5 June: «Match de impro» @ Teatro Guiniguada, Plaza F. Mesa de León, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria
The second (of three) performances by Escuela Vives Impro lead by Romina Vives. Presented as a match between two teams who had to improvise their lines according to the words or phrases provided by the audience and randomly selected from the box. On this occasion, the green team won. The Saturday show was supposed to be a final (that is, a competition between the winners of the previous two) but I went to see Mestizo in Parque Doramas. Part of VII Muestra de Teatro no profesional.
6 June: Mestizo @ Auditorio José Antonio Ramos, Parque Doramas
Feauturing Danny Martínez (guitar), Pedro Izquierdo (timple), Marcel Montcourt (cuatro venezolano), Samuel Ortiz (clarinet, vocals), Kiko González (percussion), Luis Rivero (bass), Adrián Brito (vocals) and Claudia Álamo (vocals).
From 12 to 28 June our city celebrated its Fiestas Fundacionales. Here are some events we’ve attended:
12 June: «Pangea» @ Castillo de la Luz, Calle Juan Rejón
A work by the Galician composer, musicologist, luthier and multi-instrumentalist Abraham Cupeiro (flutes, horns, bagpipes, carnyx) performed by the author and La Banda Sinfónica Municipal de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria conducted by Juan Roda Sapiña.
The City Dock Band featuring Cristina Ramos paid a tribute to Los Canarios and American soul artists. With guest appearance of Teddy Bautista (via video) and Toba.
This time, the traditional Vegueta festival took place on Sunday morning. I liked this arrangement better than usual Saturday evening one. This is what we’ve seen (the full programme is available here):
Archinautas @ Colegio de Abogados
Súbito Koral @ Casas Consistoriales
La Musicleta @ Plaza del Pilar Nuevo
Barrio de Tango @ Plaza de San Agustín
Son x Tres @ Plaza de la Real Sociedad Económica Amigos del País
As an extra bonus, in the patios of Vegueta the visitors were supplied with Tirma chocolate bars.
The collective exhibition Engravers for Peace, coordinated by the Canarian-Palestinian artist Fátima Suleimán Afonso, brings together creations of some 60 artists from different countries, including a work by Tamara.
As long as I remember, I knew I was adopted. It never was a big deal for me. The official story I heard was that my biological parents died in a war inflicted by Father and he, out of guilt, took me to the palace. I’ll probably never learn the truth. In public, my adoptive parents did not treat me better or worse than the rest of my siblings. Well, Father didn’t show much affection toward either of his daughters. No doubt Mother loved all her children but, as she spent most of her time in the Women’s Wing, she developed much closer connection with us girls. And since it was only me who accompanied Mother to the Facility, our bond grew stronger.
𐘃
Mother never told me what I should do. She explained what I can do and what could be the consequences of that. I would not go so far as to say that there were no secrets between us. I can’t read Mother’s mind. She is very good at keeping her and others’ secrets. But I have many reasons to believe she has been most open with me. And I strived to return the openness.
As soon as I realised that my and Aster’s relationship is much bigger than that of brother and sister, I shared the news with Mother. She responded, darling, I knew it, but thanks for telling me.
Her reaction didn’t mean she didn’t care. Quite the opposite.
𐘰
One day she told me, Aster grew up without a father. I suppose you don’t want that for your child. So you two may want to talk through between yourselves whether it’s a good idea to start a family while Aster is in the Maze.
While Aster is in the Maze.
She said it almost casually, as if my lover’s freedom was simply a matter of time.
Then I realised that Mother was not hoping for a miracle to happen but actively searching the ways to achieve this objective. And counting on my help.
𐙀
As the Fates had it, the Athenian ship brought us the solution. The High Priestess, who at the time combined that post with her position as Head of Intelligence, was in cahoots from the start. To keep the status quo, you have to be open to change, she said. The stranger came to our land to change the status quo. Let’s put him in charge of the status quo.
The show must go on. One Monster in the Maze is quite enough for the purposes of the Programme.
And she was right.
𐙟
I am writing this as Aster and I are basking in the autumn sun on the desolate beach. He’s dozing off as I caress his African hair. After a stint on the continent, we moved again and now live in a fishing village on a small island far away from both Athens and our homeland. The people are friendly but not nosy; that suits us. Here we are known as The Foreigners and happy to be accepted as such. I keep in touch with Mother. She sends us letters every moon — mind you, separate ones for me and Aster. We read them aloud to each other and laugh. Recently she asked me, do you still play with your toy boy? A bit rich of her, considering.
𐘥
It’s true that sometimes I still act as an elder sister to Aster. In the past six years, I taught him to swim, to sail and to ride horses. So what? In his turn, he explained a lot of things to me, most of them hardly practical. Like probability theory. But he’s also shown me how to cook — which is great, because I always hated it. I wonder who he learned cooking from. Right now, he is into Italian cuisine and teaches me some simple dishes. He says, it’s the future.
Speaking of which: we don’t plan to have children yet. Aster spends a lot of time fishing, sometimes he’s away for several days. What he earns from selling his catch is enough for the two of us, but only just. For my part, I tried my luck giving private classes and discovered, to my consternation, that there’s no great demand for skills I can teach. There are no cities on this island. Maybe we’ll have to move once again. Wherever we go, it has to be next to the sea.
𐙡
I used to write a diary in Knossos. Not anymore. Here papyrus is scarce and expensive. Whatever we can get hold of, we use for writing letters. I scribble these notes on a scroll of washed papyrus that I bought at a flea market, still on the continent.
Conversely, the current resident of the Maze has taken to writing, I’m told. When he’s in a mood, he reads selected scrolls to Mother. He calls his work “memoirs”; according to Mother, it’s more like speculative fiction. She encourages him to publish it, under the stylus name of his choice and edited by herself. We’ll see. I, for one, would like to read it when it’s out. I even sent Mother my own suggestion for that name: Asteroid. Don’t you dare, she wrote back.
If our roles were reversed, I would reply with the same words. That Athenian and Aster have got absolutely nothing in common, apart from both being men.
𐘘
Why did I talk to him that night anyway? The High Priestess advised us just before dinner that there was enough intelligence gathered to confirm the identity of the spy. Yet I felt he deserved the benefit of doubt… until we talked. I saw it in his eyes. He stared at me as if saying, don’t worry, Princess, I’ll be back and I’ll take you. So I cut our conversation short and gave him the skein. By the way, it was Mother’s idea to make his route in the Maze as predictable as possible. In general, to replace his plan with ours. Him following the instructions confirmed what we already knew.
𐙷
What amazes me is that he bought into our plan hook, thread and sinker. He didn’t even bother to leave any wall marks after him, which was an obvious thing to do. Not that bright for a spy. Mother says, all these years he kept whingeing how I — that’s me — betrayed his trust. Some people got a nerve.
𐙈
Earlier this year, the High Priestess ruled out that the Athenian will ever be released, good behaviour notwithstanding. All evidence points to him being a serial killer and vigilante, also wanted by the authorities in Athens. So he’ll stay where he is. At least in the Maze he’s got a new identity... and the rest of his life. The Fourth Exercise is going ahead as planned.
𐙁
It’s funny how you try to get away from it all only to start bumping into people from the past. We met Dead while travelling in Italy. He told us the Island was getting too uncomfortable for him, without going into details. I strongly suspect it was Mother again who organised his escape, however Dead insisted that he had nobody to thank but himself. His latest contrivance supposedly allows one to whizz from the Island to the mainland in a matter of hours. In time, he said, it will revolutionise travel, but for now it’s too expensive to enter mass production. Aster nodded enthusiastically; I thought the old chap was losing his marbles.
𐚩
In other news, Mother’s long-time dream has come true: she has opened the School of Pharmacy which boasts world-famous lecturers and where she herself teaches twice a week. There were rumours that the Chair of Toxicology was offered to a certain Medea. Mother didn’t confirm or deny that. She maintains that the selection process is still ongoing and strictly confidential. For now they occupy the old Facility but tarting next academic year they’ll move to the purpose-built premises on the waterfront. I’m so happy for her.
𐙹
Isn’t it strange that these days I think about Mother much more than when I lived in the palace? No, it’s only natural. Back then I was thinking about Aster most of the time. Now I don’t have to.
I never ask about Father, and she never volunteers any information about him. In this, Mother and I didn’t change: we continue blocking him from our minds. I heard from the other sources that he might suffer early-onset dementia. I’m determined not to care.
𐘦
In her last letter Mother said, Ari, you made your own choice. You could have chosen any free man you wanted. But Aster, he didn’t know any better, or any worse. His only choice has been you. There’s no reason why one should stay with another forever. Now that he is free, he might fall in love with another woman. And you may discover that you don’t want to live with him any more. It’s fine by me. If I were faithful to my husband, there wouldn’t be Aster.
I still did not read this one to him. Should I?
I think I should. There’s also this part that clearly is for the two of us:
I am fed up with you lot addressing me as “Mother” as if there were no other purpose in my life. Stop it. From now on, call me Pasi.
𐘲
This story appears in our new book, The Thread, available in paperback and on Kindle from Amazon.
Name: Asterion, son of Pasiphaë Age: 24 years Last routine examination: five moons ago; no illness reported (as per the patient’s medical record). Chief complaint: that he is restrained. Other complaints: the continental breakfast portion size. Description: the patient is disoriented (not knowing where he is) and confused about his own identity. Shows aggressive-suicidal behaviour. Talks about himself variously in first (“I’m a <illegible> hero”), third (“Have to destroy the Minotaur”, “Death to the Minotaur”, etc.), and both first and third person (“I’ll show him”). Uses formal titles for his close relatives (the Queen, the Princess) while can describe their appearance in greater than necessary detail. In spite of spending most of his life in the Maze, apparently unable to find his way around, e.g. to the bathroom. Paradoxically, immediately recognised me as his doctor (false memory) with the words “You’re late again, <illegible> quack”. Tachycardia. Diagnosis: acute psychosis. Immediate treatment: Her Majesty Pharmacy™ Herbal Sedative no. 21, orally, 1 dose with a cup of Valerian infusion. Follow-up: continue with a daily dose of Herbal Sedative no. 21 for two weeks. Plenty of rest and <illegible>. 24-hour surveillance nurse attention. Weekly music therapy sessions (optional; flute is not recommended). Avoid alcohol and spicy food. Double portion of continental breakfast. Revision: in two weeks’ time from today. In case of emergency, call me in. Date: <illegible> Signed: <illegible>
Note 1: the patient’s regular doctor could not be reached at the time of episode as she was off to a Mediterranean cruise. This report was completed by the Emergency Physician who was given access to the patient’s medical records under oath of non-disclosure.
Note 2: for the two weeks, the patient was kept at the Facility, then transferred back to the Maze after the medical revision.
What I find irritating in a performer: (1) asking the audience to sing with, or instead of, them (90% of cantautores do it); (2) explaining what their songs are about; (3) wearing a hat on stage. LQ does all this and it is annoying. I liked Ángel Ravelo’s sax (he didn’t ask the crowd to play any with him).
9 October: MASDANZA Showcase I @ Sala Gabriel Rodó, Paseo Principe de Asturias
The Big Bang Vintage Festival this year was not free. We discovered this on Sunday when the security guy told us that the concert was “a private event” and we were meant to purchase tickets. The prices were €50 (a four-day pass) and €20 (a one-day pass). We were not ready to pay €20 per person for just one concert, and, judging by the applauses, it didn’t look like there was great attendance. Timur and I stayed outside the bus station to listen for the fist few songs. The sound quality wasn’t impressive either.
This concert was part of the 22nd (!) Festival Tensamba — why haven’t I heard of it before? With Camila Masiso (vocals, percussion) and Carol Benigno (accordion).
And exhibitions:
25 September — 24 October: «Caminar la forma» @ Centro Cultural CICCA, Alameda de Colón, 1
From the report of 𐄍, Senior Lieutenant of the Secret Service, responsible for the operation of detention
There was no difficulty in identifying the subject among the passengers disembarked from the Athenian ship, for he was considerably older than his companions. His behaviour also differed from that of the rest of the party. If the younger men and women were showing signs of anxiety and fear, the subject was smiling, joking and even trying to flirt with Her Majesty and the princesses who were all present at the farewell dinner.
The following morning, before entering the Maze, the subject bribed the guard to let him smuggle a bladed weapon*. As the guard immediately informed his superiors, the agents were keeping an eye on the subject at all times ready to disarm him. At the same time, they were under strict orders not to harm him in any way.
Once in the Maze, the subject deployed a so-called “thread”, likely as a tracking device. The analysis has shown that the thread was identical to those on sale in the Ariadne Wools shop, one of the tourist traps of Amnisos. The thread had snapped approximately half-way to the central chamber which could be explained by the poor quality of the wool. This occurrence, when discovered, caused the subject to panic and run back towards the entrance; in reality, by repeatedly taking wrong turns, he was moving in the opposite direction.
The subject was apprehended in the central chamber of the facility where a group of operatives, myself included, were waiting for him. The subject was interrogated in situ whereby he grew agitated and aggressive. He did not provide any meaningful answer to the interviewer’s questions, instead interrupting this latter with questions of his own. After asking repeatedly where he could find “the monitor”, the subject was shown a mirror. The subject remained in a state of shock for several hours, until the Emergency Physician arrived (the Patient Visit Report is attached).
*
The cash obtained thus was fully accounted for and transferred to the Treasury, as is the standard practice for funds raised through controlled bribery activity.
These youngsters were the crème de la crème of the new generation of Athenians. Not only rich but well educated, excelling in sports and arts and, let’s admit it, good-looking. Yet it seemed that, by sheepishly accepting their destiny, all of them lost the will to fight. Throughout the journey, the mood on the ship was positively funereal. I tried to cheer them up, but to no avail. On top of that, I heard words like “jerk” and “nuts” behind my back. What a bunch of losers.
After a few days in this disagreeable company, I was almost happy when we landed at Amnisos. In the port, we were met by a group of local dignitaries and a unit of royal guards. After a short welcome speech by one of the former, we were escorted directly to the royal palace. There we were in for a pleasant surprise. Yet another welcome speech — this time, by His Majesty the King himself — was followed by a sumptuous meal. Last supper, they called it jokingly. I, for one, didn’t get the joke.
One thing that irritated me in the beginning was that they sat down the boys, including me, separately from girls. The reason for that became clear when I realised that watching over the girls were two attractive female guards. Nice touch. The King was somewhat grumpy — as if the whole sacrifice thing was not his idea — and excused himself early, just after starters. As a consequence, the atmosphere in the banquet hall had visibly improved. The princesses were charming and chatty. One of them, who looked and behaved fairly different from her sisters, approached the boys’ table. She found friendly words for everyone and then, without hesitation, asked me to follow her. I took it as an order and gladly obliged.
To my disappointment, we didn’t go very far, just to the corner farthest from the tables. The princess and I had a brief conversation, of which later. Then she gave me a quick hug, a rather perfunctory one I thought, and urged me to return to my companions. Which I fully intended to do but was intercepted halfway by Her Majesty the Queen. Surprise surprise, she also wanted to talk to me.
I have to say that the women’s fashion here is extraordinary. In particular, the Queen’s attire as she wore that evening would make most Athenians blush. That includes me.
She led me to another corner and then, through a stoa, or a gallery, or a portico — one of those things there, I never remember which is which — to a small, tastefully decorated room.
Her Majesty told me, in so many words, to stay away from the princesses because there is no future in this sort of relationship. On the other hand, she added, if there is any interest at all in intelligent after-dinner conversations and possibly more, she could clear her schedule up to early hours of tomorrow.
“Alas, my friend, I can’t offer you much, apart from a night that you’ll remember till the end of your days.”
That’s what she said.
Call me picky but, in the light of my imminent slaughter, I wasn’t particularly taken by the offer. I mumbled something along the lines of me being tired after the sea trip and that I have to get up early, thanked her for the honour and rushed back to the dining room.
While I was away, the ambience had changed once again. The boys at my table, probably affected by wine consumption, perked up and were engaged in a lively discussion. Meanwhile, the girls were singing. I noticed one of the princesses at their table joining in the chorus. On the contrary, I was overcome by anxiety. I couldn’t wait for the dinner to end. The Queen returned to her place and from time to time was making fleeting eye contact with me, all the while adjusting her décolleté, but I was too distracted even to acknowledge the royal glances. Now I understand how rude it was of me.
My mind was flying back to the conversation with the princess. She asked some pretty neutral, I’d say innocent, questions such as “How was the sea journey?” or “Did you like the main course?”. Thank gods she didn’t inquire about my family. I had a distinct impression that all this chit-chat was for somebody else’s ears. And then, as she was hugging me, she discreetly slipped something soft in my belt pouch and whispered: “It’s your fate”.
The banquet was over shortly after midnight. I dreaded that we’ll have to sleep in some godawful shared dormitory, like we did on the ship. It was a relief when they brought me to my sleeping quarters, in a separate wing of the palace. At last, a private bedroom, even though for one night only and with an armed guard outside.
When I was completely sure of my privacy, I inspected the contents of my pouch. It included a ball of shiny silky thread (what the underground?) and a small papyrus scroll. A message! As I was scrolling (pun intended) through it, my heart started to beat with joy. The letter contained instructions how to reach the centre of the Maze and get back — with the help of the thread. Her plan was as genius as it was simple, why didn’t I think of it myself? I was kind of planning to use breadcrumbs for the same purpose, except I forgot to do anything about it, like to save a roll or two at the dinner. The thread is so much more reliable — and tidier.
The letter concluded with the line:
Good luck, xoxo Ari
Gods, so that was her name! During our short rendez-vous, she didn’t introduce herself, and why should she? Neither did the Queen. Nor did I, for that matter.
So I take it that Ari wants me to succeed and get back from my mission. Maybe we have a future after all? Good thing I didn’t hang after dinner with her nymphomaniac mother.
I was so excited with new hope, I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I was wrong.
I was woken to a gentle but persistent knocking on the door.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, momentarily forgetting that I was not in my home.
The guard half-opened the door.
“Would you care for some breakfast, sir?”
“Pardon me?”
“The thing is, you were randomly selected to be the first of your party to enter the Maze. By tradition, the person about to be sacrificed is given a choice: room service or to join their companions in the canteen for buffet.”
“Er... Give me a moment. Too much information to digest.”
Somehow the first part of the guard’s message was what I was foreseeing all along; I didn’t believe for a moment my selection was random but hey, it could play into my hands.
“Of course, sir. I hope it doesn’t take too long though. The kitchen is not open all morning, you know. Give me a shout when you are ready.”
With these words, he tossed me a papyrus scroll and closed the door behind him. Another letter? My heart began to pound again. With hands shaking, I unwound the scroll.
“Dear sacrificee #1”, it read (the number ‘1’ had been written in by a different hand). “We hope you enjoyed your stay at the Royal Palace. Your opinion matters to us. We would be grateful if you could provide feedback on your guest experience by completing the anonymous questionnaire (attached). Thank you for your visit, and we wish you every success for the future, whether or not —”
Furious, I crumpled the papyrus up and hurled it in the corner of the bedroom.
“Room service!” I yelled.
“Minoan or continental?” readily asked the guard from behind the door.
“Bring them both.”
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.
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 on 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.
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.
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.
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.
This is what we’ve seen in July. Sketches and photos by Tamara.
3 July: «Ecos de Canarias y Piazzolla» @ Palacete Rodríguez Quegles, Calle Benito Pérez Galdós, 4, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria
Trío Gabriel Rodó featuring Ana Marrero (piano), Liliana Mesa Montané (violin) and Berenice Musa (soprano).
5 July: Sofar concert @ Centro Atlántico de Arte Moderno (CAAM), Calle de los Balcones, 9
This is the very first time I went to a Sofar event and loved it, even at the cost of missing the last part of Spain—Germany football game. Featuring Kimera, Shango Dely and Nala Rami; each band played for about 30 minutes.
6 July: «Iron Modvm» @ Auditorio José Antonio Ramos, Parque Doramas
A show by the Barcelona-based company Iron Skulls, plus some guest breakdance battles.
The concert by La Banda Sinfónica Municipal de Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. Conductor: Pedro Vicente Alama. Soloist: Aitor Llimerá Galduf (oboe). Called “from opera to jazz”, it’s probably better described by “from Bach to Gershwin”.
A live cinema event where Insectotròpics (Barcelona) reinterpret the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice by reviewing the concepts of love, life and death via the virual reality glasses. With guest (on-screen) appearance of Mr. B., Mr. G., Mr. M. and Mr. Z.
A show by La Troupe Malabó (Castellón) featuring Laura Agustí (violin, soprano), Quique Montoya (clown), Mae Puchalt (violin), Sonia Tabares (viola) and Alberto Zente (cello).
I saw this show by Kolektiv Lapso Cirk some five years ago in Santander and thoroughly enjoyed it. But I can’t be in two places at the same time. So Tamara and Timur went to see Ovvio and I went to see Rubén Rodríguez.
Perinké Big Band led by Ximo Martínez presented their show Fiebre de Mambo feauring vocals of Marieme Herrera and Sofiel del Pino.
Adédèji is an Afro-beat band from Nigeria featuring Adédèjì Adetayo (guitars, lead vocals), Ebun Arowosegbe (vocals), Mary Sobowale (vocals, violin), Abiodun ‘Wura’ Oke (percussion), Oluwasegun Adebuyi (bass), Ralph Lasisi (tenor sax), Victor Ademofe (trumpet), Samuel Obinna (drums) and Samuel Olawale (keyboards). I should have stayed longer for that one!
Theo Croker (trumpet) accompanied by Idris Frederik (piano, keyboards), Miguel Marcel Russell (drums) and Eric Wheeler (double bass); Ana Popovic (guitar, vocals) with Claudio Giovagnoli (sax), Davide Ghidoni (trumpet), Corey LaDell Burns (bass), Michele Papadia (keyboards) and Jeremy Thomas (drums, vocals).
Jonathan Kreisberg (electric guitar), Marko Churnchetz (piano), Luca Alemanno (double bass) and Colin Stranahan (drums); Polo Ortí (piano, keyboards), Chipi Chacón (trumpet), Samuel Kèri (electric bass) and Naíma Acuña (drums).
