The Thread (𐄉)

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...

The Thread (𐄈)

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...

The Thread (𐄇)

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...

Wish You Were Here

by Pink Floyd

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.