by Zac Funstein
Terhi was a year younger than G, who was almost a year younger than Sirkka. Young Arvid, commonly known as Carcano in this family of nicknames, was now enjoying himself excessively at Eton, would presently enjoy himself equally at Cambridge, in due course Arvid would be introduced to his life work at the bank, under circumstances which would enable him to enjoy himself just as much as ever, more to the point with hardly less time at his disposal than the fortunate young men among his contemporaries whose opportunities for so doing came from wealth inherited not acquired. Or if the son chose to take up a profession, which in his case could only be that of a military inclination, Arvid might do so, with his future comfort assured, the only difference being that Arvid could not expect to be quite so rich.
These are who gathered around Arvid Snr. now to inspect that which was presented never like the photographic medium since Eeva died, since all record of her had been destroyed. Arvid Snr. watched her as their gaze darted over the photos, but instead of stopping, they kept pacing, looking at them with each sweep anew.
“I've got a whole stack of pictures for you to choose from if you like these,”
Terhi was indignant-grabbed the stack of photos then began to look through them, twisting some of them upside down titling in perusing them.
“I don’t see what it is we are supposed to see Arvid.”
They never called him ‘pa’ or ‘dad’ just Arvid always for some reason.
“Just keep going over them. When the picture is finished (to everyone's liking), take it off the table then pin it to the bulletin board.”
Jenna was the first to give judgement.
“It seems like the dead Schreiber girl-the neighbour who died in that terrible accident.”
“Yes I know that but who is that with her?”
That evening Arvid Snr. having drawn a blank from his children was want to peruse the wedding pictures that sustained him when sad. Eeva was happy but more importantly young-eternally young now. Her attention was focussed entirely on the man standing beside her. It hurt him to look at her photo, because, now Eeva was dead, another would never take pride of position.There was another framed treasure of Avrid holding Jenna wrapped in his hunting jacket which was too big for her so that only her features were visible. Avrid was resting on his trusty Kimber Adirondack, but in the foreground (barely visible) Monica was holding a LaRue Tactical PredatAR.
Arvid was holding another heirloom which showed some guys in grim-looking military uniforms mountain-climbing harnesses hiking up a mountainside when the dad was drawn to a noise beside him. It was Terhi in serious mode.
“I realised what was wrong with one of the Schreiber pics Arvid.”
“Fire away dear daughter of mine-don’t be afraid to come out with it.”
“Lots of houses look the same these days-they're just pre-fab rubbish with numbered roofs or bay-windows. Even an idiot could put one up. One of those pics with G in has a fake structure behind it.”
“It’s still on the table inside if you want to have another peek.”
The deceptive-version is duly brought for parental elucidation. Arvid’s comment is unanimous.
“I have to see Ellen tomorrow I will ask her just what this setting is. It may be one that her daughter gave us for some reason better known to herself-that now probably will never be known.”
Never one to skulk G’s mom was duly sought when suggested.
The obviously distressed maternal personage although very upset was still willing to receive Arvid even though it cost her some effort to relate at this difficult time. The offering was examined then as a box of tissues were reached for it was muttered.
“The explanation is very easy Mr. Oramo.”
“It is Ellen I’m pleased to hear that!”
“They were making some historical drama here based on what they call I believe euphemistically ‘The Wild West’. What you have shown us my daughter must have given Terhi just before dressing up as a frontiers-person. There was even a staged gunfight I believe, but I refused to attend as did her father.”
“That’s unusual Mrs. Schreiber.”
Ellen duly rolled up her sleeve with a certain perfunctoriness-a little like a junkie Arvid believed although there was no record of the family dabbling in drugs. Some nasty scars were revealed which clearly were old but hadn’t healed.
“I got this when I was young-never really recovered though it was a while ago now.”
Lest the lines between author/ script become blurred to the point of non-existence so the whole thing rapidly becomes equal parts surreal comedy/ conspiracy thriller Jorge must move on.
Markus Ryynänen had worked at some nameless Ministry of Education but that was ancient now. His abiding passion these days was SALIGIA specifically the ira genre, which seemed to have chosen him or him it-neither was really sure which. If you wanted to know more then congratulations you’d hit the jackpot. In Cicero’s day that is just before the birth of Christ at the top of the social order was the governing class, or ordo senatorius: then came the ordo equester, comprising all merchants (negotiatores) or contractors for the raising of taxes plus multifarious other purposes (publicani). It was this inferior class into which Ryynänen fell. Someone must have told Ryynänen once to get the high class trade one must dress the part for his attire was ostentatious in the extreme. Markus wore wide cut coats of filmy serge, light as gossamer; with chequered waistcoats with multifarious patterns; fedora hats light as the serge of the coats; a diamond tie-pin the size of his watch which was attached by a chain of huge square links that must have weighed a lot- a priceless antique that once belonged to a native prince of Burma-it probably should have been locked up in a safe.
“Do not be fooled by the imagery Mr.Cishion,” almost shouted Ryynänen upon seeing his guest play with a chrome model of ‘IRA’-each letter formed crudely then linked by a slither of transparent dried adhesive. Quite what purpose this served was ever made out but it was impressive no doubt enlarged or shrunk-it seemed to make no difference.
A victim of deafness the catalyst that pushes many elderly people into seclusion, isolation, even senility-extra volume was an occupational hazard for him.
Jorge knew somewhere the letter 'I' was banned from use. On some remote island where the residents pride themselves on their love of selflessness, this was seen as a tragedy, but where this was, was not known-maybe the islanders had left or died out or something.
“The Cathari, in their hatred of Catholic piety, railed most abusively against the veneration of such iconography especially of the cross, although I’m not a Cathari or one of their supporters. The cross on which our saviour died should be despised rather than reverenced.Some of them, moreover, denied that Jesus had been really crucified; they held-however fancifully- that someone else feigned to die in his stead.”
“All this is very interesting but how this fits in with BC is more my concern.”
Jorge did not let on that there must be worse. What man is there, they said, who could see a loved one for example a father, die upon a cross, then not feel ever after a deep contempt of this restraint? The cross, therefore, should not be reverenced, but despised, insulted-they would gladly hew such to pieces with an axe. If they didn’t have one of those then anything nearby would do.
“The mysterious attacks-I’m not sure-it will all fit in eventually I suppose.”
Not for the first time during the long laborious convalescence that had followed apparently so slight an indisposition, a fleeting sense almost as if of an unintelligible remorse had overtaken Cishion, a vague dread that behind all the healing lay hidden as it were from his daily life, lay something not yet quite reckoned with. It was an unusual sensaton which despite repeated attempts would not go away.
Jorge knew then when this building had been encountered before now. It had been in the history books-an incident during the first war-one they called mockingly the ‘Great War’. Mockingly Jorge considered because what was great about any war. An impoverishe
d orphan Luis, had been engaged by the then owner Marcos Almeida Silva as a servant. Much of the hard rough work about the environs established by the then squatter Silva, fell to Luis’ share; the boy was not ill treated however- Mrs. Silva saw to that, but his promised remuneration never arrived. The lad complained to his few acquaintance that nearly the whole amount due to him for his service was still missing, though Luis dared not let Silva know that complaining had occurred, encouraged, by this advice Marcos was threatened with the law. One day soon after this, Silva with this servant was engaged loading a wagon with various produce for market. A dispute arose between them, the boy fell or was pushed off (it was never truly discerned), though the ravine was quite shallow, the youngster was never seen from that time that much was plain.
Jorge picked up the phone nearby- an old dial, bakelite,heavy as a club, like something bought at a yard sale. For many people, a cracked smartphone screen represents one of life’s unavoidable annoyances but what was the paydirt if one of these babies went wrong-no one ever knows.
“This is a little ancient you don’t seem them much now.”
“Its popularity during the Depression era has lead to its increasing popularity among collectors. I bought this particular plastic as an investment.”
“It seems innocent enough-just a crummy amateur dramatics prop.”
“When Dmitri Shostakovich answered his phone one day after the last war the exchange-operator told to hold on: Comrade Stalin wanted to speak to him-this is that phone. It doesn’t work or anything but is real enough.”
The set was examined as if from a new perspective-that is rotated in various directions.
“This is the set used by Shostakovich incredible!”
“I bought it at an auction of Stalinist memorabilia. Stalin expressed surprise that the composer had declined an invitation to go to Manhattan for a cultural conference for world-unity. Shostakovich said that a state of being ‘nauseated’ was his at his work being ignored-though it wasn’t a trendy Sartrean nausea more the throw-up kind that we are all used to.”
“Now that you mention it-there was a documentary I believe Stalin affected to believe that Dmitri was ill so should see his personal physician Vadim Maslov. The true nausea though was because none of his symphonies or those of Sergei Prokofiev/Aram Khatchaturian had been performed in the USSR for yonks.”
It wasn’t difficult to picture:-silence over the bakelite: at one end the dictator, at the other the artist quaking or going quietly AWOL. Stalin yielded. The leader was not aware that the composers had been censored so would ‘have to correct the insubordinates’ who had given the illegal order. The luckless censors were sent to the icy cold of Siberia. Shostakovich made his trip to Manhattan.
“This is fascinating but it won't give any substance to the ira presence you seek.”
“This is true but the old-phone did make for an interesting diversion you must admit.”
Ryan Goncalves Rocha’s son, the father of the great acedia-tester, followed in his father's wake after his dad's demise, as shipwright, contractor, provider, etc, becoming famous for his skill in the fashioning of the most delicate instruments which could determine Chromium even when very little was there. Guilherme built workshops at the back of his factory, such were the demands upon him that they were able to keep a number of employees, sometimes as many as the large concern, next door- constantly at work. Like his father, the male-child became of position/influence in the community so was universally esteemed. Prosperity attended him until after the birth of his famous son then everything seemed to go wrong. The loss of a valuable stocks/shares succeeded by other misfortunes, swept away most of the considerable sum which had been made. Work still came in, almost by tradition, with a certain steadiness—when the hammers of the riveters awoke the past with a ferocious regularity which the present proprietor could almost deplore, but it was not the same intensity.
There was still a suggestion of mildewed antiquity about the factory all that was not unpleasing to Rocha, but when everything was painted,the last coat of paint applied then everyone had departed, it resumed very easily its more regular aspect of picturesque dilapidation.
It was resolved that Lubomír would have to be taught a trade, instead of succeeding to the family concern, as had been the intention-something ‘modern,’ something ‘sophisticated,’ something ‘sleek,’ with ‘maybe just a tiny hint of quirky’ thrown in for good measure.
Unfortunately Lubomír’s paternal influenced believed his progeny would have a tendency to inoculate grudges/nurse grievances, even when the reasons for doing so are irrational-not realising that the real desire was to follow in the family acedia talent. His friends, notably the Columbian poet Melquisedec Alejandro Polanco, known by his epithet `á', teased him about his disregard for his fathers wishes.
Melquisedec was what was known as an ‘interrogative’- a sense of the difficulty of doing justice to the complexity plus sheer intractability of reality-made him enquire deeper than most.
‘Rubbish parenting is good for the character Lubomír. Tell us what you really want not what your dad wants,’ Polanco was rumoured to have ordered.
There was a critical mass of young people who didn’t come with preconceived notions of how the world was supposed to go. Lubomír was one of them. This was someone who liked to turn upside down what was held precious.
‘The wish of Guilherme was that I should leave acedia purely as retrospective-that plus the analogous deadly sins be left as a legacy, but I was compelled not to move away but if anything to go deeper-far more than before.’
What interested Lubomír more than anything was how the acedia was deemed important enough to be split itself into neat little categories all named after (for some odd reason) little known facts about the star-spangled banner. An acedia bastion must have liked this-was probably a collector of folksy facts.
When Jorge arrived at the mock feudal castle that served as Lubomír’s base, the tenant was seen filled with deep emotion, almost beyond his control. The Rocha patron was standing in the midst of the empty courtyard, gazing round upon the moat, now filled up with trash, everywhere was soap-powder boxes or diaper packaging- the glorious castle towers similarly in disrepair were razed to the level of the roof. Anyone searching for the missing Gothic turrets with the picturesque weather vanes which used to rise above them; must turned to heavenward, as if asking of the Gods the reason of this social upheaval. For a long while Lubomír stood in silence, drinking in the influences, the ancient home of forefathers, with the air that was breathed; then seeing Cishion arrive in his Mercury Tracer flung out a most melancholy exclamation.
“Mr. Cishion if you would I would like you to follow us. I have been holding consultations in the monastery as the feng shui at castle here is a little negative.The entrance to the monastery is on the west side, near the porter's lodge, under the long narrow building, which serves for offices which you see in the distance.”
They made tracks to this destination with this new couple engaging as if old friends-there was an easy exchange born of their mutual interest-although it seemed a convoluted route they were soon there. Jorge learnt the monastery was now an ‘Oxygenate Bar’ or ‘OB’. Entrepreneurs (of which Lubomír was amongst their number) had recently opened Vancouver’s first oxygen bar where you could buy a whiff of pure oxygen. The bar whose motto was ‘You are what you inhale’, or even ‘Portable oxygen breathe new life into health boom,’ lets you imbibe via a plastic tube. This ready-to-use oxygen boom was prompted by a visit the host made to one of Japan’s leading department stores, Gakashinaya Co. At the unique bar, located on the top floor of its Nihombashi main store, one could breathe condensed oxygen with gay abandon.
The porter received them who was called Torsten Ebersbach was wearing a robe of coarse cloth plus a rough-cap of the same material, a leathern girdle encircled him, from which suspended a chain of keys; Torsten spoke to them in a whisper, desiring them to be silent.
As they passed t
hrough the first court, Jorge fancied himself in former days, when the monastic orders flourished; how strange/ unusual must have seemed the appearance of the monks, in the full habit of their order, gliding along, intent on prayer, or employed in the manual labor that turned their devotion to God into physical effort all without a solitary oath spoken. From the court, they came to an entrance room; where could almost be seen figures of saints, a reliquary made of plaster, plus other objects of devotion; naturally the original occupants weren’t there but it was amusing to toy with this as if they were.
After Torsten’s keys are put into operation thence to the cloisters they go where there are several crucifixes, presumably to excite devotion. They then entered the chapel, which was not so highly decorated, but clean ‘n neat. The altar had a candelabra on its summit, with the paintings of the Virgin/Child, plus of patron saints; more importantly on each side were stalls for the monks, with their names inscribed, in each stall a large old missal guarded at the corners/ sides with large clasps ; a picture of St. John hangs perpetually during the presence of the Eucharist ; the rood-loft contains only roofing-felt Jorge is told reassuringly. Opposite to the chapel are private oratories, embellished, as usual, with paintings of a religious kind, various Archbishops, the Virgin/ Child again, plus a tapestry by Vinicius Barbosa Pereira, who was abbot/reformer of the order in the Renaissance. From another part of the cloisters they entered the chapter-house,whither the monks retired after their vespers was over, not to beguile away their time in trifling conversation, but in reading religious manuscripts, saying evening prayers, but more importantly in public self-accusation; a few adherents of the Opus Dei sect once lived here so the sound of thrashing was not unknown either. Everywhere is covered with religious prints; at the entrance still hung up a board with pegs, on which were suspended bits of formica, inscribed with the names of all the monks/that had been in the convent, Tiago Sousa Oliveira,Diogo Barros Correia etc: on another board was inscribed the different offices of the church for the day, plus the names of such of the fathers as officiated set opposite; below it, an exhortation in Latin, Greek, Spanish plus French, pointing out the advantages of guilt, plus the sin accumulated when self-denial is avoided. We are next shown a very long room, containing a wooden bench, extending on each side. Upon the tables are positioned a plastic trencher, bowl, plus spoon, with a napkin for each monk, plus the name of each embroidered thereof; at the upper end, sat the prior, distinguished from the rest of the convent only by his pastoral staff who delivered a discourse to the monks.
