Ron D Yola Media

The Taxi Driver (English version of a Brazilian story)

It is one of those ugly grey days in Sao Paolo. It isn’t raining, however, the cloud cover does not allow a single ray of sunshine to come through. The dim light thickens with the smog of the city and brings with it an eerie grey hue that hangs over it like a veil.

This mood makes it easier to say ‘good bye’ to this city and country, even if on a day like this one might not see some things the way they’d see them on a sunny day. The word ‘some’ describes all the slums and misery of this monstrous metropolitan picture that desensitizes body and soul and takes away the ability to breath.

I am on my way to the airport and am walking through the old center of the city. A girlfriend accompanies me and helps me carry my luggage that consists of one large and one small backpack, a shopping bag and a 2 meter long surf board.

We are at the ‘Praça da Republica’, one of the large areas of the old center of the city, where we are searching for the bus that heads straight to the airport. We are in luck and find the right bus. The driver is busy with another passenger when a man approaches us, offering a taxi ride to the airport. I tell him that I don’t have enough money for a taxi (I know that the price is usually around 60 – 70 R$). He says with a bold smile that he would transport us for 20 R$ per person, meaning my girlfriend and myself. I explain to him that I am the only passenger, so he says 25 R$. I ask him about my surfboard that I will definitely want to transport and he assures me saying he has a big taxi and ‘a gente dar um jeito’, a much used expression in Brazil, which means ‘no problem – we’ll manage’. The bus would have cost 24 R$. I think about it for a while with apprehension wondering if this could be some kind of a trap. I could arrive at a totally different location, be robbed of all my belongings and maybe even end up with a bullet in my head. My imagination in instances like that can run wild, knowing the realities in this country. But he seems to be what he says he is – a legitimate taxi driver, and besides, there will be another passenger, a young guy with such an honest naive look about him that gives an impression of an almost helpless softie. But then again they could be in this together. I consider this possibility for a split second and decide to take this somewhat risky trip by taxi. I had taken the bus upon my arrival and decided not to repeat that boring trip.

We start walking toward the taxi, which is parked on the other side of the very wide street. He grabs the surf board that I had slung around my shoulder wrapped in a specially designed bag. He is the somewhat lighter almost Caucasian type. I realize that he has hardly any hair, but cannot be much older than myself. His beard, the almost bald well-formed head and the soft nose give him a robust and yet pleasant look. He is wearing a tweed jacket and jeans that are old and worn. He is definitely not one of the “taxistas’ with jacket and tie or even a suit, who normally show up at the airport and are very arrogant.

My Brazilian girlfriend tries to tell me that she once had been robbed right here, which she just remembered. Her telephone and money was taken in the middle of the day. We load the trunk with everything that fits into it and find a spot across the middle of the white taxi for my surfboard. After a short ‘good bye’ I take my seat behind the passenger side of the car. And off we go.

“Not too long ago I picked up an Australian surfboarder, can’t think of his name just now, but must be quite famous; in any case, he had this huge surf board with him – much larger than yours – and we pushed it through from the trunk all the way to the front of the car and it fit, even if we couldn’t see each other and had to sit somewhat cramped. To have a conversation was also very difficult – he didn’t speak a work of Portuguese and my English is very limited, besides who can understand this Aussieenglish and with that board between us we couldn’t even make use of the international sign language that usually gets me through.” While talking he looks at me in the rearview mirror to make sure I understood him. “He was going down to Guaruja to take part in a surfing competition and we had to drive the whole time in silence (which is torture for this man as I was soon to find out). But this Aussie was a neat guy. I stayed with him for a while in Guaruja and did some girl watching and watched other surfers. By the way, where are you off to?” “Miami” said the shy one in front of me. “Alemanha” I responded.

A short quiet time befalls the taxi. We travel past stores, condos and office buildings, the horns of the cars penetrate into the quiet and the air conditioning is turned on. People moving on the unevenly cemented sidewalks of Sao Paolo, where you have to walk with one eye to the ground to prevent you from stumbling – I’m thinking back to yesterday’s moments, when I took a risk by driving with my skateboard through the city. He is talking about some money launderer between Miami and Sao Paolo, who not too long ago was arrested at the airport with lots of money in his suitcase, something political, but I’m only listening with one ear and try to absorb and meditate on the movie that is playing in front of me – a game I try to play often.

“Yes, the money and the poverty – always the same story – there are always those who make a living on the misery of others.” We are stopped at a red light. Across the intersection expands a viaduct of the inner city highway, that is cramped full of the usual daily traffic. Cars with license plates starting with an uneven number seemingly are permitted on the road today. Those who can afford to have 2 registered automobiles can of course avoid this city-inflicted tyranny.

Right in front of the cars waiting for the light to turn a street artist is juggling 4 large knives high into the air. He is throwing higher and higher, and just as he has reached such a height that you would think the knives would reach the ceiling of the viaduct, he catches them one by one and poses in front of the waiting-for-the-green-light group. As the light changes I watch him approach the first cars in line hoping for a small tip. But no luck this time. From a distance I see the disappointment in the jugglers’ face. His eyes seem to have a blue sparkle. They speak of freedom and the harshness of life for a wanderer. His braded long dreads mark his gypsy-like being. My surfboard blocks the view as we pass by him. How I would have loved to call something out to him.

Our journey takes us onto the viaduct past lots of smog, rain and dirt darkened high rises of Sao Paolo. Our driver gets into the swing again: “Yes, the money. Everything revolves about the money. Where does it go in this city? 300 million R$ were taken in by speedtraps. Supposedly, 160R$ were spent on useful things. Where did the rest go? Probably into someone’s pocket. Money, money. When you have some it multiplies by itself. Bingo games bring in a good amount. A well-staffed ‘house of ill repute’ brings in juicy profit. Looking at it from a different angel, compared to other locations the girls are damn cheap. A while back I was driving 2 Greeks who said that a good one, one with class and looking like a model, costs 200 R$ whereas in Greece they’d cost 300 R$. I drove them all the way down the coast once and stopped at a restaurant on the way where they spent 500 R$ on food and drink – for them that was nothing, but for me it would be a month’s salary. And yet one of the guys told me that in Greece they would have paid that much for just the wine. When does your flight leave?” he questioned me and looked at me in the rearview mirror, which he continuously did through his monologue also. His squinted eyes look at me expectantly – yet they seem to be smiling at the same time.

“Around 4” I answered somewhat bored. “Even later”, says the one sitting in front of me. “Well, then we have ample time. It’s good not to be stressed.” “How far is it to the airport?” I ask. “38 kilometer one way – double that and we could be at the beach. Yeah, those 2 Greeks that I drove around for about a month, they consumed quite a few girls and lots of drugs. One of the girls was thinking that if these guys have so much money to spend on girls and drugs and do nothing else, they must be drug dealers and alerted the police. The pulled these guys out of my taxi and booked all of us to start with. Then they find only 100 R$ worth of drugs in their hotel room. After they let me go I made an effort to bail out these guys. First the price was 6000R$, then they let them go for 4000R$, because I convinced them that these guys were harmless. 2000R$ went directly into the hands of the 2 arresting officers and the rest into the state bank. When they got out I was afraid they might think me to be the traitor, but they told me they knew who ratted on them and I relaxed. A few days later they called me to their new hotel room and because I had helped them when they were in trouble they wanted to show me how much they really had – 7 kilos of the purest stuff, the kind I had never seen in my life. That’s when it hit me that these guys were seeking to purchase the best stuff this whole time.”

Remembering back to my old vice “from stone?” I ask. “Yes, of course” and he again looks straight into my face and seems happy to know that I followed his story. “Of course it was hard and broke into pieces, but the quality, the purity you can tell by the dark crystal-like color. 600000R$ here and over there 6000000€, that is profit, right?”

I ask him: “Do you know how they transport the stuff from here to there?” This really intrigued me. We are once again standing at a traffic light at the entrance of another viaduct. We are still in the greater urban part of the city with houses along the side of the road. Suddenly a fire truck with siren blaring and blue light flashing packs out of the side street into the path of the waiting cars. In my vivid imagination I see this as a ploy to stop all the cars from continuing their trips and to take possession. But then the truck goes in reverse and parks on the sidewalk. As we continue driving I observe a policeman bending over a flat on his back laying man and talking to him. The poor guy doesn’t seem too pleased with the spectacle he has caused. He probably just wanted to take a little nap like so many homeless people in Sao Paolo. Well, in any case they would have to take care of him at the shelter, which is the law in Brazil.

“They are quite clever. The check the coke very normal as luggage on a fake passport without a passenger and the boys follow with another carrier later. At the destination another person is waiting, of course who picks up the luggage. Wasn’t there something recently about the airport in Paris being shut down because of a piece of luggage with no owner? With stuff like that a lot of people are involved who get paid off, so the operation comes off successfully. You have to pay. Nothing goes with just being on good terms and friendly persuasions – you have to pay. Those 2 arrive here and are supported by immigrant Greeks. No names and no meetings and no phone calls. The guys just call the girls who relay their message. The number in Greece he gave me doesn’t work either. A woman, who probably was one of the middlemen answered and didn’t speak a word of Portuguese. The guys gave me 150 grams of the stuff to save for them for when they get back. But because they never came back and I didn’t want to sit on the stuff too long I sold it through a friend.”

The highway leading out of the city now has five and sometimes 6 lanes. We are constantly passing single small communities with huts made from cardboard, wood and tin – the most primitive form ‘favelas’ of the slums. Preferred locations are weather-protected places under the viaducts, where you can see several stories high huts of that kind. On one occasion driving past one of those huts I remember seeing a nursing mother directly exposed to the gas fumes of the passing traffic.

“Where did you go surfing, by the way?” he asks me. I answer “on the best waves of Brazil in Saquarema.” “On the best day 3 – 4 meters. My brother once was a surfer, who always drove to Guaruja od Ubatuba. He had a beautiful board with a gigantic shark on it and was a good surfer until he started with drugs that ruined everything for him. He sold his board to buy them and it went downhill from there. Today he lives out in the boondocks in the middle of the ‘mato’ and lives of fishing. The nearest town is 25 km away and he can only get there on foot. He hopes to get free from it there because he would have to walk so far to get the stuff.” “Nature has the strength to heal”, I throw in to contribute something hopeful into the conversations. “Of course, could be, but so far is isn’t healed.”

Now we have reached the outskirts of this gigantic city. The color green is slowly realized. “Look over there in the muck over there on that island” as he is pointing with his outstretched hand to the right where there is an area filled with grass and bushes. “That’s where they found the body of the mayor of Santo André (a suburb of S.P.). Nobody knows why he was killed, but that’s what happens when you don’t play the game. The guy who shot him was captured. Supposedly he was paid 10000 R$.” As if he wanted to challenge me to something he again looked at me through the rearview mirror. He just cannot stop talking and seems to get another good jump. He reminds me of a town crier who can’t stop talking about the gruesome realities of this country. I am forced to listen to his outcry. With his clear strong voice, his balled fists and verbal expressions that witness of knowing the human mentality and on the other hand is equally familiar with street life, he delivers his story with the needed strength and intensity. But his automatic telling of his story demands a high amount of concentration. I am taking in the scenery along the horizon with its ‘favelas’ built of stone and brickwork that expand crag-like over the distant hills without leaving a speck of earth in between. He continues talking, but I am not listening any longer and am trying to get back the euphoric mood I was in before getting into this taxi. For a long time I was not allowing myself to think about the gruesome realities of this country and avoided being influenced by the sensation-grabbing news. It only disturbs ones piece. Like a pastor he talks of the hellholes of this country, maybe because of people’s self absorption, but probably mostly to get rid of all his frustrations of his daily life.

We are leaving the highway and are on the exit ramp to the airport. “Yes, people think that a hired killer lives and comes from the ‘favela’. No way! One of my customers is one. He is a smart guy, doesn’t come from poor circumstances at all, always dresses perfectly. He mowed down 12 guys in one night, he told me. He is a damn good criminal. How does he do it without getting nabbed by the police? You have to know whom to trust and whom to pay off – then it all works out. Once he was convicted, but because they don’t pay police directors too well he was able to buy his way out and even walked out past the guard at the main door. A guy like that, of course, is never without his weapon. Last time I drove him he had 2 automatics and one hand granate just in case the police was immovable.”

In the meantime we have arrived at the departure ramp. I wonder about the validity of his story. He is starting up for his last little story: “Over there” and points to the freight terminal, “I once picked up an X-ray machine. The import tax alone cost 60000R$. He paid 30000R$ of which the state never saw one centavo.”

He stops in front of the door at the terminal. The one who sat in the front seat gets out and already has disappeared with a somewhat painful good-bye smile. The stories probably went to his head in an unpleasant way, like with myself. We free my surfboard out of the taxi. “Toby Martin was the surfer’s name.” “Which surfer?” I ask. “Well, the one from Australia that I told you about.” “Oh yes, the one with the big surfboard,” and he nods satisfied that I had remembered that detail. I pay him and give him a small tip. He smiles and shows me one more time his good teeth. His beard is already graying and the few hairs on his head as well. The dark world of the street has left its mark on this man. “How long have you been driving a taxi?” I ask him. “Thirteen years - since I was 19”, and we shake hands. “Wait, I’ll give you my number and you call me if you get back here”. Oh, yes I think. You could show me the world of the street and the underworld, so that I could write 1000 books.

He gets back into his car. We exchange the all telling thumbs up sign and off he goes.

Ronny Diehl, 2005

LIFE and DEATH in LIMBO

‘So this is it mother. Will you be Ok? It’s a nice place here, though – don’t you think?’ Lory asked Esha in hopes that she would get an unexpected answer which would make her feel better. Esha had sat down in her easy chair, the one she used to sit on in her daughter’s living room for the last eight years. But this time it was standing on the rubber floor of the room with its fresh cleaned windows, the sterile furniture and the blank walls – a room which would eventually become Esha’s new home. She tried to answer Lory’s question with a smile, for she didn’t blame her that she had ended up in this place. There was no other solution. Lory had to go to work again; after she and Jason had split up and now there was no one who could take care of her. Her smile expressed an unhappiness Lory had not seen from her since dad had died long ago.

‘Oh yes, it’s a nice place – a nice place to wait for the final breath,’ Esha answered cynically. She was the kind of person who hid her sadness behind an irony. She shifted her attention to her little grandchild Lucia, who was quietly observing Grandma and her mum from a chair at the corner near the window.

‘Will you come to visit me Lucia? Your grandma will feel lonely and bored in this godforgotten place. A visit from her sweetheart Lucia will do her good.’

‘Of course, I will Grandma’ says the little girl timidly. Ever since they had entered Grandma’s new home Lucia felt intimidated by the vastness of the building and the many strangers which seemed to all live in it. As she and her mum were walking along the long hallways of the building, accompanied by the home manager, Lucia was scanning the scenes with her big open eyes. She was afraid and fascinated by the strangeness of this place. She had to walk fast to keep up with the pace of the grown-ups, for she was afraid of being left behind. The idea that she could be alone in this huge building with so many weird looking strangers scared her. Many of the old people had the same old skin grandma had, but most of them seemed just to stare into nothingness or just sleep in their chairs in the hallways. Some made loud awkward exclamations or even screamed. They seemed to be talking to themselves - some were whining quietly and no one took any notice. Lucia would need a lot of courage to visit Grandma. But she loved her granny a lot and so she very soon knocked on granny’s door.

‘Grandma, are you there?’ There was a long silence and Lucia was starting to figure whether Granny was in her room sleeping (although at that time of the day it was unusual for Grandma to sleep) or if she would have to search for her in this gigantic building which reminded her of the dark palaces and dooms of the fairy tales she liked to read. So she tried again - this time she knocked a bit harder on the door. As she was feeling an anxiety arise inside her which was triggered by the thought of looking for her Granny in the building, she heard Granny in a baffling voice say,

‘Hello, is someone there?’

‘Yes, Grandma, it’s me – Lucia.’ A prolonged moment passed. Then, with a voice that suddenly sounded cheerful Esha said,

‘Oh, come in’.

Esha had been sitting in her armchair at the window reading one of the novels on horses which she always had loved. They gave her a sense of nature and connectedness she always yearned for. The one book she had been reading she always loved most. It was worn out for she had read it many times. On the second day in her new home, she had picked it out of the shelf in hopes that her saddened mood would change for the better, because the story always had inspired her best feelings in her. But this time, the reading felt different, because she couldn’t concentrate. She somehow read without noticing that her mind was drifting away into thoughts and memories. She woke up out of these drifts, at first, not even knowing where she was until moments later when she recaptured her full awareness. By then, she also would had to conceive that she did not quite remember reading her book. But with the open page of her favourite book on her lab, she didn’t really need to remember – she knew the book by heart - and so she just kept on reading, hiding the fact that she randomly picked out a point on the page where she started reading again. It would have been too much for her to concede to the truth that some dramatic change was happening – moving to her new home was enough change for now. When Lucia had knocked on her door, Esha was dozing in her armchair. It was strange that someone was calling for a Grandma. She was lying in her bed with little Lory, just a couple of hours old, waiting for her husband to come to see his new born child and share and rejoice this blessed moment with her. As there was no one else in the room it seemed awkward that someone was calling for a Grandma. After the second knock, however, she started to feel angry that someone was disturbing this happiest moment of her life, but eventually opened her eyes. Half awake, her consciousness still floating in between the room of her daydream in the hospital and the room of the retirement home in her awakened reality she asked for the person at the door. As the room of the hospital slowly vanished and she arose, the name Lucia triggered another deep emotion of happiness which brought her back the memory of her little grandchild.

‘Oh, it is so nice to see you, my little angel. How are you today?’ asked Esha. Lucia had opened the door and had run and jumped onto Grandma’s chair, hugging her.

‘I’m good but I miss you so much Grandma.’

‘I miss you too, my dear.’ After they had exchanged a couple of news about school and Lory, Lucia asked Grandma if she would like to go out to the garden with her? She didn’t like the new home of Grandma. She felt uncomfortable and almost sad in her room. Of course she did not tell Esha. It would only make things worse – she was old enough to understand that. ’Why, don’t you like my cosy new home, my dear?’ asked Esha provocatively. Lucia blushed because she couldn’t grasp Esha’s sarcasm. She didn’t know how to answer to Granny’s question and was relieved when Grandma said,

‘All right, let’s go outside. It’s actually a very good idea. Let me just dress up quickly and then we’ll go,’ answered Grandma.

So, they left Grandma’s room and walked through the long hallways to the exit door which led them to the back side of the home where a vast garden area was located. They walked along the pathway until they finally got to a beautiful pond where they sat down on a bench. Grandma was exhausted by the sudden physical activity. Both were silent for a moment examining the unfamiliar scenery of the pond. It was spring and many of the plants and flowers had already started to flourish again. A fresh green was the dominating color. Some birds were hiding in the reeds and singing and celebrating the rebirth of nature. The water surface of the pond still looked dark and impenetrable.

‘What a beautiful pond,’ said Esha. ‘Thank you for bringing me out here, Lucia. In this cage that I call my new home I felt that I was already rusting. But here I feel much better now. Do you know that we had a pond like that at the house of my father? Funny to think about it right now. I must have been as old as you are when we moved there. I could stay at the pond for hours and hours making my father turn mad at me.’

‘Look Grandma, did you see that big orange fish?’ Lucia said excited – she wasn’t paying attention to what Esha was saying, but scrutinized the pond. ‘He came up and looked at us, I swear.’

‘Maybe he needs a little company, too. Maybe he has been lonely for the whole winter and now is happy that we are here.’

‘Oh yes, and we will become good friends with him, won’t we?’

‘You bet my dear.’

‘Will you come here everyday, Grandma? So the fish won’t feel lonely again?’

‘I can try. It will do me good, too – that’s for sure.’

And from that day on, Esha kept on visiting the pond almost everyday, unless it was raining. She sat at her bench and just watched nature flourishing with the increasing temperatures. She listened to the birds crooning, to the frogs quaking and the bees buzzing around. The pond was a remarkable refuge of nature, although most of the other ‘inmates’, as Esha used to call all the people who were living in the retirement home, did not seem take any notice of it. She tried to engage herself in some of the activities which were offered by the staff. She also got acquainted with some people but it did not satisfy her need for company. Building a friendship at that age was almost an impossible challenge, especially as most of the other ‘inmates’ seemed to be only interested in the next meal and lined up in front of the door of the cafeteria hours before it would be served. Most of them would not remember her the next day after they had met and she also would not remember their names either. Visiting the pond was the only thing which she really enjoyed doing and the staff had to call her to come back in, so she would not miss her meals.

On one of those hot summer days, she was sitting at the pond and Lucia came by as she often did. She walked directly into the garden and said ‘Hello’ as she came close to Esha’s bench. Esha slowly turned her head towards Lucia and smiled at her incredulously. In a surprising tone she replied the reception. She somehow knew that the little girl belonged to her but couldn’t figure out who exactly she was. But with Lucia’s help her memory came back, as she was hugged by her and then called Grandma. Still a bit puzzled she said to Lucia,

‘Is that really you, Lucia? You have grown tremendously, my little girl. The last time that I was holding you, you were weighing half as much – you are crushing me. Come on, my dear, and take a seat next to your Grandma.’

‘How are you Grandma?’ asked Lucia.

‘I’m fine. I was just enjoying listening to the frog who is telling stories of his great manhood today. It is so funny when he talks about himself.’

‘What does he say, Grandma?’

‘Oh, that he is the frog with the loudest voice as far as the ear can hear and, of course, his voice and quaking is the most beautiful of all. His wife frogs are the most happiest of all.’

‘Really, have you asked any of his wife frogs if they are happy?’

‘No, that is what’s so funny about him – there are no wife frogs around. He is a lonely little fellow and keeps talking like that on and on in hopes that some day, a woman frog will pass by here and will be intrigued by his stories. Either woman frogs are gullible or our frog is a hopeless fellow.’

‘Have you seen our friend the big orange fish, lately?’

‘No, he is mostly hiding somewhere. He is sad because he feels so lonely down there all by himself. His best friend died last winter, because it was so cold that almost the entire pond was frozen.’

They both kept on talking about the pond for a little while until Grandma was called to come to dinner and Lucia accompanied her in. They dined together and then looked at Granny’s old photo collection. Granny talked about the time when she and Granddad met and how happy she was when Lory was born. Talking about the good old times was something she loved to do. She knew every detail, year and date of some of the incidents that had happened and it was her greatest pleasure to tell them over and over again. Lucia did not know every story yet and didn’t mind that Granny often repeated stories that she had listened to before.

Years passed as quickly as one deep breath. Esha kept on her daily routine, although she started to use a walking stick to get to the pond. In the winter, she also went into to the garden wearing extra layers to keep her warm, although she couldn’t stay for too long. Sometimes it was too cold to leave and she would spent half the day in bed and then dozing the rest of it on her armchair. There was nothing else for her to do. She did gain weight and lost more of her strength in those cold periods. The following year, after a long and hard winter, she did not regain her strength enough to walk to the pond. Then, someone needed to roll her in a wheelchair to the pond and the staff of the home tried to comply with Esha’s wish – it was the only thing she asked for.

Lucia kept on visiting her grandmother and often rolled her out to the pond. Sad to say, Esha did not recognize her anymore and thought she was her daughter Lory. ‘Why do you call yourself Lucia when I gave you that beautiful name Lory?’ she would asked her. At first, it was painful for Lucia to realize that Granny would not recognize her and she would not come to visit for quite some time. But Lory persuaded her to keep on visiting grandmother – she was so busy that she hardly found any time to pay her mother a visit. Most of the time Esha was already sleeping when she finally would come in. Eventually, Lucia accepted the fact that Granny was losing her memory. Esha often did not remember what they were talking about just a minute earlier and kept asking the same questions over and over again, so that conversation became more and more strenuous for Lucia.

It was beautiful sunny day in the summer when Lucia rolled Granny once more out to the pond.

‘Who are you?’ Grandma asked her for the third time since Lucia had arrived.

‘I’m Lucia, your granddaughter,’ she answered shortly, knowing that Esha would not remember that she once had her own family. At first, Lucia tried to lie and told her she was Lory but that would not make any difference.

‘Who is Lory? I don’t know anyone of that name,’ she said. Shocked by the fact that her grandmother’s whole life seemed to have slowly faded away, Lucia kept on pushing the wheelchair to its destiny. As they were back at the pond again, Lucia sat down next to Esha on her bench. A long silence followed where none of them said a word. Lucia was still thinking about the obvious deterioration of Esha’s mental state. She silently observed her grandmother for a while as she seemed to be daydreaming.

‘I’ll come in soon papa. Just give me two more minutes here. I’m having an important conversation with the bird.’ Lucia was astound by Esha’s sudden utterance which seemed to have no connection whatsoever with the here and now. She remembered a question she wanted to ask her grandmother for a long time and thought that now would be a good moment.

‘Where do you think do we go when we die?‘ she asked. Esha twinkled with her eyes for a second. She slightly raised her head, then turned towards Lucia and smiled at her.

‘Who are you if I can ask?’

‘I’m Lucia, a good friend.’

‘What do you do here?’

‘I’m watching the pond with you Esha?’

‘Really. That is nice of you.’ And after a small pause she asked:

‘Did you see that beautiful bird flying to the reeds?’

‘No I did not,’ Lucia said honestly because she hadn’t paid any attention to the pond and was concentrated in observing Esha.

‘That bird is a good friend of mine. He comes here every year and raises a family in the summer. He sometimes takes me on his back and we fly around the pond together. Sometimes, we even fly quite far away to the meadows.’ She raised her head and pointed with her nose straight ahead into the far distance. ‘It’s so green and colourful out there with all the flowers in blossom.’ Then, she turned her head sideways closer to Lucia and said,

‘But don’t tell anyone, especially not my dad. I would get in trouble, you hear me.’

‘Of course not, Graaa… Esha.’ Lucia realized that it was unnecessary to ask Esha her question again. She figured that it was obvious what she would answer. She kept on sitting with Esha answering her questions of whom she was for another time and listened to her daydreams over and over again. She loved her grandmother’s daydreams – nothing could have been more consoling than to listen to them. Although, she knew that they were ‘daydreams’, she knew from her heart that they were real stories as well.

‘What happened with our friend the big orange fish?’ she asked with a tear running down her cheek.

‘Oh, he got married and has a family now. The times when he was depressed and hiding his face are over. WE all prayed for him together that he could find someone and not be lonely anymore and then one day a miracle happened. A fairy came by and said that he had three free wishes. So he asked for a big orange lady fish that he could marry, a sandy ground where they could bring up their kids and an enlarged pond for there needed more space, too. And now he is happy like a fish…’

Lucia smiled and had to hold back her laughter. She wiped away her tears still looking at the pond who indeed had undergone some changes, which were probably the cause of the fairy. Could there be any doubt? The pond had become bigger and one could see to the sandy bottom now; she hadn’t seen any fish yet, but she was sure that they were somewhere.

She left her grandmother with wet eyes and a big smile on her face that day.

A few months later, someone from the home called and told them that Esha was found having her final sleep at the pond. It was in late fall when she probably had decided to leave the cold behind and accompany her friends, the birds, to some green meadows in the south.

R. D. 2008

Night sweat

An explosion, so loud that I hear nothing except this annoying ringing sound. I was soundly sleeping for a while. The devil knows how I could in that awkward position, half standing and entrenched in this mud hole. Did I help digging it? I don’t remember. How did I end up here anyway? I don’t remember either.

It is a long trench in the middle of a dark gruesome night. Gunfire and explosions can be heard in every direction.

Another one. This bang, I didn’t hear it at all. Must have been pretty close. The shockwave was heavy like a bitch. How beautiful it is when the dirt comes down from the sky. It should go on like that forever. It’s like god is touching you gently. I guess I better get going or I’ll be dead soon if I stay here. My body feels OK though. Hope my ears will work again. I just follow the trench and see where I end up.

What a night. Hard to see a thing. It’s a long trench. No one else is here goddammit. Where are all the soldiers fighting? Where are my comrades? I suppose I should have some. Should I? Oh shit, where is my gun? Must have left it where I was sleeping. I’m not going back there again. I gonna be ground meat if I do. Just keep goin boy. What do I do here? I don’t know. This is some battle. Those bombshells light up the night really nice. Now I can see where I’m going. This zigzag of the trench makes me crazy. Why can’t they build a straight line? I guess it’s better to defend it that way – if there would be someone here to defend it. A fork. I take a left. How nice to hear those gunfire sounds - my ears coming back to work. There, people shouting. No idea where that came from but good to know that there is someone out there. A man’s scream – so desperate that I wish I still could not hear. How did I ended up here? What is this battle, what is this war about? I have to find someone to ask. Another corner.

A fortified position with a gunfire appears in the nearby distance.

Over there, what a relieve – machinegun fire means people. Just a couple of turns and I’m not alone in this madness. They might be able to tell me what we are fighting for and who is our enemy. I can see the guy behind the machine gun. There is another guy beside him. They look….

Fuck.

A massive blast hits the fortified position.

I’m lying in the mud. I have to get up. My back hurts. These guys must be dead. The bombshell landed right on top of them. Bull’s eye. So, no answers to my questions. But I gotta keep goin, gotta keep goin.

Let’s just climb up the wall and get the fuck out of this trench. What a stretch. How my body aches. War isn’t for me. Come on, push a little more. You can make it. Got it. Ok, now keep down. Is this gunfire ever going to stop? One can’t think in that noise. Oh man, that’s quite an open field. Over there the forest. If I could make it til there, I might be safe. I just need to run like a maniac. Ok let’s go. Running feels like flying. Shit, I hear shouts. They must have seen me. Boy better run in zigzags. A bombshell. Another one to the left. They get pretty close. They light up the night so they can see me – no good. Just keep running.

Damm. I lost touch with the ground. I didn’t see that coming. Fell into a bombshell crater I guess. At least, I’m safe here from the machine gunfire.

‘Did you kill any of these bitches?’

There is another man lying in the crater. This is good, I’m not alone anymore. He is engaged in reloading his machine gun.

‘Oh man, finally, I found someone. Thank god. I’ve been looking all around for someone to tell me what’s goin on here.’

‘You should be careful with those snipers, man.’

Seems like he is one of those serious soldier types that love their job. His gun looks bigger than three guys could carry together. The guy is a giant, the Schwarzenegger type. Am I in the right movie here? ‘Sure, I’m careful. I haven’t been killed yet, have I? Tell me, what’s going on here?’

‘As far as I see it I say we’ve been losing ground. We lost too much ground today to hold our position. I would say we should retreat. Regroup and restructure our forces and then make another thrust into the enemy’s line.’

‘Oh yes, doesn’t feel like winning, though. But what I want to know is what this war is all about? Who is our enemy? What are the people dying for?’

‘What do you mean by that? Who is our enemy? We are fighting against those angelic bitches. This is man’s last battle. Excuse me, I got a job to do.‘

‘No, don’t go away.’ The giant gets up and leaps onto the edge of the crater. Should I follow him? He starts shooting with his gun. More heavy gunfire exchange. I see him shaking then falls backwards into the crater and lands on his back with his face staring into the clear night sky. I bend closely over him. His stare is infinite. He has a smile on his dead face. Died in battle, what do you need more, hm? So what now? I still have no idea what this is about? Who are ‘those bitches’?

Voices. Yelling. Apparently, the gunfire has ceased.

A human figure appears on the edge of the crater.

Looks like a woman. Long hair. Curves. Strong body. She holds a bow in her right arm. I cannot clearly see her face but it looks as if she is staring at me. Should I speak to her?

‘Hello, excuse me? Could you te….,’ she retreats out of my sight again.

I have to get out of here. NOW. I leap onto the edge in the other direction to the forest. I run for my life. Someone is shouting something. More loud voices. Don’t turn around. Just keep going. It’s only a hundred yards til the forest. I hear a rocket sound. Suddenly, everything gets enlightened. I hear a bang. There is light glow in the sky above me. Maybe to see me? Now, they can aim with ease… Just keep going, just keep going, man.

Fifty yards. Running out of breath. Why are they not shooting? Maybe, they are behind some other dudes. Would be good.

Oh hell, they are really shooting with arrows. That was close. Just passed me by an inch.

Thirty yards. Another arrow. This time not as close. I run in zigzags.

Twenty yards. I’m almost there. Ahhhh… An arrow hits me in the left upper thigh. Stumbling and falling. On the grassy floor. My face touching the wet grass leaves. Get up. You can still make it. I get up. My right leg feels numb. I can only limb.

Ten yards when another hits in the upper right back. This brings me down to my knees. I gasp for breath. My breathing accompanies a whimpering sound that I haven’t heard before. I hear footsteps and voices coming closer. People surround me. I look into their faces and realize they are all women. Some are carrying their rifles. Some carry an arrow. Some are staring at me with contempt, some are smiling. Who are they? What the hell is this all about? I still have no answer to that. I gasp for breath and have to groan loudly.

‘Take it easy evil boy – dying of arrows is relatively painless and comes smooth.’

‘Is that so?’ I ask without knowing to whom I’m responding to when one of the women steps closer to me. She reminds me of someone but I forgot who it is. There is grief and sorrow in her face. I wish it wasn’t there. I don’t why but I feel pity for her. Who is she, goddammit?

‘Am I the last man standing?’

‘You got balls tryin to be funny in your situation. You’ll lose your humour soon enough once you meet with the devil!’ She hammers it into the middle of my chest. The grief and sorrow in her face has changed into a violent anger. There is a pain so severe, it grows to a torment until I feel a nausea overcoming me. I see their curious faces coming closer over me when I fall sideways on my left shoulder. I lose track of my vision until there is only darkness left to see. For a long moment there is nothing. No thought, no feeling, I hear nothing, I see nothing. I’m in nothingness. Then I see a light in the far away distance. It attracts my attention, because it ignites the most entranced feeling in me. More and more, I get sucked towards the light. The closer I get, the more overwhelming the ecstasy. Suddenly, the ecstasy in me ceases. The light keeps shining on and I want to shine back with all that light in me but there is nothing left to shine with – there is only darkness. Why is that so? Fuck, I want to feel that again. Why can’t I, why am I not able to, you stupid fuck. You are incapable of anything. Get killed by women dighead. Oh god, let me go to the light, please… NO, I do not want to fall. Don’t let me fall.

But I fall. I look into darkness. The light slowly disappears in the distance and the darkness becomes darker and darker. An unspeakable fear overcomes me. The darkness is not nothingness as it was before. This darkness is filled with malignancy. A fear grows in me. It possesses my entire being. It torments me until I lose track of my consciousness.

There is moonlight shining in a high angle through the open door. The curtains are constantly flying around being uplifted by the ocean breeze. The noise of hundreds of people talking, screaming, laughing mingled together with music intertwining into a ecstatic sound of mystifying force. A memory fades in, releasing the feeling of anguish which turns into anger. Sometimes, sleep is the only way to hide from ourselves.

It is pitch dark. Nothing to see. Not a glimpse of light except the sparkling flashes of light produced by the eye itself. I remember that I was looking for someone, but I do not remember who it was. I reach out with my arms and try to feel for something – nothing but darkness and emptiness. I begin to walk step by step with my arms and hands reaching out. I can feel that I’m in some kind of surrounding because I hear my the sounds of my feet producing a slight echo. I wonder why I am not afraid? I should be though, should I? Never mind, you need to find somebody, remember. But who was it that I need to find? Just find the person and then …. I don’t know what then…you’ll probably remember then.

I start to walk with my arms and hands stretched out scanning the darkness by each step. I hear the echo sounds of my foot steps clearer now as I walk faster. Something in me drives me to. I don’t know what it is. It feels like there is an anger but I cannot tell why I’m angry. I wish I could. Maybe then I would know for whom I’m looking for. Crazy in this darkness anyhow.

I hear a sound. Must be far away. I stop walking. I cannot say what it is. Echoed a thousand times it is unidentifiable. What is strange that there are no walls. Echo needs walls, but I walk and I walk and I haven’t touched a wall. Isn’t that weird? The sound comes closer. And I want to get closer to it. I feel drawn to it. It must be music. There are melodies that I can distinguish. Oh, Ji, I can hear voices, too. I think its classical music. There is definitively some violin in it. I love classical music. That must be a good sign. Oh yeah, a good sign. But wait, it’s the Requiem, of course, the choir I hear it now – It’s Mozart’s requiem. That is odd. Fits to the darkness though. Should I be afraid now?

Wooaah! What is that. I felt something touching my head. It was soft though. I reach out with my hands searching through the darkness again. There, there it is again. I felt it with my left hand. Felt like some fabric. Here it is. Oh, it is fabric. It’s pretty thin and wait, it hangs from…Eh, that must be curtains. OK, no worries then. I push the curtain over my head and walk slowly further. There, another one. Now, I really need to keep my hands in front. I can hear clear now. Beautiful if not in this place. There, finally, light. I can barely see it but there is one. Endless, these curtains. I wonder what it is that there is. The light grows bigger with every curtain. I’m getting close. It is a fire. There are people. Good. I don’t wanna be alone anymore. Oh, Ji, they are naked. Eh, they are having sex. Let’s stay behind that curtain for while and watch.

Dozens of people laying on the floor around the fire, all naked, all intertwined. Loud groans of lust. There is a sensational feeling running up my spine. Ecstatically moaning – it leaves a thrill in my stomach. I start to walk around the scene watching it from every angle. I cannot leave my eyes from them. A kick that I have never experienced before. There is a warmth in my womb. What shall I do? Who are these people? There is a guy looking in my direction. Can he see me through the curtain? Looks as if he is staring at me. Oh no, he is let’s her go. He gets up. For sure, he will come to me. What should I do? Oh, he is coming, he is coming.

He stops before the curtain. He keeps looking at me. I can see the white in his eyes. I think I know these eyes. Where do I know them from? Who is he? Is he smiling at me? I think he is. He gives me a sign to follow him. He walks along the curtain on the one side. We keep looking at each other through the curtain. Suddenly, he slips through the curtain and runs ahead of me. I have no idea. Just follow him. Not easy to keep up with him. It’s getting darker again. The curtains fly over me. Feels like fairies touching me.

Where did he go? He is gone. Oh, here, steps. That must be it. Just follow the steps then, I guess. A light down there. He just slipped through. Still few a steps to go. Why didn’t he wait? Who is he? Come on, remember – you must know him. Hey, there is music. Drums. Sounds like Samba. So, here we are. Now that is a vault. People in costumes. Some are naked. Candles. Tables. Couches. Beds. Where is the guy? I must find him. …Whooh. The devil. You got me. What do you want? Ah, I should follow you? Why not? Loud Voices. Legs moving faster than my eye can see. Lips kissing. Lips all over other people’s bodies. Body’s moving in rhythm, some move in their own. I gaze around and try if I can see the guy. It’s hot in here like hell. The devil looks back at me, stops, I stop, he draws closer, raises his right arm, offers me his hand, I give him my right hand and he takes it and pushes me behind him further. The people sweat. The room is filled with smell of bodily liquids. I realize that there is an awkward feeling running up through my right arm. I want to take it away but the devil keeps holding and drags further into the vault. It’s huge, though. The chilly feeling runs into my chest, runs to my head… I flip. This is too much. I stumble but he drags me further. I have not the energy. Hatred, and anger yet unknown overcome me.

Suddenly, the devil stops. He puts something in my hand but I can’t figure out what it is. Something heavy which drags me down. I feel so exhausted that I hardly can see a thing. The candle light, the sweet, the music, the people blurring picture. A feeling of isolation – I’m not part of all of this madness. I reach out for something to hold onto. I need rest. But I can’t, I should get away from here. The devil is gone. Got to get out of here. I hardly can stay on my foot. Inexplicable anger runs through my mind that I’m afraid of. Is he here? It was him, was it? I need to find him. Oh, it was him. I remember now. Oh, this is so unfair. I will let him pay for that. Leading me into this madness. Where am I? Where did I came from? The devil has put a spell on me? Did he? I fall over. I haven’t seen that. It’s a couch. I need to rest. I cannot stand this nausea. Just a little sleep. Comfy though. Look over there. There he is. It’s him. A threesome. How can he do this to me? Oh, how I hate him, how I hate him… I wish I could move, I would kill him. Why can I not move? Why can I not sleep? I want to sleep.

Nausea. Lust. Anger. Hatred. I lose myself. I hate myself. I hate him. I don’t know what it is but I think turn crazy. People leave. Music stops. The women leave him. Sure he likes it here. They had something to offer that I can’t, stupid fuck. No more sounds. No people. Candle light flickering. I can get up now. I feel enough strength. Still a bit dizzy standing. Oh, how I hate him. I slowly walk over. I look over him for while. I keep standing, watching trying to hold grips with my feelings. I cannot. The anger overcomes me again. I hear a whisper in my mind. I’m not conscious of its meaning. It’s the final blow to my sobriety. I do something with my hands, then start to shake my right hand arm over him. I still hold some heavy thing in my hand. I still don’t know what it is.

Just kill him, just kill him. It’s all he deserves.

‘Wake up you evil sucker. Rise and shining. Time to burn in hell you little scum. Yes it’s me, it’s me, the one you hoped to get away from.’

He is awake, I know it. He just does not open his eyes. He is too afraid to open them. He better is if he has to face me. See, with his hands he feels for the pillow, the sheets and the mattress. Yeah, they’all wet.

‘Holding on to your silly mattress won’t help you get away with it. Face me you idiot. Face me now and then I might save you this time, if it pleases me. Whom would you like to meet instead of me? Your mother, your father, your best friend from College? Or better your wife? Yes your miserable wife, who you treated so well. That’s the one. Isn’t it? The only woman in your life which respects and loves you and you cannot care less, hmm? Come on evil sucker, get up and face your fate! There is no way out from living in Hell and you know it.’

Finally I got him. He is mine. I can do what I want with him. I’m his wife, am I? Let’s play the game with him and see how much purgatory he can take. The devil told me to, remember!

‚Hey, last wake up call stupid fuck. I want to give you something and you should look at it. Yeah, open your eyes. Come on, come on. There is no way out of this. Evil has to face evil. Why do you look so perplexed, so frightened. It’s me your wife. Don’t you like what you see. Or would you rather face my true self? I guess you would not like what you would see. Hey darling. Put that smile back on your face. We gonna have a hell of a good time together. You look like as if you are facing the devil? Not a nice look though. I should deserve better than that. You know, I own you now, you are mine. Betraying me wasn’t enough. Always the ego maniac and now time has come to pay back. What? Do you want to say something? Say it, say it loud? What is it?’

A trembling voice burst out with a squeaking resonance as if the head were cut of from its body,

‘Stay away from me!’

‘Oh, that is not nice. That is not the way you should be treating me. I’m your caretaker now. Have you forget it? I’m the devil’s wife.’

I hate him and he deserves no better. ‘So you shall burn my sweetie. What do I got here? Oh, a match. It matches perfectly with the bed soaked in gas you sleeping on. How beautiful you look enflamed as you are now. Don’t scream so loud, it takes away the energy you need to stand the pain. This gonna take a long long long time. Forever on fire.’

Morning sunlight streams through the window onto the white damp creasy sheets. The man and woman are covered in their sweat. Not from sex, but from nightmares. For today, the experience will eventually smooth the anger and anguish which yesterday’s fight had triggered.

R. D. 2008