The Thread (𐄉)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

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)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

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)

𐄋	𐄊	𐄉
𐄌	𐄇	𐄈
𐄍	𐄎	𐄏

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.

Free live music and stuff in Las Palmas, August 2025

This is what we’ve seen this, pretty much dead, month.

• 9 August: Poesía Cantada con Dácil Santana @ Biblioteca Pública Municipal Josefina de la Torre, Paseo de las Canteras, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria
  Dácil Santana (voice, guitar) with special guests, poets Adán Nada and Soledad Salim, the author of Guerra de almohadas.

  

• 23 August: Bravas, brindis y letras @ Biblioteca Pública Municipal Josefina de la Torre
  Colloquium with actress Carol Cabrera, film director Arima León and winemakers Trinidad Fumero and Josefina Rojas, polished with a glass of white Canarian wine.

  

• 29 August: Eugenia Cabrera @ Casa de Colón, Calle Colón, 1
  Canarian cantautora Eugenia Cabrera (voice, percussion) accompanied by Pachi Cabrera (guitar).

  

And an exhibition, or rather four exhibitions:

• 12 June — 31 August: «Millares Sall. Creación plástica»
  A retrospective of the artistic output of the Millares Sall family, in four locations:
  • Tribute to Sixto Millares Sall @ Centro Atlántico de Arte Moderno (CAAM), Calle de los Balcones, 9
  • Manolo Millares @ CAAM — San Antonio Abad, Plaza San Antonio Abad
  • María del Carmen “Jane” Millares: Centro de Artes Plásticas, Calle Colón, 8
  • Eduardo “Cho-Juaá” Millares @ Fundación Mapfre Canarias, Calle Castillo, 6

  

Looking forward to September.

The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

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.

The Nurse’s Song / Песня няни президента США

by Roald Dahl
translated by Mark Freidkin

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, The greatest of them all, Was once a teeny little thing, Just eighteen inches tall. I knew him as a tiny tot, I nursed him on my knee. I used to sit him on the pot And wait for him to wee. I always washed between his toes, And cut his little nails. I brushed his hair and wiped his nose And weighed him on the scales. Through happy childhood days he strayed, As all nice children should. I smacked him when he disobeyed, And stopped when he was good. It soon began to dawn on me He wasn’t very bright, Because when he was twenty-three He couldn’t read or write. “What shall we do?” his parents sob. “The boy has got the vapors! He couldn’t even get a job Delivering the papers!” “Ah-ha,” I said, “this little clot Could be a politician.” “Nanny,” he cried, “Oh Nanny, what A super proposition!” “Okay,” I said, “let’s learn and note The art of politics. Let’s teach you how to miss the boat And how to drop some bricks, And how to win the people’s vote And lots of other tricks. Let’s learn to make a speech a day Upon the TV screen, In which you never never say Exactly what you mean. And most important, by the way, Is not to let your teeth decay, And keep your fingers clean.” And now that I am eighty nine, It’s too late to repent. The fault was mine the little swine Became the President.

Великой нации отец, Что всем нам так знаком, Когда-то был совсем малец, Под стол ходил пешком. Он был малявка, просто тля. Его (коль он хотел) Я на горшок сажала для Больших и малых дел. Его купала я не раз, Чтоб мальчик лучше рос, И утирала что ни час Его сопливый нос. И чтобы детство день за днём Безоблачней текло, Ему всыпала я ремнём По первое число. Ведь был он (стоит ли скрывать?) Не вундеркинд — о нет! И сколько будет пятью пять, Узнал лишь в двадцать лет. «Как парень дальше будет жить? — Все недоумевали. — Ведь и газеты разносить Возьмут его едва ли!» Но я сказала: «Не беда, Что мальчик прост немного. Таким в политике всегда Открытая дорога!» Он знает, как попасть впросак Расчётливо и метко, И наломать дрова мастак, Каких увидишь редко, И элегантен, как верстак, И туп, как табуретка. Он может чушь пороть подряд И два, и три часа, Что очень важно, говорят, В борьбе за голоса. Плюс строгий галстук, честный взгляд, Зубов здоровых ровный ряд — Они в день выборов творят Большие чудеса. И в результате тех чудес (А здесь лишь я виною) Через Конгресс пролез балбес Руководить страною.

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?