This animation tells the stories of Valeria, Tanit and Shaila, three migrant women from different parts of the world. A Spanish-Panamanian co-production, directed by the Canarian David Baute and featuring the original song by Rubén Blades.
From the (classified) memoirs of Her Holiness the High Priestess
I categorically deny that the youth undergo any type of brain-washing to instill hatred towards Athens. Why should we do that when the facts speak for themselves: it was their compatriots who turned their back on them, by sending them to sure death. Here, instead of brutally killing them, we offer these young people homes, loving families, the best schools in the region, health care — in short, everything possible for harmonious integration in our progressive matriarchal society. All under the simple and common-sensical condition: never return to Athens. But who’d want that, knowing perfectly well what fate is in store for them in their fatherland?
But of course we wanted to keep the true nature of the Programme secret from the Athenians: we need young men and women from overseas to bring fresh blood into the Island’s population. And, frankly, seven men and seven women every seven years is not too much to ask. Athens kill many more of their own citizens in mindless wars. As a matter of fact, we were doing a favour to them, and to humankind in general, by preserving the very best of their youth. The First and Second Sacrifices, sorry, Social Integration Exercises, were a resounding success. And then, as we were putting the finishing touches on the Third Exercise, we received an intelligence report that among the young Athenians en route to Amnisos there was a spy. And not just a spy: an assassin.
He had to be stopped.
To be continued...
When I was a little boy, I didn’t think of the Facility as a prison. It was my home. And when I was transferred to the Maze, it became another, bigger home. I wasn’t intimidated by its size. I set to explore it and within weeks I knew the Maze as the back of my hand.
I was not a lonely child. Mother and Ari were with me. The teachers came to give me classes. I made friends with the cook and the cleaners. I loved the doctor’s visits because she always told jokes and brought me little presents. And when I was alone, I was not lonely either. There were so many things to do and to learn.
I think it was still my first year in the Maze when I received a visit from the High Priestess. She explained that a very important Celebration was coming to the capital, with many spectacular events planned. Unfortunately, due to my special status, I wouldn’t be able to attend any of them in person. Moreover, the Maze was designated as one of the venues and it was to be open to the public for two weeks. Not to the general public, but to a group of overseas guests without security clearance. During these two weeks, I was arranged to be moved to my old Facility to prevent inadvertent contact with the foreigners. All the usual security arrangements and calls of relatives remained in place, but for two weeks I wouldn’t have access to the modern amenities of the Maze.
“Sorry for the inconvenience”, she said.
I was not upset at all to spend two weeks in my old home. In fact, I enjoyed it. When I was back in the Maze, I noticed that they cleaned the floor and removed most of my scribblings on the walls, for the sake of foreign tourists I suppose.
This Celebration, whatever it was, was repeated in seven years’ time, complete with my two-week holiday at the Facility. The house seemed to be much smaller than I remembered it but all the cozier for that. Once again, Mother was coming daily, like in good old times.
One day, already in my teens, wandering about the Maze, I met an old man whom I’d never seen before but who appeared to know me. A man in his fifties, that was an old man to me.
“Greetings to you, Asterion”, he said.
“Greetings to you too, sir. And you are — ”
“I’m dead”, shrugged the man as if stating the obvious.
“With all respect, sir, you look alive and well to me.”
“It’s my name, young man. Dead. They call me Dead.”
What a conversation starter!
Dead said he was an architect, which was fair enough, and claimed that he built the Maze. This I couldn’t believe as he evidently had difficulties navigating his own creation. He said he entered the Maze for a routine inspection but left the map at home. I took him to the exit in no time. Dead was astounded.
“How do you do that?”
“I live here. I can find my way around here with my eyes closed.”
“And, if you don’t mind me asking… have you ever thought of escaping?”
“The exits are guarded. And what would I do outside? Where would I go?”
Dead assented gravely.
“Indeed. Oh well, I guess I’ll see you next time I’m here.”
Since then, we’ve met countless times. I reckon Dead was coming to the Maze more often than was necessary for inspection. I learned later that he had serious problems at home. For one of my birthdays, Dead presented me with a set of dice. He made me interested in probability theory so we spent many an hour playing dice trying to prove or disprove some of Dead’s more outlandish theorems.
Once Dead asked me:
“Can you show me where we are on the map?”
Ah. The famous map was produced.
“Sure I can,” I answered, perusing it. “Let me see, we are here. But what’s this?”
It turned out, I didn’t know the Maze that well after all. Criss-crossing the map, there were several paths that I had no recollection of whatsoever.
“Ah, them. These are tunnels.”
“Why have I never seen them?”
“Because the entrances are concealed.”
“And this?” I pointed at the pair of dashed lines that was disappearing beyond the edge of the map.
“Another tunnel that leads to the port. We were using it to bring the building materials for the Maze. Oh. Completely forgot. I was meant to carry out an inspection of the southern auxiliary tunnel.”
I bet he’d made it up.
“Can I join you?”
Dead gave it some consideration.
“Mmm... well... why not. Let’s go.”
As I followed him, I heard Dead muttering something like “see, I am not supposed to show that to anybody... especially to the boy... then again... what the underworld!” and so on.
That’s how I opened to myself a whole new dimension of the Maze. And not only that. For the first time, I was doing something forbidden.
Although Dead never showed me the map or mentioned the tunnels again, with time I explored all of them. I located the entrance to the “port tunnel” but it was cluttered with construction waste and I wasn’t able to go very far. To my great joy, I hit on a number of tunnels that were not on Dead’s map. As a consequence, my mental image of the Maze, while increasing in complexity, shrunk in size. Using tunnels as shortcuts, I could get from any point to any other point in less than a quarter of an hour.
It was exciting, exhilarating even. Also dangerous. Maybe that’s why it was so exciting. I am trying to rationalise it now, but then I simply felt I had a secret that was not to be shared with anybody. Not even with Ari. Especially with Ari.
In parallel with the transformation of my Maze universe, my relationship with Ari also evolved. Other dimensions sprouted and the distance between us shortened. One dimension was temporal. When I was a child, I didn’t think much about time or the distant future. Now Ari and I were spending hours on end talking about what lies ahead for both of us. Ari always had her own life beyond the Maze and was looking forward to her, hopefully bright, future in the wide open world. My future had been decided by others, and there was little we could do about it.
“What do you think would happen if I ever get out of here?” I asked Ari once.
“You’ll see that the Island is another prison, only bigger,” she responded.
It dawned at me that I was on the brink of blabbing about the tunnels. Thanks to her response, I didn’t.
In any case, our conversations made both of us appreciate the moments where we still were together.
Another new dimension was also related to us growing up. Yes, you guessed right. I was not ashamed of me becoming physically attracted to Ari then as I am not ashamed of it now. Again, it was both exciting and frightening. It was new. Ari was a part of my life, well, forever. My sister, friend, confidante. We felt safe together and we felt safe when we parted because we knew that tomorrow we’d be together again. And now I was afraid. I thought if we crossed the line, I might lose her.
Dead used to say that nobody can see the future. What we can know is the chance of a certain event happening. One day, or rather evening — Ari got permission to stay overnight — I tried to express my confused thoughts in terms of probabilities whilst pacing to and fro about the room.
“If we, for example, multiply the predetermined probability of me staying in the Maze till the end of my life, which is one, by the uncertain probability of you...”
“Quit talking gibberish and come over here,” Ari proposed. “And stop fiddling with those dice.”
That night, we found ourselves on the other side of the line. And we were not afraid anymore.
To be continued...
I saw this brand new book in the library and couldn’t just leave it there. But what’s this? First edition, March 2025? Spanish translation, © 2025? Is that correct?
Yes, it is. This is the first Spanish edition. The Catalan version, translated by Albert Nolla, also appeared this year. The book, as ポートレイト・イン・ジャズ (Pōtoreito in jazu), was first published in 1997 by Shinchosha and so far hasn’t been translated to English.
Even though the order of the authors on the cover may imply otherwise, the book is not a collection of writings by Murakami illustrated by Wada. Just the opposite: a series of portraits created by Wada to which Murakami provided short essays, with a recommendation of one album, from his vast collection of vinyls. The first edition of the book contained 52 portraits, and the for the second edition the authors added three “bonus tracks”, that is, portraits of Art Pepper, Frank Sinatra and Gil Evans.
What I found surprising is how unsurprising is the selection of the musicians. All featured artists are American, apart from Django Reinhardt, Oscar Peterson and Gil Evans, and then both Peterson and Evans spent most of their lives in the United States. This is not to say that I dislike any one of Wada’s choices. Besides, it’s the music both authors were growing with.
Of course, the same argument could be applied to album recommendations, although in this case they were chosen by Murakami. I was pleased to see there Ella and Louis Again, Full House, The Sidewinder, Waltz for Debby and Maiden Voyage; I completely agree with Murakami that the latter album is indeed the Herbie Hancock best work. I thought so in the 1990s, I still think the same in 2025. But I am puzzled why no original recordings by Tony Bennett, Glenn Miller or Fats Waller were recommended. There seems to be no good explanation apart from that the corresponding tribute albums just happened to be in Murakami’s collection.
As a curiosity, Murakami says that he wrote South of the Border, West of the Sun being convinced that he heard the version of South of the Border by Nat King Cole. In reality, this song was never a part of Cole’s repertoire. One of the albums that Murakami recommends is ¡Olé Tormé! which, indeed, contains South of the Border. I couldn’t find a confirmation that George Gershwin based character of Sportin’ Life on Cab Calloway, but it’s a good story anyway.
I like Murakami’s sense of humour, like, for example, here:
Desconozco cuántos fans de Eddie Condon quedan hoy en día, pero tengo la impresión de que no deben de ser demasiados. <...> Trataba de mimetizarse con la escenografía para no llamar la atención, y por mucho que uno aguzara el oído, no lograba entender qué estaba tocando exactamente a la guitarra.
Or writing about Oscar Peterson:
Su discografía no conoce obras fallidas; toda ella mantiene un nivel considerablemente alto, y, sin embargo, debo confesar que no me entusiasma demasiado, no como para correr a comprar sus discos. Es cierto que en casa tengo más de cincuenta de sus álbumes como solista...
The translation by Juan Francisco González Sánchez is a pleasure to read, albeit I have to say that the use of the words cedé (for CD) and elepé (for LP) irritated me a lot. There is a number of typos, such as Kind of Blues instead of Kind of Blue, and some catalogue numbers are wrong, although those could have come unchecked from the Japanese original. I hope they will be corrected in the future editions.
It was a great September, stuff-wise.
All the free shows of the 29th edition of TEMUDAS (18—28 September 2025) took place in Santa Catalina, so it was very convenient for us. (We passed on the container terminal concert this year.) This is what we’ve seen:
The last concert from the cycle Música Antigua en el Patio this year:
And exhibitions:
Hello, October.
I never loved him, nor did he love me. The marriage was arranged by our parents. Still, for ten years or so I tried to play a good wife and mother while tolerating his infidelities.
And then, for the first time in my life, I fell in love. I was so head over heels, I threw away all precautions. No regrets. I was still young. I felt desired.
The bull provided a useful distraction. The idiot of my husband was smitten by it. Not surprising, actually, knowing where he is coming from. He spent all the days with that animal, and most likely nights too. That garden shed on four legs, I’m sure the hubby ordered it because his pet was not reciprocating. And he had the cheek to insinuate that it was me who used it. What for? Bulls don’t dedicate much time to lovemaking, ask any vet. The business per se takes a couple of seconds. I cannot imagine any woman who’d be thrilled by the experience.
And the real father? The man who I thought was the love of my life. A coward who, upon learning that I was expecting, fled the country. Typical. Even though my dumbass husband was so obsessed with the bull thing, he would never suspect me of having an affair with a mere mortal. Let alone African. (Ah, blessed double standards! There was no shortage of putitas of every social class and colour passing through his blasted Majesty’s bedroom in the early years of our marriage, when there still was some lead in his penicillus, if you know what I mean.) So, neither of these two ever saw my son.
To deliver, I had to go to a maximum security hospital, with the ward guarded by the soldiers, as if there was some kind of monster ready to devour people from minute one. I was attended to by the best doctors and midwives but still, it wasn’t nice. Besides, the labour was long and difficult. You’d think after so many pregnancies it would be a piece of cake but no. True, the baby was big. But when he was finally out, oh, believe me, he was the most beautiful baby boy I had ever seen. And this was what my husband envisioned for my newborn son: life confinement. Who is the monster here?
Truth to be told, it was not even his decision. He couldn’t decide on anything without consulting the oracle, or so he says. Very convenient. As was when the wonderful bull went berserk and the same oracle recommended to be rid of it. The butchers here were offering good money but in the end the halfwit sold it for peanuts to the Athenians, whom he hates.
Of course I can’t be objective. My other sons, even when they were babies, all had my husband’s face. The daughters, no, they have my features. Even so, all of them, apart from Ari, rejected baby Aster. I didn’t expect my own kids to turn that racist. I totally blame their father. Also myself, for having children with this bigot.
Initially, they kept him in a heavily guarded house they called a “Facility”. It was spacious enough for a child and had a garden. Every day, until he was one year old, I’d come to the Facility to breastfeed and play with him, and Ari always accompanied me. Such a lovely girl. Later, perhaps inevitably, our visits became less frequent. As a teenager, Ari would go on her own to stay with her brother. By the boy’s tenth birthday, the current building was completed and Aster was transferred there. They said that it was better equipped than the old Facility, had everything a growing young man needs, like gym, library, workshops, spare bedrooms in case the visitors — such as me — wanted to stay overnight... Everything, apart from freedom, that is. For me, it’s just a giant stupid prison. Frankly, I preferred the old one, not least because it was closer to the palace. Now for me it is quite an undertaking. Eventually I would travel there just once a week. Maybe it was for the best. Aster must have grown tired of his poor mother bursting into tears every time it was time to leave. Ari, to be able to see him as often as she wanted, took horseriding lessons. Much to my husband’s annoyance, I have to add, but who cares. All these years she was my boy’s best friend. His only friend.
To be continued...
As we mark the fifteenth anniversary of the inauguration of this majestic, awe-inspiring and, dare I say, labyrinthine edifice, I, in my capacity as Minister of Swift Justice, allow myself to say a few words. I know, I know, everyone is hungry, nobody came here to listen to another career bureaucrat. But hold with me, won’t take a minute, I promise.
It’s fair to say that ours is the first penitentiary in the world where a would-be offender is detained before, not after, he commits his heinous crimes. How do we know that he commits them? Why, by bringing him these innocent young people that he murders and devours, in flagrante delicto. Do you need any more evidence? But here’s the beauty of the situation: by placing the cannibalistic creature in our loving care, ipso facto we transform the disgusting unlawful killing into perfectly legal and even commendable sacrifice. Everybody wins, apart from the sacrificed youth, of course.
Lamentably, His Majesty could not attend this function today due to other commitments. Never mind that, we’ve got an equally or even more distinguished invitee with us. The most faithful patron of this monumental work of modern architecture, as well as a devoted mother, an animal lover, Doctor of Pharmacy and a ravishing beauty — folks, please give a big hand to Her Majesty the Queen.
To be continued...
So here I was, in a quandary of my own making. Did I have to ask my uncle for that signal in the first place? Now that the animal had showed up, I couldn’t just kill it. You must be blind not to see that it was not your common or garden variety bull. For all I know, it could have been my uncle himself. There was little doubt that the old guy would be mad at me regardless. The question was, what would enrage him more: my attempt to sacrifice him or my disobedience?
Next thing, my whore of a wife fell for the beast instantly. I am not good enough for her, give her a barnyard animal any time. To be fair, it’s not entirely her fault. This is what the gods do. They find it hilarious, to turn into a hooved creature, seduce somebody else’s missus and look at the husband’s reaction. What could I do? Swallow my pride and wear my horns, that’s what. O ignominy! By the time the word of scandalous pregnancy reached my ears, it was abundantly clear that the bull was what it was, no matter how magnificent, and not a god of any kind. Still, butchering the poor bovine — technically, the father of the future prince — wasn’t even on the table. I wouldn’t risk angering yet another god, my father-in-law.
What I did do, however, was to make sure that the abomination was securely locked up from the moment of its birth. The oracle told me to build a high security prison for the bull’s offspring. I charged my best architect with the project and didn’t spare money on it. It took twice as long as planned and was three times over budget. I was still grieving the loss of my elder son then. Controlling finances was not the first thing on my mind. As usual, I was the last to learn that the very architect built that wretched wooden cow. Really, I can’t trust anybody on this island.
To be continued...
My brother and I first heard Wish You Were Here relatively late, in early ’80s, already after The Wall. Like most of Western music at the time, it came on magnetic tape reel. It was a good quality recording (chromium dioxide tape, 19 cm/s, directly from vinyl) that turned out to be an exceptionally good quality recording. By the beginning of the title track my brother temporarily left our (tape recorder-hosting) room and went to the kitchen. Then I heard him shouting, “Will you quit plinking!” — obviously at me, as we were alone in the house at that moment. As flattered I was, it wasn’t me. It just so happened that Gilmour’s acoustic guitar in the intro sounded very similar to mine. I myself wouldn’t dare to play along the song I heard for the first time in my life. That’s how good the tape was.
There was nothing to grow on me: it was a love at first hear. WYWH dethroned all other Pink Floyd’s albums, even The Dark Side of the Moon. By contrast, the cover art, when I finally saw it, was a disappointment, if not to say sacrilege. I wouldn’t mind to have that postcard though.
Because the album is so perfect, most cover versions of it are not particularly impressive. There’s little point of slavishly following it note by note, yet that’s the trap even Pink Floyd themselves fell into on many occasions. I like Andreas Polyzogopoulos Quartet and Evgeny Khmara’s versions of Shine On You Crazy Diamond; and Have a Cigar by Gov’t Mule, Sweet Leda and The Main Squeeze.
In 2006, I went to see Rodrigo y Gabriela at The Junction in Cambridge. As they often did back then, they played Wish You Were Here with Rodrigo using a (half-full) beer bottle as a slide and the audience singing along. I am still looking for a decent quality video of that or a similar performance, but believe me, it was magic. How I wish you were there.
This is what we’ve seen this, pretty much dead, month.
And an exhibition, or rather four exhibitions:
Looking forward to September.
This is the third and so far the most difficult novel of Ishiguro I read. It took me about six weeks to finish it.
If comic episodes and repetitive dialogues of A Pale View of Hills are charming, here they take most of the space — and become tiresome. Was it really necessary to include everything the most mediocre characters say? Ishiguro himself provides great examples of how to deal with that: “For a while he went on uttering such empty phrases” or “continued in this vein for a while longer, but I had stopped listening”. The book ended just as I started to enjoy it. Bother.
The Unconsoled was published 30 years ago and, according to Wikipedia, was not received very well at the time. Now it is considered to be a masterpiece. I hope to re-read it a few years from now, perhaps even at a slower pace.
As I started to read the book during the Women’s Euro 2025, which I followed closely, the story of Number Nine — a favourite toy football player of Boris, the protagonist’s stepson — resonated with me.
‘Number Nine’ belonged to Boris’s very favourite team, and was by far the most gifted of the players. However, for all his immense skill, Number Nine was a highly moody personality. His position in the team was somewhere in midfield, but often, for long stretches of a match, he would sulk in some obscure part of the pitch, apparently oblivious of the fact that his team was losing badly. Sometimes, Number Nine would continue in this lethargic manner for over an hour, so that his team would go four, five, six goals down, and the commentator — for indeed there was a commentator — would say in a mystified voice: ‘Number Nine so far just hasn’t found his form. I don’t quite know what’s wrong.’ Then, perhaps with twenty minutes remaining, Number Nine would finally give a glimpse of his true ability, pulling back a goal for his side with some fine piece of skill. ‘That’s more like it!’ the commentator would exclaim. ‘At last, Number Nine shows what he can do!’ From that moment on, Number Nine’s form would grow steadily stronger, until before long he would be scoring one goal after another, and the opposing team would be concentrating entirely on preventing at virtually any cost Number Nine receiving the ball. But sooner or later he would, and then, no matter how many opponents stood between him and the goalmouth, he would manage to find a way through to score. Soon the inevitability of the outcome once he had received the ball was such that the commentator would say: ‘It’s a goal,’ in tones of resigned admiration, not when the ball actually went into the net, but at the moment Number Nine first gained possession — even if this occurred deep within his own half.
Incidentally, Spain’s own Number Nine, Esther González, with four goals, won the Top Scorer award of the tournament.
This poem appears in Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, which I read last time some 20 years ago. I completely forgot about the POTUS and his nanny appearing there until I, quite by chance, came across the page of wonderful Roald Dahl translations by Mark Freidkin — yes, the very same translator of «Книга бессмыслиц». Enjoy!
| Roald Dahl The Nurse’s Song |
Роальд Даль, перевод Марка Фрейдкина Песня няни президента США |
This mighty man of whom I sing, |
Великой нации отец, |
To put both poems into historical context: Dahl’s novel was published in 1972. The book «Детские бестселлеры» contaning its Russian translation appeared in 2001. Of course, Dahl and Freidkin were thinking of different presidents. Which president do you think of?
At the long last, I watched Encanto (in Spanish), thanks to the open-air cinema cycle Vamos de cine organised by LPA Cultura. I have to say that I didn’t enjoy the first 10—15 minutes at all and was even considering going home. The viewers, that is, little kids and their parents, were producing so much noise that sometimes I couldn’t hear the dialogue. I’m glad I stayed.
OK, the “happy” ending was a bit of a let-down. I was hoping for a magic-less alternative, which was already taking shape. But all in all, I liked this film. I would like it even better if not for songs. Most of them are forgettable (I forgot them already) and don’t add much to the story. A few are irritating, none more so than Colombia, Mi Encanto yodelled by Carlos Vives. I’d say, scrap them all — with a singular exception of No se habla de Bruno (We Don’t Talk About Bruno) which is a masterpiece. I think that the Spanish version is superior to the (already pretty damn good) English original.
This is what we’ve seen this month.
And that was it for July.
Screened this Monday in Casa de Colón as a part of the cycle «Miradas audiovisuales. Pensar y comprender América». Presented by the director himself and followed by a colloquium, but I did not stay.
Written and directed by Alán González. Starring Coralia Veloz, Héctor Echemendía and Roque Moreno.
Written and directed by Alán González. Starring Grisell Monzón, Marybel García Garzón, Carlos Peña and Reynier Morales. Watch here.
Screenplay by Nuri Duarte and Alán González. Directed by Alán González. Starring Lola Amores and Noslén Sánchez.
Screenplay by Nuri Duarte and Alán González. Directed by Alán González. Starring Arlettis González, Omar Rolando González and Maggie Mateo.
Screenplay by Nuri Duarte. Directed by Alán González. Starring Lady Chiv, Mateo Menéndez, Eduardo Martínez and Yaité Ruiz.
A few months ago, I saw it in the bookshop. Maybe it was put on display because it won the 2024 National Prize for Children’s and Young Adult Literature. I leafed through it, read the blurb — about a modern Japanese girl who wants to become an ama — got interested and... asked our library to purchase it. To my great surprise, thay actually did it, and even phoned me when the book arrived.
I liked the story and loved the drawings.
Time: the news of the fall of the Berlin Wall are on the telly. Place: in the middle of nowhere. Well, somewhere in New Mexico, which is the same thing.
Starring Kristen Stewart, Katy O’Brian and Ed Harris, this Tarantinesque neo-noir thriller / Western / black comedy has got everything: lesbian romance, gruesome murders, bodybuilding competition in Las Vegas, you name it. Also, a couple of the most gross scenes I wish to unsee. All in all, pretty good stuff. Shame about the title though: couldn’t they think of something more unique? I prefer the Spanish Sangre en los labios, as corny as it is.
Love Lies Bleeding was shown as a part of the cycle Diversidad, Igualdad y Cultura by Filmoteca Canaria.
