By Patricia Malcom Rosenleaf

Vivian sat by her dying boy’s bed, nodding, starting awake, nodding again. She’d been here with him from almost the beginning of this hospital stay because somehow she knew in her heart, he wouldn’t leave — at least alive. She and Floyd, her husband and Mike’s father, had taken turns to begin with, sitting with Mike, but now they both stayed. Mike’s wife drifted in and out, and so did their kids, but they all had jobs and obligations. Vivian’s only obligation now was to her first born, the pride of her life, her son, her friend. Now she stirred, and a line from a comedy routine came back to her: “Cap’n, my butt is dead and the legs ain’t fer behind.” The chairs were initially comfortable, but gradually they sucked the feeling from your posterior as if designed to cause short stays: the kind hospitals ordinarily recommend. She was here for the duration, however.

She switched the hand she was holding with Mike and looked at his decimated face. It was some sort of cancer, they told her — very rare, a melanoma but not quite, almost like AIDS but not quite. He’d been part of a study; he’d had tests done in Boston; the doctors were more or less confounded by the disease and its effect on him. His weight had slowly decreased to where she doubted he weighed a hundred pounds now — down from the strapping, sturdy-framed boy, the handsome man she’d reared and felt more a companion than a son. They’d lived near each other in Alaska, Floyd and Mike working together at times. When Mike and his family moved to Hawaii, Floyd and Vivian followed for long periods. Even then, he was sick, but the Hawaiian sun had staved off the illness. Mike would lie out in the heat of the day, soaking in the sun, which in some way seemed to heal him. He’d even returned to work for a while, but then his wife (and Vivian would never forgive her for it) grew homesick for “her people.” She wanted to move back to the mainland, and she chose Utah — where the winters could be cruel and the sun sometimes only vaguely shone for stretches of days. There’d be no more lying in the sun for Mike, and he quickly became sicker with each passing day. He’d been back and forth, into and out of the hospital until this last time: what Vivian called “the long haul.”

It was fitting that the sun had been so healing. When she thought of Mike as a child, she thought of him in tones of gold and brown, his skin a deep tan, his intense brown eyes snapping, his beautiful white teeth gleaming against the darkness of his skin. She thought of the time when Mike had tripped on the step and fallen face-first onto the stoop. Aside from the fat lip, he’d chipped a front tooth, but even that had only lent to his handsomeness the way a small scar on a man’s face will.

It made him at once less pretty and more handsome; the chip was small and from then on when he smiled, while you might notice the chip, his smile took on a rakishness that became him. He was always an outside boy, preferring the fields around their ranch to any school room. When they’d moved to town, he’d still found ways to be outside; it was as if he sought the sun always. He hired out to the local ranchers during haying season; he’d sooner dig a ditch than go to school; but, of course, his parents had insisted he attend, and he did, graduating from high school and immediately going into the construction field where he could be outside. He could drive any truck or manage any machinery; he could fix them too. He was a clever kid. Her heart came near to bursting at the thought of him as a child and a young man. His black hair and brows set against his flawless skin, his brilliant smile — all made him a favorite of the town girls. It wasn’t long before he and his girlfriend Peggy showed up to announce that she was pregnant. They’d get married soon, they speculated; and Vivian and Floyd had given them their blessing. What else do you do? He certainly was a man now, and though she had her doubts about his judgement, his life was his to form. Peggy and he had had that baby, and soon there were two more. They were awfully young, and Vivian wasn’t too surprised when she began hearing the stories of how much they drank and how many parties they attended. The two boys and their girl were frequent visitors at Floyd and Vivian’s house. They, neither one, were that old, and they had lots of energy for these first grandchildren– they welcomed them. Vivian and Floyd were pragmatists if nothing else — you simply bent and flowed and accepted. It was their way, the only way they knew. Vivian could say little; she’d been a wild young girl herself. Floyd had shown up at their farmhouse, a traveling salesman — he’d sold her tough old mother nothing, but he stole Vivian’s heart. So she and Floyd had been married; they were young, and the union was against her parents’ wishes, but their disapproval had mattered little to her: she’d found her man, and she knew they’d be all right. And they had been. They’d moved a lot, garnered little in the way of possessions, held various jobs — backbreaking, mind-numbing at times — but their family had been their rock. First the golden child Mike, his comely sister Susan and when little Kelly was born, almost an after thought, they’d been complete. Vivian cared little that they went without, that they often moved, that they left behind possessions. It was family that mattered. The new baby Kelly was as round and happy as a baby could be. This was what life was all about, thought Vivian, as she held the little bundle close — she thanked God for His bounty to her.

For a while, they’d prospered, even building their dream home at the top of a new addition in Livingston, where the wind blew so hard that their screen doors had to be built on runners rather than opening in and out as doors were supposed to do. They’d been happy there, but jobs of their sort didn’t last: the sawmills lay off workers, restaurants close, the railroad no longer needed Floyd’s time. They lost the house and moved to Alaska. Soon Mike and his family moved there too; there’d been a divorce and the wife was new along with several of her own children, but Vivian and Floyd had welcomed them too, and their family circle grew. This was the time, which Vivian remembered with great happiness since they were all together in a fairly close group, Mike and his new family just a few miles down the road, Susan and her family in town, Kelly living with them for the time being. Then Mike began complaining of his skin. He’d showed his mother the sores, and sometimes he could barely walk for the pain on the soles of his feet; any rough fabric on his back caused agony.

The doctor put it off to poor shoes at first, and then poor circulation, and finally he just shrugged and told Mike he needed to see a specialist.

In Alaska then, there were few specialists, so Mike made an appointment in Seattle, flew down, and spent several days going through a myriad of tests and office visits. The specialist had been confounded too. It would probably go away, the Seattle doctor advised — just give it time, he said. Mike had flown back, gritted his teeth, determined to wait this thing out. It niggled at Vivian’s mind — Mike just didn’t seem right. Any time she was around him, she could see the misery in his eyes; he lost weight; soon he more resembled his wiry father than her sturdy Scotch side. His hair thinned, the beautiful black curls were gone, but then his dad was bald too, had been for years. The hair loss might not have hurt, but Mike was hurting. He tried the doctor again, only this time he made an appointment in Seattle with an oncologist. Vivian and Floyd took the kids, and Mike’s wife flew with him. What followed — the lack of a diagnosis let alone a prognosis — was a black hole in Vivian’s mind. All she knew was that her boy was in pain and nobody seemed to know what to do about it. He was accepted into an experimental program in Boston to which he flew and where he stayed for months. Upon his return, the grim look on his face told it all: the doctors couldn’t put a name to it, but they knew this much: Mike was dying. They advised him to move someplace sunny, as Mike had mentioned that the only relief he felt from the agony of his skin was when he was in the sun. Soon after his return to Alaska, he and his wife and kids moved to Hawaii. For a while the condition abated. Mike and his new wife adopted two more children, their family swelling to five, with Mike’s first three living with their mother in Montana. Floyd and Vivian soon found their way to Hawaii where their help and companionship were welcomed. Floyd found a job driving a bus; Vivian took care of the house and children while Mike and Claudia worked. The sunny, warm days of Hawaii were balm to Vivian’s soul as well as to Mike’s health. She envisioned them spending the rest of their days there — close to Mike and his family. Susan and Kelly stayed in Alaska, but because Kelly worked for an airline there, they were able to visit often inexpensively. Then came the rumblings from Claudia about “missing her folks, her people.”

“Good Lord!” Vivian had exclaimed to Floyd, “If you needed to stay in a place for your health, I’d be there with you and not moaning about my family.” But she’d said nothing to Claudia, and Mike seemed acquiescent about the impending move. “She’s not happy here, Mom,” he’d explained.

“But you’re happy here,” Vivian had protested.

“I know, but I don’t want another wrecked marriage.” he’d replied.

“She’s miserable here.”

“How can she be miserable in paradise?” Vivian had wondered aloud to Floyd. But Mike had seemed better of late; maybe the move would not affect him. Once again, they flowed, they bent, they accepted. Vivian and Floyd prepared to move back to the mainland too, having sold their Alaska house and acreage. Maybe they’d move to Anchorage to be close to Susan and her family. Vivian didn’t like the idea of spending much time in Utah. She was still angry with Claudia, and such feelings didn’t make for good neighbors. It wasn’t long though before, through phone calls and letters, Vivian discovered that her high hopes for Mike’s recovery were ill-founded. He began another round of doctors and hospital stays. By the time Mike had been put into the hospital three times, Vivian and Floyd had sold most of their possessions, given up their jobs, bade goodbye to Susan and Kelly and headed to Utah in their new twenty-foot pull trailer. They found a year-round campground and set up their home, dedicating their time to Mike.

Now Vivian felt Mike’s hand stir and looked up to see him cocking his head, listening intently for who might be in the room. One of the effects of the disease had been to attack his eyes, those beautiful brown orbs that had brought her such a swell of heart when they lighted on her.

Now they were glued shut: “SuperGlue,” the doctor had explained when he came to do the procedure. “It’s fabulous stuff; it doesn’t hurt, and he’ll be much more comfortable than he was with those weeping eyes.” The damned saw bones, she thought, acts as if he invented the stuff. She’d stood by as he rimmed Mike’s sightless rheumy eyes with the liquid and squeezed then shut. The finality of never seeing his eyes again just presaged the finality of what was about to happen. She steeled herself as she bent over Mike’s body, “How’re you doin’?” she asked.

Mike smiled slightly at the sound of his mother’s voice. Even with all the weight loss, he still had his dimples, his darling dimples, she thought.

“I’m all right,” he replied. “My mouth feels like the Russian army marched through it.”

Vivian reached over and brought the Vaseline bottle to hand. She took a bit on the end of her finger and rubbed Mike’s mouth with it. “Do you want some mouth wash?” she queried.

But already he was asleep again. That tiny bit of comfort was enough to buy him more sleep, but it had also worn him out. Soon enough she knew, he would not wake up, but would slip into that nether world of coma and from there away from the confines of the earth. She didn’t want the time to hasten, as she could not stand the thought of losing him. On the other hand, to watch someone you love suffer such misery was a type of hell all its own. How could she NOT wish him dead, she thought. To buy him health, she would have given her own life. She’d offered herself to God on more than one occasion in the past weeks. One should simply not outlive one’s child, she thought. It is against all nature! Her thoughts returned to her own mother and her biting words, uttered once in anger after Vivian had pushed her too far: “I wish it had been you, and not my Mae who’d died.” Through all the years, Vivian had been aghast at her mother’s outburst, but she began to see what the old lady might have been about. She wouldn’t wish such a death on any of her children, but for God to take Mike was too big a sacrifice; her mother had felt the same. Mothers may try to be neutral and equal in their love, but secretly, and even interchangeably at times, mothers will have favorites.

She glanced over to her husband as she straightened up; Floyd had a grasp on Mike’s other hand, and he sat with tears brimming his eyes. “I can’t stand life without him,” he sniffed. “He was my partner, my son. Why won’t God take me instead? I’m old; it’s my time!” At that, he released his hold of his son’s hand and wept. To see her man cry after the many disappointments they’d faced tore at her heart. Here was the most grievous of all — pregnant daughters, mixed-up grandchildren, thoughtless relatives — nothing seemed even near this pain. I’ll never live through this, she thought almost hopefully. Let me die with him, but her heart was good, her voice strong; she was not to gain that wish any time soon. She’d read a poem during her stay here from one of those volumes that seem to pop up in waiting rooms and untended libraries. The poem by Robert Frost was entitled “Home Burial”; in it a mother tries to come to terms with the death of her little boy, her first born. Vivian remembered the line “The nearest friends can go with anyone to death, comes so far short / They might as well not try to go at all.” How true, thought Vivian. She felt a kinship with her now-dead mother that she’d never felt before. She supposed that such experiences are the life binders for the generations. She recalled that Mike had belonged to a cancer survivor group for a while, and he would come home almost aglow. “It’s so wonderful to talk to someone who’s been there.” The relief in his face would sometimes last for days.

After a while, Vivian glanced out the window. The hospital was beautifully landscaped, and she watched as the trees bent and flowed with and accepted the wind.

Editor’s Notes: Patricia Malcolm Rosenleaf is a retired educator who recently published a novel, Stone Garden.  Her particular interests include liberal politics, animal welfare, education, and US and world news.  You may find Pat on FaceBook, LinkedIn, and at the blog site she created for her local union, Education Matters. This story is a finalist in the News Junkie Post short-story competition. The competition is still open; submit your entry. Photographs one, four and six by Kent Campbell; photographs five, seven and eight by Kevin Dooley; photograph two by Gilbert Mercier.

By Imtiaz Akhtar

Read only those books that inspire suicidal thoughts in you. Books, as I have always believed, are more dangerous than an atomic bomb. A bomb can only kill or maim you, unlike books, which alone can transform you. They can transform you from something baser into something nobler, something higher. A great book reveals you to yourself; it speaks to you about your sins and reminds you of your own faults. A great book is an event in your life. Its greatness lies in its ability to transform you. You willingly or unwillingly undergo a metamorphosis. What is a great book if not a mirror? This is how all that is baser is purged from you. One by one you lose them, you discard them, and you, sitting alone in your room, climb by inches and centimeters the peaks of humanity. Reading is an escape from the world, but paradoxically one finds oneself embracing humanity in the most intense form known ever to the human race. A great book unsettles you, it uproots you as much as travel does. It provokes anxiety on a scale that is devastating. One experiences a mad tempest within. Day becomes a long hopeless evening. Dark clouds on the horizon that until yesterday meant little to you now portend your hasty end. Strange things begin to happen; humans resemble mannequins and mannequins resemble humans. A great book kills a part of your being. But at the same time, it allows a newer being to emerge. The brown bud in you becomes a white rose. It reveals to you great secrets about language itself. By degrees you realize that each word is like a living being. It has its own distinct skin beneath which it exists. How careful one has to be before one learns to play with it. Books are our collective memory; without them we simply cease to exist. We become terrifying as an abandoned bungalow.

It was in the month of October that he left India to work for a law firm in country xy. The moment the flight took off, he along with others were surrounded by a vast dark nothingness. Surrounded by death, he experienced a strange feeling of solidarity with his fellow co-passengers. Early morning, when his flight was about to land, he could see in the distance the sparkling blue waters of the ocean meeting the bright sky. A yellow crescent-shaped circle of sand was enclosing the water. The sheer beauty struck him. But he knew like all exiles that both the sky and land did not belong to him. His eyes were by now hurting because of sleeplessness. He took his luggage and boarded a spacious bus. As the bus moved, he saw the lonely white-colored minaret of the mosque glowing in the heat of desert like silver. He saw restaurants with names such as Delhi Durbar and Bangladeshi Hotel, which made him slightly happy. It was inside these air-conditioned hotels, as he would learn later, that emigrant men would sit and watch with unblinking eyes and sometimes with moist eyes, the news channels of their country. People even watched advertisements with lively interest, he had observed. For a while he closed his eyes. He could not even remember when he fell asleep on his seat. When he opened his eyes, he saw yellow deserts on both sides. As if to confirm this, his eyes looked out of the driver’s frontal glass. He felt a sharp pain in his heart. It was as if he had a heart attack. A sharp pain rose from somewhere and struck his solitary heart. He now realized that this was not his country. He felt an urge in him. He wanted to run stupidly and reach his home. He consoled himself that he had as a child suffered this feeling of homesickness. But this consolation added to the depth of his pain. As he entered a Pakistani restaurant to eat biryani, his eyes saw a huge framed poster of Jinnah wearing a shirwani and gandhian cap made of fur. He quietly took his meal and left.

It was Friday and he had not turned to the mosque. He had to leave his room quickly so that his colleagues on finding this did not end up interrogating him about his absence. He had decided to travel to a nearby mountainous region. The bus was nearly deserted. An American woman wearing jeans and thick t-shirt sat on her seat with her legs crossed. A young Indian couple with a chubby child sat near her. When his eyes met the woman, she sympathetically smiled at him. It meant, “you too are from India; I know this, so are we.” The bus then left. From his wide windows, he could see tall buildings made up of mirror. Some were pointed as a sharp pencil. The facade of each building reflected the other. When he had seen this army of images for the first time, he thought it was Disney World; but the joy of this realization was short lived. His bus then had reached on the fringe of the city. A blue board announced “labor camps,” which was written in white. Next to it was a desolate flat cemetery unlike the ones that he had ever seen. Workers, as he had learned later, lived there with poverty, solitude and bugs. Once in a while a group of workers would kill another fellow worker and then the whole gang would be mercilessly executed on Fridays. The next day the newspapers would carry a small story. Workers would invariably be blamed for having failed to pay the blood money.

His bus reached the mountainous region. The barren brown mountain stood below the clouds. Shafts of rays were falling on his body, piercing the dark clouds. Small platoons of workers could be seen breaking the mountain. The brown mountains with red sun above them evoked a feeling of longing in him. His mind pictured the smiling face of his M. He thought: there she is on the mountain top. He longed with such an intensity that, to calm his heart, he placed his forehead on the cool glass of the bus. Had someone touched him, he would have fallen on the ground and shattered like a glass. The bus gave such a sudden jerk that his mood disappeared. He tried hard to get back that mood. But he failed. The failure to experience anxiety in turn brought anxiety. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of a tree. A big tree. There it stood. Without leaves. Naked. Solitary. Its bark was light brown. Was it silently awaiting death, he thought. As he could make out, there were many bushes nearby. But the tree as it stood was aloof. Each branch was clear as the blue veins of a cotton-white hand. The tree reminded him about himself. In its essence he saw his….

It was the 6th of December. The country was celebrating its independence day. The school children were marching with the posters of the king and the crown prince. Huge posters of the king covered the facade of almost every building. A happy king smiling on his overtaxed subjects. In some buildings flags long as a road covered the whole facade. One could see poor workers selling flags to small children on every street corner. Had Orwell or Tagore been alive, how they would have seen this great pantomime of nationalism, he asked himself. Freedom here is an abstraction performed in a poet’s restless head; he quietly jotted these words in some remote corner of his mind. As he sat on a wooden stool in a park, he saw spy cameras on top of the buildings in all four directions. They were seeing me, he knew this. Were they aware of his thoughts too? He left with a copy of My name is Red that he had been carrying. He walked towards the canal. Happy Europeans were busy in their abundant world. Some were sipping juice while others were munching chicken. A group of workers wearing dirty Kurta and Paijama were eyeing them.

The next day after he came back from his work. His mind was blank as it had been yesterday and the day before. This made him ashamed of himself. An empty mind he thought, empty as the park he passed. He walked down hurriedly like a thief. He walked towards the public library. It is the only place where he could find peace. Here I am. It is here that I belong. My metaphysical palace. Here I am, amidst my ancestors who will now speak to me. How privileged he felt, to belong to their company. Some day, when I die I shall want to be buried here. Amidst books. Books gave him solace. Here and there, a line would echo and re-echo within his soul, until it would die — suddenly having lost its charm. One of the greatest joys that comes from reading is that, time and again, one would feel that a philosopher like Kierkegaard let’s say, suffered so much humiliation and pain, at the hands of Corsiar, the Danish Church, the college Professors or his fellow Danes, so that in the centuries later to come, when one would be born, one would read him. It was for me that he undertook so much of pain and labor. It was to instruct me in the future that he labored in the past. Hence, what can I feel for him, if not reverence and bonding? After having read for four hours, he came out of the library. The crescent-shape moon just behind the yellow minaret of the beautifully lit mosque caught his attention. Dot-size stars were sparkling in the dark sky. He saw a group of tourists sitting on the top floor of a small ship. Somehow he could not identify with them. Reading had secreted solitude in him. The category of what philosophers call “the other” repelled him with such vehemence and force that he was quite ashamed to admit it before anyone. He walked slowly towards his room. He took the long way, a beautifully lit street that gets flooded with prostitutes every evening. Some stand with folded arms and melancholic eyes. Some give a smile calculated to lure young men with lonely hearts.

One Monday evening, he was reading Sartre’s Nausea. The confused Sartre was explaining his confusion with such clarity that it awed him. The sheer poetry of the text overwhelmed him. He knew that sooner or later, he too would experience the nausea once he delved his heart into the text, or maybe he read the text because he too wanted to experience nausea. He thought Sartre had written the autobiography of his soul, but he also knew in some corner of his mind that it was a lie. After he had finished reading the text. He felt a strong urge to pleasure himself. He quietly went to the bathroom of the library and locked himself. To terrify his self, his mind played that old game, “what if someone catches me,” but a part of him knew that this anxiety enhanced the whole pleasure of the act. He washed his hands and quietly left the library. The same night when he went to bed. He had an anxiety dream. Next morning, when he met me at a cafe, that was once frequented by M.F. Hussain, who would every evening come barefoot and order his paratha and omelette. His eyes were surveying the ships that carry goods. I knew he was looking for our ship Hind.

“Do you know,” he suddenly said, as he looked into my eyes with a conviction of one who is possessed with a truth, “that books can transform you? You end up being what you never were. You end up hating your parents. Your childhood friends no longer understand you. Your parents no longer understand you. You end up hating yourself. You get drunk and write that often I cannot endure my own self. And then, when you wake in the morning you feel embarrassed and also proud for having expressed it.”

I understood what he wanted to say. I expressed my comradeship by being silent for a while and, out of habit, I took a deep breath. I looked fleetingly into his eyes. I understood that he understood that I understood. After a while it started raining. It was the first winter rain. We sat inside the empty restaurant. The light-yellow sands became dark. The pieces of newspapers lying here and there became translucent. Small rivers, like the roots of a tree, appeared everywhere on the sand. For the first time in months, I saw wipers of cabs moving. In the bus stop that was facing our restaurant a group of people stood helplessly. Men with long beards entered our restaurant. Tiny droplets of water were caught in their beards. “It must be raining in our Calcutta too,” he said with a smile on his face. And we both smiled.

“You know, whenever it rains for more than 20 minutes in Calcutta, every street and narrow road become a tributary of Hooghly,” he said.

I smiled and added, “once I saw a poor worker sleeping under the rain with a blue plastic covering his body, while I was walking near the Burra Masjid area.”

When the streets are flooded in Calcutta, school children wearing white ribbons in their hairs are seen happily wading through the water. Old men sit and drink tea all day long in one of those dilapidated tea stalls: simultaneously cursing the government and god. I remembered having read an article by a certain journalist, which said “the cacophony of the politicians begins with the first droplets of rain in our city.” When the rain halted abruptly we both came out. The air smelled of sweet earthen mud. The view of the canal was crystal clear. White birds appeared suddenly from nowhere. We both could see the birds taking swift glides towards the surface of water to get hold of their prey. And from the surface of water they would rise like a kite. I so badly wanted to wet his lips with mine. I knew he too wanted to lick my lips. But I thought the kiss would offend him. And he thought the same thought at the same time.

“Listen, he said, will you come tomorrow evening at this place?”

“Why? Is there anything you want to talk about? You can do so now.”

“No, we will talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay. Then see you tomorrow.”

We parted.

I opened my door, which creaked so distinctly. I then placed my key on my table and walked straight to my kitchen. I heard the dragging of my footsteps. The refrigerator hummed loudly when I opened its door. I could hear the sound of the speeding cars that abruptly passed by my window. Slowly the sound would become faint and die. I opened my vodka and drank it. With each gulp my head became more violent. I was in such a state that I was unable to pursue any topic beyond a few seconds. A multitude of voices raged in my head. To feel tranquility, I got up and went to my balcony. I could see the full disk of white. The moon. On observing it, I realized that it was not a full moon, but a slight part of its base had eclipsed. When you look at the moon you look at your  inner self, I thought. In the distant corner, a row of tall buildings stood hazily in the smog. A solitary lamppost burned dimly, like a smouldering ball of fire. Black crows appeared on the sky. Their shadows were flying. I gulped a few more glasses of vodka and went to bed. I saw in my dream that I was drinking water. I knew from my past experiences that it was a dream but could never halt the dream of my own accord and wake up. When I woke up in the midnight my throat was dried. I drank water and went to my bed again. I woke up in the morning and sat on my sofa with my book. It was as if every page that I read was forgotten before I could finish it. In my anger I threw my book on my sofa.

When I arrived at the cafeteria I found my cousin brother. He was speaking over the phone and smoking his cigarette. On seeing him, I was compelled to stretch my lips. We shook hands like diplomats.

“So what are you reading these days,” he asked.

“Nothing.”.

“Why?” He exclaimed with a sarcastic smile evident on his face.

“I am equally happy at times when I don’t read. Besides, too much of reading gives you a severe headache.”

“Ha…haha… this is why I say. Stay like me, you will be happier.”

“Happiness without a cause is ephemeral,” I snapped back forcefully like a typical lawyer.

We sat silently for a long while. I did not feel any urge to speak. He had nothing to talk about, given his learning. He broke his silence after a while.

“The brotherhood has won the elections in Egypt; soon they will spread their tentacles in the rest. Europe will become an Islamic continent. And so will India. These Christians have had their day. Their immorality will soon be wiped from the face of this earth by the swords of our warriors. All this I tell you is the sign of Doomsday. See the economic crisis, the poverty, the helplessness of our brothers and sisters. It is a curse of our god on these infidels. What do you say?”

“Your insanity is so patent, I need not say a word.”

“Why do you always take their side, he asked in a disappointed tone.”

“I cannot forgive the west for what they have done to our people in Vietnam, Iraq, Cuba, and Afghanistan or any other poor country. But I cannot forget that they have given us Chaplin, Nietzsche, Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir. If the east has given them Algebra, they have given us laptops and phones,” I said.

Angrily I got up and left the place. Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten about her. I went near the canal and sat. If my one eye belongs to the east the other belongs to the west. The immensity of the horizon enlarges when we look at it with both our eyes, I thought.

Fifteen years after a sudden absence, one day I received a letter. It was from him. He had settled in Darjeeling. He stayed alone in a rented room. For the greater part of the day, he would read. After quitting his job he had decided to live alone. It was during those days that I found him writing a book. It was titled “Poets and Governments.” He had explained to me on several occasions that governments of all political shades exploit the works of poets to maintain their discursive power; repressive governments are poetically eloquent.

I remember the day I visited his solitary house. I had on purpose worn a red sweater. My big breast was swollen with pride. I knew that that night he was mine. We made love like wild animals. We swore to stand by each other for centuries to come. But by morning it was all over. I felt so ashamed of myself. He woke up and pressed his face to my breast. We both stayed on the bed, coiled like worms for a long time. He then said, “you know I was so garrulous when I was alone; a part of my mind was always busy talking to someone.”

“Did you ever remember me,” I asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, looking vaguely at the ceiling. He left the bed suddenly and went outside to buy a pack of cigarette. It was then that I found the page written by him that you read at the beginning.

Editor’s Notes: Imtiaz Akhtar has a law degree and is pursuing a master’s degree in comparative literature at Jadavpur University in Kolkata (Calcutta) India. He has worked as a journalist, as a lawyer and as an editor for a law journal. He lives in Kolkata, India. This story is a finalist in the News Junkie Post short-story competition. The competition is still open; submit your entry. Photographs one, two, six and eight by Cory Doctorow. Photographs seven and nine by Henri Cartier-Bresson.

By Madeleine McDonald

A nervous titter ran round the bar. It seemed tactless to laugh at the scurrilous satire show when one of the cavorting latex puppets on the television screen was there in the flesh, staring straight ahead without the glimmer of a smile.

The socialist candidate for the French presidential election, for it was he, had been parading his rural roots by visiting his own part of France. All day, he had shaken hands and greeted old acquaintances; he had got his feet muddy in a cattle market. Now, for the benefit of the press, he was enjoying a glass of red in Henri Dutueil’s cafe.

It was a bad time to be a politician. Austerity was painful. Unemployment was rampant and standards of living had collapsed. A mid-term election following the previous president’s tragic death in a plane crash had stirred up a ferment of grumbling, unrest, and cynical mutterings about snouts in the trough.

The candidate standing at the bar had been plucked from backbench obscurity for his reputation for honesty and fair dealings with friend and foe alike. A worthy man, leading a blameless personal life, who doubtless did not deserve to be lampooned on television as a grey ectoplasm.

Henri Dutueil broke the uncomfortable silence. “Eh bien, son, I prefer you in the flesh. That’s not you at all.”

The candidate managed a bleak smile. Nor did he wince when Monsieur Dutueil called him son. This was his mother’s home town and he had run errands to the cafe as a lad.
Further along the bar, his minder cursed inwardly. Go on! Laugh at yourself and pick up another few votes! The minder longed for a rogue with panache, someone who would make the front pages.

Dutueil bade the candidate farewell. “You know me, I’ve always voted for the other side, but I wish you luck all the same.” Leaning across the bar, he kissed the candidate on both cheeks and the flashbulbs popped.

“At least you’re a new face,” he continued in a confidential whisper. “Who have I got to choose from? A bunch of decrepit has-beens who’ve spent all our money with nothing to show for it. I could do the job better than them.”

The minder had sharp ears and an encyclopaedic memory, traits that served him well. A few days later, he was given the opportunity to put that chance remark to use.

An emergency meeting of the socialist party had been convened at the highest level. The chairman was blunt: “Gentlemen, we’re trailing in the polls. In some areas, the greens are poised to overtake us. Suggestions, please.”

The hours ticked away. Despite the elegant turns of phrase honed and hoarded since student days, no solution emerged. As the meeting drifted to a close, talk turned to strategies for splitting the right-wing vote. Not that the parties of the right needed any help in cutting each other’s throats at election time, but that was no reason for complacency.

“Gentlemen, I have the very man to split the vote.” All faces turned to the minder. “He’s your typical middle-of-the-road Frenchman, salt of the earth and all that.”

“Who?” asked a sceptical voice. “There is no-one else.”

“Aha, that’s the beauty of it. He’s not a professional politician. Not yet.”

Henri Dutueil was surprised to receive a visit from his local senator, accompanied by a businessman well-known for his left-wing views.

“Dutueil, your country needs you.”

“Me, gentlemen?”

“The voters have had enough of professional politicians,” the senator answered. “France needs new blood. We need to forget the old battle lines and the traditional divide between left and right. We need a man to bridge the divide. We need someone to speak for the common man, someone to speak for la France.”

Henri was bemused, and not a little flattered. He was wont to hold forth behind his bar on the issues of the day. Clearly, he had reached a wider audience than he thought. Over a glass of red he agreed to stand as the candidate of the newly formed Party of Reconciliation.

“It will be a symbolic gesture,” his new friends assured him. “We don’t expect you to win. We need to wake the politicians up and get them to listen to us, the people – and that’s where you come in.”

Dutueil was honoured, although even he was surprised how quickly his new friends gathered 500 signatures from local persons of standing, the formality that launched any candidate’s election campaign. He never discovered that all the signatures pledging support for the Party of Reconciliation came from well-disciplined socialists.

Dutueil proved to be photogenic. There was nothing to be done with his wife, dumpy Madame Elise, but the photographer caught a marvellous shot of Dutueil’s baby granddaughter reaching for his spectacles. Reproduced on hoardings across France, the image carried a simple slogan: A President for All.

He was a natural on television too, at ease in front of the camera, subduing uppity interviewers with tricks of the trade acquired during his years behind the bar. An impromptu tirade against red tape and excessive taxation struck a chord with many.

By polling day, voters faced a bewildering choice. Henri Dutueil’s face on the hoardings was only one of many. The middle-aged communist looked as grim as his party’s dwindling hopes; the greens had squabbled among themselves and produced not two candidates but three. The parties of the right had also failed to unite behind a single candidate, although the old warhorses looked jaded in comparison with the impassioned, articulate 28-year old who was the new face of the national front. At the very last minute, a woman lawyer had entered the fray on a parity for women ticket, demanding no less than equal representation for women in all political assemblies.

The pundits who dissected the campaign on television found it impossible to predict the result. The socialists faced a backlash for promising equality and delivering austerity. The right-wing candidates trod a tightrope between denouncing the national front and adopting its policies.

The pundits and commentators, scoring points off each other, forgot about the voters. In return the voters ignored the pundits.

The young especially turned their back on conventional politics:

“Who are you voting for then?”

“Bof! They’re all the same.”

“Too right. Dunno why I bothered to ask. Are you coming to the disco on Saturday?”

Jacques Tavernier, unemployed panelbeater, had torn up his party card when the government cut his unemployment benefit. Still, voting was a civic duty and naturally he couldn’t vote for the other side. Maybe he’d vote for Dutueil, he sounded like a decent, ordinary bloke.

Francine Ledur, maths teacher approaching retirement, knew she was losing her touch. It was a struggle to teach 40 children in a classroom built for 30. She was not going to vote for any party, ever again. Whatever their promises, they all neglected education. She would vote for Dutueil. One of his sons was a teacher, and that meant he would know all about her problems.

Robert Daubier, hospital porter, was sick and tired getting stuck in a traffic jam every night. It had taken him over an hour to get home that day. Despite years of planning, the government still hadn’t built the by-pass. The damn greens had held everything up and politicians pandered to them. Now the government said it had run out of money. None of them deserved his vote, so why not vote for Dutueil?

Marie-Rose Sabourin, housewife and mother, having promised her husband that she would vote as they had agreed, took her baby daughter with her to the polling station. As she lifted her out of the buggy, the child’s trusting face recalled Dutueil’s election poster. On a whim, she changed her mind and voted Dutueil.

When the votes for the first round were been counted, Dutueil had scored an incredible 34%, leading the scattered field. The mainstream candidates had all fared badly.

The founders of the Party of Reconciliation called on him again, before the second round of voting.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, I don’t understand. You want me to stand down in favour of the socialist candidate. You’re not making sense.”

“You see, in the national interest…”

“It would give the voters more choice,” the senator cut in smoothly. “Having made our point and given the established parties a good hiding, we feel it is time to allow voters to return to the traditional patterns of voting. After all, you never seriously expected to become president, did you?”

By now Henri Dutueil was convinced he could fly. “Three months ago, you told me we needed to bring the people of France together and heal the wounds of the past. I have done that, I am the man the people trust.”

He glared at his visitors. “Gentlemen, I refuse.”

Henri Dutueil was duly elected President of the French Republic. His first act was to appoint a government of national reconciliation, headed by the former prime minister. This move pleased nobody. Convinced he had been done out of the presidency, the prime minister vowed to thwart the new president at every turn.

The minder who had originally spotted Dutueil was sacked. He married his American girlfriend, secured a green card for the States, and used his position as the guy who worked for the French president to obtain a job in public relations.

“It’s no use. I can’t get comfortable in this bed.” Henri shifted awkwardly against the pillow. “If we’re going to live here for the next seven years, we’ll have to bring our old bed from home.”

“I’ll make you some camomile tea. That’ll make you feel better.” Elise was out of bed as she spoke.

“Hey, you don’t need to run around in the middle of the night now. We’ve got our own personal butler, remember. This is the presidential palace.”

“The servants won’t make it the way you like it.” Elise yielded to no-one in her concern for his welfare and Henri knew when to give in.

Sipping his camomile tea, he confided in Elise. “I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but this president business is not as easy as it looks. It gets me down at times.”

He had indeed had a hard day. The meeting had not gone smoothly.

“Now then, gentlemen, I’ve had a look at all the papers you prepared for me – well, some of them – but what I want to do first is to overhaul the legislation on cafes. That’s something I do know about, so I don’t want to hear a lot of technical arguments from you.”

Assorted ministers, junior ministers, advisers, and notetakers listened in horror as Dutueil outlined plans to abolish VAT on alcoholic drinks served in bars and restaurants, to reduce employers’ national insurance contributions for cafe and restaurant owners, and to provide subsidies to keep bars in rural areas open.

“Monsieur le Président, we’ll lose millions in tax revenue. It just can’t be done.”

“What about drink driving?”

“Europe won’t allow it.”

Dutueil stood firm. “We cafe owners provide a public service. Youngsters are always complaining there’s nothing to do and nowhere to go, then us oldies complain about kids hanging round in the street. Bring them indoors, I say, where we can keep an eye on them. Let them play table football instead of getting into mischief, eh?”

When he threatened to take the issue to the country on a referendum, the assorted ministers, junior ministers, advisers and notetakers blenched. Constitutionally, that was within his powers.

He got his way. In return, they talked him out of introducing two years’ compulsory labour on the farms in place of national service.

Under the umbrella of national reconciliation, former enemies met in secret, with a single item on the agenda: topple Dutueil. Private detectives hired to investigate his past found nothing. True, there had been that business with the redhead at the licensed victuallers’ convention of 1968, in the summer of free love. However, at the time Henri had been neither married nor spoken for and when someone unearthed a photograph of the redhead in her prime, it was felt that its publication would enhance his standing with the voters.

Curbing presidential power was an impossible task, given the constitution of France’s Fifth Republic. The constitution had been adopted at a time of civil strife, when strong leadership promised national salvation. It offered few options to Dutueil’s despairing ministers.

The solution was self-evident, as are all good solutions.

The bells of Notre Dame pealed and the waiting crowd roared as King Henri emerged from the cathedral with dumpy Queen Elise on his arm. Families opened champagne in front of the television. In the 16th century Henri IV had promised to put a chicken in every family’s pot on Sundays. In the 21st century, Henri V would be remembered as the king who cut the price of an aperitif.

History records that it was over 150 years since the secular, republican French people last had a king, although they had flirted with an emperor. This time the king would be a modern monarch, a figurehead shorn of power.

The politicians made sure of that.

END

Editor’s Notes: Madeleine McDonald left school with a shorthand typing certificate in her pocket and the intention of working her way round the world. Life had other plans and she got no further than the Dreyeckland, the three-cornered land where Alsace meets Switzerland and Germany. As a result, history and tangled loyalties influence her fiction. Now back in England, she writes newspaper columns on family life. This story is a finalist in the News Junkie Post short-story competition. The competition is still open; submit your entry.

About the story. “Tezen Nan Dlo” is one of Haiti’s most popular folk tales. The Créole “te” indicates the past tense, and “zen” means “hook.” It is about hooking and being hooked. The enticements of love, family, and the natural world. It is also a coming-of-age story about a teenage girl in Haiti, where a traditional method of chaperoning is to burden a girl with a younger child. Tales such as this one are told outside at night, usually on a porch, to an assembly of adults and children. The outlines of such stories are as minimalistic as the chord changes of a modern-jazz composition. For the storyteller, the fun is in the invention of the embellishments and variations that will hook an audience already well familiar with the tale. The story should never be the same, but the storyteller’s freedom is not absolute. For example, one is not permitted to change the simple and haunting melodies of the folk-tale songs. Enough explanation. To signal when one feels a story coming on, one calls “Krick?” If the others on the porch want to hear the story, they reply “Krack!”

KRICK?

A long time ago, in a thatched house snuggled in a valley between the flamboyant-covered hills of Haiti, there lived a girl whose greatest ambition was to bring home the cleanest water in all the world. Every morning after a breakfast of fresh bread and hot coffee, when her father went out to hoe the fields, and her mother made ready to harvest the vegetables for market, the girl and her younger brother, each with an empty bucket swinging around an arm, were dispatched to their own work of gathering water from a spring for their family.

Before they could step out of the house every day, the mother asked her son:

“And what do you promise me today, my darling Dieudoné?”

And Dieudoné replied in his most fervent voice:

“I promise to watch over my sister, Mommy, and to learn from her.”

All along their route, the pair of children were well known to their neighbors. The girl had been named Arélia by her parents, but the neighbors for many miles had long forgotten that name. To them she was Angélia, because she was gentle… and earnest.

“Promise you’ll marry my Ti-Toto and become my granddaughter some day Angélia, so I can tell you my stories! What do you say?” Gran’Aline would implore Angélia, only partly in jest.

“God willing Gran’Aline.” she would respond without breaking her stride.

So many things along the way called to her.

Malachite butterflies fluttered through her braids then alit suddenly along her path as if to say: “Run and catch up with us, Angélia!”

But this did nothing to slow her pace.

The flamboyants’ black pods, as large as machetes, rattled on the ground, and this did cause Angélia to imagine their shiny brown beads, and how nicely they could be stringed together into a pretty necklace. But these daydreams passed as quickly as the cha-cha of the pods. Next time, Angélia thought, turning her mind again to the problem of gathering a bucket of water without the fine particles from the spring.

Dieudoné, on the other hand, forgot his promises as soon as he made them and always before he reached Gran’Aline’s house twenty yards down the hill. He darted here and there, calling to all his friends. Often he challenged Ti Toto to a game of marbles, or the two boys disappeared behind the house to join several others in a match of soccer. Only after Dieudoné became too hot from the midday sun and tired from his exertions did he abandon his games. At such times, in a final burst of effort, he would sprint to the spring, dive into its cool waters, and emerge from them with his bucket full of a liquid so turbid that, even in brightest sunlight, the shiniest coin beneath it vanished from sight.

Angélia’s water, on the other hand, was always clean enough for her golden ring to shine through it. This was because, by the time her brother reached the spring, Angélia had usually sat by the water for hours, guarding a quiet spot, waiting for the fines to settle so she might gently tip in her bucket to let flow the clearest possible liquid into it. If, after all of this, she could not discern her ring beneath the water in the bucket, she started all over again.

It was in those quiet times of waiting that her longing became most acute. Soon Dieudoné would arrive to splash about and complain of hunger, she thought. Again, he would ignore her advice on how to collect the water; and again, it was she who would be scolded after the long walk home with her load. “My poor boy!” her parents would exclaim while coddling Dieudoné and comparing the two buckets. “You are not being taught anything by your selfish older sister. Poor boy… poor boy.” At these thoughts, Angélia’s eyes welled up with tears.

As the girl began to wipe her tears, the ring she had held slipped from her grip and into the water. She ran her fingers through the muck, but this was of no use, and in defeat she abandoned herself to her tears. As her teardrops dissolved into the turbid spring, the water began to churn, as if her sorrow had opened a portal deep beneath the ground. Out of this turbulence came the most magnificent creature Angélia had ever seen: a giant fish with a head and pectoral fins that shined like silver, eyes of black and gold, dorsal and tail fins red as blood, and scales that twinkled pink, yellow, and turquoise in the sunlight.

“I am Tezen”, the great fish said, bowing to her.

“I am Arélia”, the dazzled girl replied.

“You are more than Arélia. What is your true name?”

“How do you know about my other name?” the girl asked, astounded. “They call me Angélia.” she confessed.

“An-gé-li-a. Yes… that is your true name.” The fish nodded thoughtfully. “I should know your name… and so many other things about you! I am your friend who has waited for you here all this life, Angélia.”

At that instant, the great fish dived into the great vortex from whence he came. Seconds later he reappeared through a spray of water with Angélia’s ring and offered it to her, bowing.

The girl jumped for joy. “Oh! Thank you, Tezen!”

“Angélia, if you want me to, I will bring you a bucket of the clearest water from this spring every day from now on.

“I would like that so very much, Tezen!” the girl exclaimed.

She had hardly finished speaking when the great fish dived again into the vortex, this time with her bucket. He returned with water clearer than Angélia had ever seen.

“I hear your brother’s footsteps, so I must say goodbye soon.” Tezen alerted her. “But I am yours forever Angélia. Now, please remember this: when you want to see me again, sit quietly by the spring and sing this song, and I will come to you. It is our secret. Teach it to no one else.”

Tezen’s song (in Tezen’s voice)
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

Tezen’s song (in Angélia’s voice)
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

“I will keep your secret, Tezen.” the girl quietly promised herself, as the fish disappeared into the churning water.

The first time Angélia brought home a perfect bucket of clear water, her parents coddled Dieudoné nearly all afternoon, and they complained more bitterly than ever of her selfishness. Angélia hardly heard them that day, though, as she lunched on the tastiest red beans and rice that she could remember. She thought often about the next day; and the more she thought about it, the happier she became. Her excitement was so great that she spent nearly all of that night counting the stars.

On the first rooster’s crow, she jumped out of bed and made ready to go, but on the way to the spring that day, she took her time, knowing well that she could count on Tezen’s gift of pure water.

When the malachite butterflies fluttered past her, she skipped after them and invited them to land on her arms and lick the salt from her skin.

When Gran’Aline called her, she stayed to listen to the old woman’s story about the orange tree.

When the flamboyant pods rattled, she split them and stringed herself a magnificent necklace of their seeds.

She even stopped under the ylang ylang tree that always seemed to whisper to her to spend all day in her shade. The yellow flowers shivered as Angélia stood beneath them, and the fragrance they lent to the passing breeze joined the aroma of the green and gold carpet of petals right about her face. And she closed her eyes.

Soon she was by the spring again. She looked all around to make sure she was alone before she began to call Tezen.

Tezen’s song (in Angelia’s voice)
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

When the magnificent fish reappeared, Angélia wondered if she would live to know a happier day. And since happy people cannot perceive deceit, she never noticed that Dieudoné had not stopped to play with his friends. Early that morning, his parents had promised to relieve him of all work if he would spy on his sister and bring them her secret for clear water. The boy watched his sister from behind a great ceiba tree. Now he knew her song and her pact with the giant fish.

“Sing to me again, Angélia.” Tezen said sadly. And the girl sang the song again.

Tezen’s song (in Angélia’s voice).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

“Why are you sad Tezen?” Angélia asked.

“I will be betrayed Angélia, and when I am, I will be killed.” the great fish confided to her. “Take this handkerchief.” he continued, handing her a square of linen so white it glowed in the sunlight. “Keep it close to your heart. So long as this stays white, know that I am alive. If three drops of my blood appear on it, then I have died.”

That day, the girl walked home with her brother beside her as she had done for so many days, except the water she carried was clearer than she had ever dreamed. Whenever she began to worry about Tezen, she checked her hankerchief… and she smiled.

Her parents did not scold her that afternoon, but soon after lunch, they dispatched her to the market so they could question Dieudoné.

“She is friends with a huge fish, Mommy, who brings her the clear water.”

“An evil spirit!” his father gasped.

“How does Arélia get this monster to consort with her?” his father demanded.

“He just jumps… he just jumps out of the water.” the boy stuttered, trying to grasp his father’s question.

“Think hard Dieudoné. You know the answer. Does Arélia splash her feet a certain number of times in the water? Does she call anyone’s name? Does she say any spells?” the man asked on his knees, grasping his son’s shoulders.

“She sings for the fish daddy.”

“Sing her song for me, my son.”

Tezen’s song (in Dieudoné’s voice).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

“That water demon has stolen my daughter’s soul!” the mother sobbed.

And the father and mother left Dieudoné to his play and went into their room to plot their next day.

That morning Angélia woke up happy merely knowing that Tezen lived somewhere. After breakfast, when she grabbed her bucket to go to the spring, she learned from her mother that her job that day would be to fetch more provisions from the market. She suspected nothing. This had happened before, and besides, her gentle nature would have never allowed her to imagine her parent’s plans.

As soon as Angélia was gone, the father filed his machete, and he stuffed it into a sac, together with a large club and many large rocks, before he led his wife and son to the spring.

Though the malachite butterflies greeted the family, they saw nothing. Though Gran’Aline invited them for conversation and coffee, they did not stop. They heard nothing of the flamboyant’s pods and smelled nothing of the ylang ylang’s fragrance. They marched straight ahead, seeing a world full of demons and thinking of the many ways to kill.

As they approached the pond, the mother and father hid behind the ceiba tree.

“Go sit by the spring and sing the demon’s song.” they urged Dieudoné.

And the boy sat by the spring and sang.

Tezen’s song (in Dieudoné’s voice).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

But the fish did not come.

“Sing louder!” his mother commanded. And the boy sang again.

But the fish did not come.

“Sing it like your sister!” the father ordered. And the boy sang again.

Tezen’s song (higher pitch, like Angélia).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

And the great fish came.

At the market, Angélia felt a chill from her wet handkerchief. She withdrew it from her breast and, on it, discovered the three drops of Tezen’s blood.

Angélia returned home to find the day’s water as cloudy as milk and the house filled with the fragrance of the fried filets of fish set out on the table. She gasped and requested to be excused from the lunch. Her parents were relieved, in their celebration, to be rid of the girl who had come so close to bringing a demon into their mist.

Angélia ran away from her house, without stopping for Gran’Aline, or greeting the butterflies, or listening to the flamboyants’ pods, or breathing in the ylang ylang. Though she was out of breath, as soon as she arrived by the spring, she began to call Tezen.

Tezen’s song (sung by Angélia, gasping for breath).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

But the great fish did not come.

She rested a while then sang again.

Tezen’s song (sung by Angélia).
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the clear spring
Tezen of the waters, my friend from the deep
Tezen, my true friend
True friend of mine, Tezen, Tezen
Tezen, true friend from the waters
Come to me!

But the great fish did not come.

Angélia returned to her house, walked to her small bedroom, sat on her straw chair, unbraided her hair and began to comb it down to her neck. As she combed through her hair, she sang Tezen’s song, and her sadness weighed so heavily that her chair and her feet slowly sank into the dirt floor. She kept on singing and combing through her hair, as her legs were next buried, and then her waist. She did not notice her brother when he bounced into the room.

“Mommy, Daddy, Angélia is dropping into the ground!” the boy shouted.

“Silly boy! Such a vivid imagination!” the father said, hardly raising his head from his meal of fish and rice.

Angélia continued to sing and comb her hair, until her shoulders sank, then her neck and, finally, her face.

The distressed boy returned, the next time with both his mother and father. All they found were the last inches of Angélia’s hair, sliding down into the ground.

Sometimes, when a full moon or perfect rainbow is reflected in a spring, if one stays still for a long time, one can hear Angélia calling to Tezen and Tezen splashing in the water.

 In memory of my darling mother, who loved me well.

Editor’s Note: This story is also available in Portuguese.  All photographs by Tambako The Jaguar. Submit your entry to the News Junkie Post short-story competition.

Short Story Competition

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Articles for News Junkie Post

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“A Raisin in the Sun, ” which ironically never won the Pulitzer ( that honor went to “J.B.” a modern retelling of the biblical Job story by Archibald MacLeish), remains one of the most enduring and produced American masterpieces. Despite the accolades “Clybourne Park” is not a masterpiece, It is, however,a sharply written, culturally provocative– and in this Broadway production– deftly directed ( by Pam MacKinnon) and beautifully acted (by a stellar ensemble cast) theatrical experience.

The tone, which sharply changes from Act I to Act II, is off-putting at first. Act I opens with a mawkish cartoon exchange, and the whole act plays a bit like a cross between the movie “Pleasantville” and an episode of “All in the Family.” All very deliberate, I’m sure. The nervous, happy 1950′s chatter conceals the deeper wounds of a family crushed by the sins and sorrows of their now dead soldier son and a community’s angst and prejudice. It takes some getting used to, and you may not fully understand its weight and effectiveness until watching the entire play, and absorbing its cultural impact.

Act II sets a very contemporary savagely funny tone as we find ourselves fifty years later, in 2009, observing another heated exchange in the same Clybourne park living room. Now a black couple, representing the neighborhood association, has concerns that the white couple who just bought the now dilapidated house will tear it down and build an urban equivalent of the McMansion eyesore and threaten the district’s historic charm.

Along the way the audience is treated to a barrage of razor-sharp commentary on race, sexism, gentrification and the notion of community. What we rarely get is a truly personal story. There are smatterings of real anguish in the Stollers’ story, but the full measure of what happened to their troubled son and its devastating impact is left to the imagination. And there is nothing that even comes close to a personal saga playing out in Act II, where the remarks are as glib as they are charged.

The last line, offered as part of a short and startlingly moving scene from 1959, uttered by Bev Stoller about “better things” coming resonates on both the broader cultural level and the more poignant personal one. Things don’t get better for the Stoller family. And it’s dubious just how much better they’ve gotten for the rest us in the ensuing fifty years. We get the message. Loud and clear. But just imagine how much more significant it would feel if we knew the Stolllers with the same depth and affection with which we got to know the Youngers.

Personal stories always have the most lasting impact. That’s why “A Raisin in the Sun” remains an enduring classic. A trip to “Clybourne Park” will make you think, it will most certainly stir up a melange of visceral emotions, and while some of those may even boil over, I doubt any will still linger in fifty years.

“Clybourne Park” now playing at the Walter Kerr Theatre, 219 W. 48th Street, NYC, through Sept. 2. Call (212) 239-6200 Outside NY metro area: 800-432-7250.

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After only three episodes, the ratings have started to slip for “The Newsroom.” Despite this, HBO, has faith in its future and has announced it is renewing the show for a second season. That’s a vote of confidence for a show that needs a lot of work, if it is to survive.

Aaron Sorkin is America’s pre-eminent composer of dialogue for television and his occasional film. His people talk in witty, crisp sentences, much like recitative in an opera. The sentences flow freely. The words come fast. And those who recite the words are never at a loss. It is as if we are witnesses at a game of ping-pong. The sentences are sharp and often delivered breathlessly. Real people rarely speak that way.

The language Aaron Sorkin creates makes him a fantasist of the first degree. That is no small feat. And that is one of the things wrong with “The Newsroom.” Sorkin revels in Sorkin-speech, a language often so fanciful it has nothing to do with reality, especially the speeches he gives the actors to declaim. Sorkin wrote the same way for “The West Wing,” but that show was a fantasy from the start — recall that he had an intellectual as a committed left wing president in the White House — and it hardly mattered that the cast sometimes spoke in free verse. It was part of the fun watching that long-running series.

“Anyone who isn’t confused, really doesn’t understand the situation”
Edward R. Murrow

To his credit, Sorkin’s research is mostly thorough. According to interviews with Sorkin and the countless press releases that support the show, Sorkin visited many news operations to get a sense of what happens behind the scenes. Despite teaching himself to be an insider in the world of cable news, Sorkin obviously took from the newsrooms he visited what he wanted. He is a writer and he can do with his research as he wishes.

But he has his own private ethos and politics. He says that he reacts to real news and the show reflects that. Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) is the anchor who has an epiphany during a college seminar and starts a rant that rips apart the fabric of America and its institutions, in particular cable news. The new McAvoy wants to change how he presents the news.
Though we learn that Will McAvoy is a moderate Republican, it is apparent he is on the cusp of being a liberal. His sudden sense of right and wrong often extends into righteousness. Sorkin says that “Will makes no human connections,” and that “he has built a wall around himself,” I guess to keep him from exhibiting any compassion. But compassion becomes part of his psyche and it becomes second nature to Will as we watch him in his newborn self. Will’s ideals become the guiding principle of the show.

Walter Cronkite

Everything revolves around Will and his altered state. Much of what goes on, not just with Will but also in that entire newsroom leans heavily toward liberalism. Unlike some criticisms, I have no problem that political philosophy. It is as if Sorkin is doing his best to use this show as an antidote to Fox News and its legions of believers who get a free ride on that “real” and biased all-news cable network.

I believe that with Fox a simple law of propaganda prevails – be upfront and consistent and pound away at the other side without mercy. That allows conservatives on cable news TV in the real world to be better at informing their base than the other cable news channels who skew toward the center or the left. Commitment to a cause is always more successful than any person or institution that waffles on what it means and how it thinks.

Ed Murrow

I hope that everyone who watches cable news knows the difference between bloviating and presenting hard news. More often than not, each crosses the line. That may be confusing but it is inevitable due to the nature of cable news — a place on TV to get the latest breaking news with talk shows as the place holders until hard news breaks.
Jeff Daniels as Will McAvoy, the oft-addled anchor, is convincing, but is he really as incompetent and self-absorbed as he appears? McAvoy, despite his newfound tendency to pontificate, shows some growth, at least when on the air during the first two episodes.

Daniels has his character’s tics down perfectly regardless of the many mini-speeches he makes. Yes, there are dumb anchors and there are addled anchors.There are selfish anchors. Anchors come in all sizes and shapes with brains and judgment to match. Some drink. Some do not care about their job and look on it as a money-dispensing machine. Some succeed. Some do not. Most have a strong staff to protect them from their own failings. Though Will McAvoy fits all of the above at times, his staff does not look strong enough to continue protecting him from damaging his changing image.

Dan Rather

The other journalists we watch in action, especially the executive producer MacKenzie McHale (Emily Mortimer) Will’s ex-girlfriend and now boss – talk about a setup — make me wonder what kind of journalist she is, and how she rose to a position of command over a so-called TV news show where the emphasis is on talk, talk, talk. She wanders the control room, as if it is a mosh pit, giving orders and directing the flow of the story McAvoy and company are presenting.

Occasionally, MacKenzie makes a small speech to Will about integrity which I find hard to believe, especially coming from a high priced, supposedly talented executive producer.

Working at a frenetic pace, the staff at the cable network gets on the air and breaks a major story about the Gulf oil spill, soundly beating the competition.
In a later episode, there is a collective failure to properly cover the new immigration law in Arizona. At least with those stories Sorkin rises from fantasy to reality because that sort of thing happens more often than the audience realizes. Elements in this episode and the others that follow indicate that Sorkin believes that high activity, no matter how superfluous, translates into high competence, at least most of the time. That is nonsense.

The set is a good-looking, modern newsroom with people filling desks and working at computer terminals. As good as the set is, there is an old saw in the business that no one leaves the theater or his or her couch at home whistling the set. What newsroom is it where people run around as if they were looking for their heads? Margret Jordan (Alsion Pill) was an intern when the show started.

Despite her apparent cluelessness, she rises to associate producer in a matter of minutes. Usually, even in cable, executives make those decisions elsewhere and not when the camera is rolling. Sorkin’s women, though major players in his fictional world, are like none that I have ever met in a real news operation. Sorkin’s women are either shrill or overly emotional. They act tough at times and have vulnerability about them to frighten anyone in their path. I do not trust MacKenzie McHale, the executive producer, to take me through a raging fire, or a collapsing building, as “The Newsroom” sometimes seems to be.

“…good night, and good luck”

Furthermore. Where did the barely wet behind the ears senior producer, Jim Harper (John Gallagher, Jr.) come from? He appears as from a Star Trek transporter. Who is he? What has he done? Does he have any credibility? Using his sister as a source for the oil spill disaster is a bit much. What is worse, his news compatriots accept that revelation as gospel. I would never allow that on my watch.

To make the series all things to all people we have unrequited love affairs and moody personal relationships provided as glue of a sort for the audience when the show is not covering the news. Most go under the heading of who cares. Certainly, I did not. I found them a further waste of my time.

At the end of the first episode, the perpetual motion in that newsroom comes to a halt. That night’s show is over. The president of the division, Charlie Skinner, played by a crusty Sam Waterson plunks down a bottle of booze to share with Will McAvoy. He reminisces about his days as a correspondent covering the Vietnam War in Danang. Sorkin, usually accurate in what he writes, blows a line and concept here when Charlie Skinner says he had been “embedded” with a unit covering the war. In Vietnam, correspondents had the freedom to go where they wanted as long as they could get where they wanted to go.

Embedding did not exist until the first Gulf War. It was the Department of Defense’s way of controlling the press and allowing it only limited access. A small thing, you might say, but it makes me wonder how accurate Aaron Sorkin really is about the many other things he portrays.

Editor’s Note: Photographs one and three by James Vaughan. Photograph five by Ed Schipul and photograph six by Jim Ellwanger.

I’m watching the show in real time with you, so my thoughts here reflect only the first episode. In a nutshell: it soars and falls on Sorkin’s talents. His signature quick fire dialogue is here, but so are his self-indulgent polemic monologues. When he is on the mark, few TV writers ( or for that matter playwrights or screenwriters) can match the fluid musicality of his dialogue. But when he sinks, he sinks with a Titanic thud. It’s too soon, frankly, to say if “The Newsroom” will survive the latter, but so far it’s not all smooth sailing.

The show clearly aims to explore the media, and most specifically cable news, in much the same way Sorkin’s brilliant multi Emmy award winning “The West Wing” treated presidential politics. The story revolves around Will Mcavoy an ill-tempered cable host who implodes on a college panel, takes a hiatus and returns to find his middle- of- the- road show “News Night” revamped with his ex-lover at the helm as executive producer. Elements fraught with simmering drama, right? yep, but be warned: the trailer showcases the very best of the show.

Still there are glimpses of interesting characters and intrigue–professional, social and oh, so personal–to come. The cast is solid, though everyone from Jeff Daniels as Mcavoy to Sam Waterston as his boss play everything at such a fever pitch, there’s little time to decompress between scenes. Emily Mortimer as the ex-love interest turned producer, so far, offers the most nuanced performance. There’s also a cadre of young upstarts who, for now, remain largely undeveloped. But get set for some potentially awkward romantic triangles dangling among the crowded news room’s cubicles.

It should be noted that the re-formatted show’s first show focuses on the BP oil spill, an indication that real news stories ( albeit old news) will ooze into “The Newsroom,” the way many real issues seeped into “The West Wing.”

While it’s a mixed bag, there is much to recommend giving “The Newsroom” at least another episode or two before signing off. Cable news junkies and fans of Sorkin, in particular,may be among the harshest critics. But if we stick around, we may also see the biggest pay out. Some things do actually get better over time. And are ever sweeter for the waiting. So Stay tuned. I know I will

Please follow Amy Beth Arkawy on Twitter.

Dick Clark, “America’s Oldest Teenager,”host of the pioneering ( and longest running variety show) “American Bandstand” died Wednesday at 82. The music industry maverick went on to become a powerhouse producer,shepherding a slew of shows and specials along with his trademark “Rockin’ Eve,” , which became a fixture of New Year’s celebrations.

Clark’s agent Paul Shefrin said in statement that the veteran host died this morning following a “massive heart attack.”

Born in Mount Vernon, N.Y on Nov. 30, 1929, Richard Wagstaff Clark began his lifelong career in show business before he was even out of high school. He started working in the mail room of WRUN, a radio station in upstate New York run by his father and uncle. It wasn’t long before the teenager was on the air, filling in for the weatherman and the announcer.

Clark pursued his passion at Syracuse University, working as a DJ on the student run station; eventually he took his talents on the road, landing a gig in Philadelphia. Within five years, he was spinning records and showcasing groups and dance crazes ( along with dance-crazy kids) on TV. In 1963 Clark–and “Bandstand” went Hollywood.

http://youtu.be/tGjXo-3AjCc

In a radio interview some years back, Clark, who was as perennially youthful and ebullient in person as he was on TV, summed up his success in one word, “enthusiasm.”

“If you like what you’re doing it shows,” he told me. And his passion for music and for the generations of fans who flocked to his shows was evident.

“Bandstand” ran for decades, never deviating from it’s simple and successful formula. Clean-cut kids danced to everything from Elvis to Disco; The Beatles to Kiss. Thousands of records were rated, dances and wild fashion fads were highlighted.

He also ran Dick Clark Productions, and began cranking out one hit show after another; his name became synonymous with everything from the ” $25,000 Pyramid” to “TV’s Bloopers & Practical Jokes” to the “American Music Awards.” In 1972, Dick Clark became synonymous with one of the biggest nights of the year as he launched “Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve,” TV’s most famous New Year’s Eve Party. After suffering a stroke in 2004, Ryan Seacrest signed on to help with the hosting duties, but Clark continued to make appearances.

The Museum of Broadcast Communications ran the numbers and figures Dick Clark Productions has turned out more than 7,500 hours of television programming, including more than 30 series and 250 specials, as well as more than 20 movies for theatre and TV.

All this earned Clark a long list of awards and accolades: Emmys, Grammys, induction in the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It also made him one of the richest men in Hollywood; he also had stakes in a wide range of businesses, including restaurants, theatres and real estate.

America’s Oldest Teenager has certainly left his indelible mark on generations of fans. There’s no disputing he helped change rock ‘n’ roll and TV forever. His signature sign-off was “For now, Dick Clark … so long,” always said with a salute. No doubt, today, generations of Americans are saluting back.

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We already knew Palin was the McCain campaign’s Hail Mary pass. Down in the polls and with seemingly nothing to lose they plucked the new Alaska governor out of obscurity, thrusting her onto the national stage with limited vetting. What comes next plays out in predictable fashion. We already know the story and the outcome.

So why bother watching “Game Change?” The acting. Yeah, it’s that good. As is the make-up artistry. Moore is the main attraction, of course, nailing everything from Palin’s voice, mannerisms and mood, shading her performance with a depth and empathy that transcends Tina Fey’s brilliant satire. She does, in fact, generate sympathy and ire as we watch Palin swat away interview and debate prep advice and nearly spiral out of control as the rigors of the relentless campaign and media spotlight take their toll.

http://youtu.be/IPhh7mch5zo

Woody Harrelson, as Steve Schmidt, the senior advisor most responsible for the Palin pick, is also formidable. And the oft under-rated Ed Harris offers another magnificent turn a John McCain.

Beyond that, you may discover a better understanding of the high-stakes, often cynical machinations of presidential campaigns. But I’d suggest the purely fictional “The Ides of March” is a far more compelling film, with unexpected twists and turns, and lessons that may have greater resonance.

While it’s a good film, I wonder how much more powerful “Game Change” might have been if it were made five or ten years down the road. With time’s fermentation and the lens of perspective, this episode in American political history will surely provide a far more intriguing and potent lesson. Something future filmmakers are apt to explore.

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