tried his best to unwrap and highlight verbally each layer of the quotation matrioshka, Savva was soon dreaming again—this time Galina was crooking her finger in his direction as she writhed languidly on a soft bed of “s and ‘s. She wore nothing but her railway shoes, one thick black sole blemished with a pink blotch of American chewing gum.
“ . . .‘belong to’ ” continued the Omniscient, “ ‘the species of “rational man possessing reason.” Let us then proceed to analyze the definition of “stupidity” ‘ “ “ ‘ “ ‘ “ “ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ ““ ‘ “ ‘ ‘ “ ‘ “
“So you agree, young man? Or do you need more time to ponder?”
Savva rubbed his face. “What do you think?”
The old man sighed. “I am a bachelor.”
Savva laughed. “And I
?”
“But you have experience where I have not. Do you opine, as the article says, that men and women have different goals, and that the differences feed a proverbial misunderstanding between males and females?”
Savva took his time. With this comrade, time meant intelligent thought. “ ‘Proverbial’ could be questioned,” he finally said. “But ‘misunderstanding’? Certainly.”
“I knew you would know.”
If only I knew, thought Savva. Why can’t Galina accept that I would die for her regardless of that mark on her face that she is obsessed with? Is she stupid? Or . . . The beast of jealousy raged through Savva’s blood vessels and pushed against the skin of his face, turning it dark as a beet, to the tip of his little turned-up nose.
Does she want that mark removed because of others? So that she can stroll again at every train stop and attract those thousands of men who would have thrown themselves under trains for her, pre-blemish? Compared to them, I’m just a little squirm to tread on without noticing, or laugh at, a worm compared to real men—those who stoke Galina’s blood fires—men like Valentin.
The door opened and the two friends’ pursuit of knowledge was again cut short by that woman in red who, when the old man greeted her with, “I went to the smoking section to see if you’d like to take a stroll down the passage with me,” acted both startled and stupid.
Love pops out like pomegranate seeds
BURHANETTIN SHOOK HIS FIST at the fat-faced moon, then punched Ekmel.
Ekmel mewed. Sleep was his only joy now, and this monster denied him that.
“Rise before I bathe you.” The punch was vicious, the threat cruel, but Burhanettin handed Ekmel a glass of hot honeyed tea, and tossed the donkey a nougat.
Some nights, Burhanettin doubted his sanity. This wild hunt for the source of Ekmel’s Kirand-luhun would have been trial enough for any man. But Ekmel’s snores. Mere murder wouldn’t have been satisfying enough.
The only way to stop the rage that built up in Burhanettin’s heart and pumped through his body—a body strong enough to snap Ekmel in two easily as breaking a toffee—was to wake the man and continue the journey. The sooner continued, the sooner arrived.
The path is covered with pine needles. Ekmel leads, Burhanettin follows, and the donkey comes behind.
Ekmel, little shiny round Ekmel, is almost unrecognisable now—thin as mountain air, and just as dry. His blistered feet have grown soles thicker than any shoes he’s owned, let alone his worn- out slippers. His teeth are as disgusting as ever, but if he doesn’t expose them when he smiles (and when does he smile?) he could be said, on such a moonlit night as this, to be as dangerously handsome as a brigand in a dream.
Burhanettin has also changed. He has obtained a mirror. He practices facial movements such as an expression that must be ‘lovestruck’ and another that might be ‘The pigeons cry out my faithfulness so how can you be so heartless?’ He plucks. He scrapes his tongue. He shaves his cheeks so often that you can no longer hear their rasp.
He collects the odd leaf and pod, and makes himself bitter tea that he drinks in a gulp.
He composes poetry. He sings it, booms it out to streams, his mirror, the night, the day. “My love pops out of me like pomegranate seeds. I shower you . . . I fly to your heart and affix myself to you like burning honey . . . My passion knows no bounds.
Bind me, my torturess, my jeweldrop . . . I have come for you from so far away that we have worlds to . . . ”
Often he stops mid-sentence.
And what of the donkey? Is this the same beast who Burhanettin called “dear friend”? Is this she who sucked Burhanettin’s moustache, who shivered when Burhanettin stroked the insides of her ears? Is this the donkey for whom Burhanettin made his celebrated helva-i-sabuni?
This is the donkey.
Is this the donkey who thought she was loved by Burhanettin?
This is the donkey, but where is that Burhanettin?
Fluffy clouds spread across the moon’s face and the whole landscape is softened to smudged greys.
The footsteps of the travellers are muffled but the sadness of two of them is sharp.
Heart to heartbroken
DARKNESS COVERED THE LAND except those places between the snow clouds where the moonbeams broke through. The Muse and the Omniscient were lying on their respective beds, breathing as sleeping people do when they are not asleep but pretending to, as, indeed, these two pretenders were.
The Muse climbed down without making a noise, and reached into her pocket. With infinite care, she pulled out a deck of cards and shuffled.
The Omniscient snored and turned. As she laid the first card on the table, he reached out his foot and with the stealth of a spy, moved his toes along the wall till the light-switch flicked ON.
“Gorgonna!”
“I didn’t know you played solitaire.”
“This isn’t solitaire,” she said, and bit her lip. But what would he know?
He put on his spectacles. “Upon my soul, you’re right. Far be it from me, fair mistress, to interrupt your game.”
“You already have,” she said, sweeping Death off the table and into a pocket in that dress.
“Good night,” she said.
“Don’t you want to talk about the tarot?”
“What tarot?”
“You don’t need to hide it from me any more,” he said. “As a matter of fact, it must be fated that you would reveal to me this hidden talent, on the very day that I discovered the value of those tools in that inestimable newspaper.”
“What tools?”
The Omniscient laughed that irresistible laugh of his. The Muse was alarmed. Does he know? Then she was smitten with that disappointment, that heartache, that tidal wave of unfulfilled desire that she lived with as helplessly as a thirsty butterfly on a beach. Squashed and drowned by the fact that he doesn’t love me! He just thinks of me as the closest thing he can get to some woman he never met and who probably never existed. A wooden mistress.
“What does it matter to you what I do?” No one ever has loved me.
“Everything!”
“What could you know?”
“I know that they cannot satisfy,” he said, hoping he was right.
“They don’t.” Why did I say that?
“You could teach me about the tarot,” he said. “I only learned today how useful it is in predicting the future.”
“This isn’t tarot,” she said. “But I do know tarot, of course. And it’s like dragons.”
“So you can teach me tarot?”
“Why?”
“To predict the future.”
“I thought we made it.”
“That too,” said the Omniscient. “But I’m learning that there are so many ways to make the future.”
“And the past. You forgot that.”
“And the past,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“It was not a reminder,” she said wearily. “But a joke. A jest. No, don’t shake your head knowingly at me. I’ll bloodsoak a wisecrack and shove it down your silly throat, you old fool. You who’ve seen the pyramids built, stone by slave-crushing stone. You! who’ve heard the greatest arguers of all time, who have witnessed triumphs and revolts. Loves and losses. Dreamers crushed and the crushers obliterated in a thousand ingenious ways. You! who have seen the magnificence of disease. Jumped on the moon. Run with the titmouse. What’s card tricks compared to some of those marvellous animals you’ve described to me? The ones you saw at that water hole? That naked rat with no eyes? Shepherds walking on stilts through fields of sage and lavender?”
“I saw that?”
Her cheekbones stood out and bright red spots appeared on her cheeks. She was terrifying, ugly and beautiful as a consumptive, utterly unworldly and yet so . . . so real. So magnificent.
“You, master,” she said so nastily that he was sprayed with the ‘s’. “You are the greatest witness of all time. Remember? Tarot! Phht!”
She lit a
cigarette and pulled a long drag, as if she wanted to choke herself. “Fantasy! The stuff you used to question my intelligence about. Don’t you remember when you called me ‘credulous’?”
“I never!” The Omniscient’s voice trembled. “Did I ever, dear mistress?”
“Don’t mistress me.”
She threw out her arms in a keep away gesture of supreme tragedy and climbed up to her bed. He would not have had the courage to go to her anyway, but now there was nought for it but to stretch out his toes, turn off the light and listen to her cry. Her sobs were sharp and small—a mouse caught by an owl. Soon they stopped.
The train’s lullaby did not put either of them to sleep.
He coughed, once.
“Yes?” she said.
“I understand.”
“What, exactly?”
“You need to exercise your creativity. That’s why you go to them. You don’t need to sneak out any more.”
“Gorgonnannanaaaah.” But she didn’t sound angry. “My creativity.”
“I don’t have any,” he said sadly. “I never did, and when my memory went, that was it for me.” The Omniscient broke into wet, walrussy sobs that tore at the Muse’s heart.
“How can you forgive me?” he snuffled. “I have kept you from them in the vain hope that I could make you—”
The Muse couldn’t bear the force of that wave poised to crash down on her, on her delicate hopes.
“Intelligent,” she sneered, drowning out his timorous “happy”. The crash of words crushed what she’d actually said, but her tone was loud and clear.
He curled himself into that foetal position he’d seen people do, but it gave him no solace. He’d never been a foetus, never even had a childhood, and was now feeling not just old, but heartbroken as the tragickest of rubberies.
Çimçim
CLOTHED IN BEGGAR’S TATTERS that hide a purse of gold and a velvet- cloaked bladder-pipe, Faldarolo knocks on the door of the cloth- merchant’s brother. Faldarolo has been paid more generously than he has ever known—and beforehand. His heart flutters. He hopes the bladder-pipe will forgive him the indignities she will suffer for her cause. The purse will not be enough to pay a master who could restore her to health, but it is a step along the way. What steps tomorrow, and whether he’ll be able to walk or drag himself clear of this town—these are questions he cannot allow himself to ask. His only fear is for the bladder-pipe.