Parenthesis by Albert Russo (digital book reader .TXT) 📖

flakes spraying the air. Symphony in white major. First movement. Piano, pianissimo. The trees with their arms outstretched are the soloists of this ageless orchestra. No conductor. Armonia magica. So smooth. Blood-curdling cries. Footsteps. I'm alone in this garden of Hades. I grope in the pocket of my dufflecoat for a handkerchief and extract instead a pair of red sunglasses. Which I put on. Horresco referens - l shudder as I relate. The whole atmosphere is bleeding. The wound can't be spotted. It is omnipresent. Fresh, rich, non-coagulating blood. Beautiful and distressing! Peaceful yet staggering. Have the gods slaughtered each other, washing the earth in an ocean of plasma?
As I approach the mansion, the faces I recognize through the stained-glass window appear as unusual as purple ghosts at a secret gathering. I enter the room, leaving my spectacles on. Red glances. Hostile smiles. Altered sensations. They speak a language I understand. Fragments of conversation - perfectly intelligible - in which I decide not to partake. I feel cloistered in a protective sheath. My lips move. They utter words, yet I can't hear them any longer. I'm probably giving the right answers. The Countess-ghost has just nodded at me, while the ghost of Mr. Dupont sneers. Who is he making fun of now? “Wipe that grin off your face!”
No reaction. Haven't I just said it? Never mind. The intention was there. Clicking noises. The other ghosts are busy eating. Eating, chewing, sw allowing blood. I'm not hungry. “Have some! It's fresh, broiled salmon.”
My hands wave a gesture of refusal. Inquisitive looks. They get on my nerves. Someone orders me to take off my glasses. Who the devil does he think he is - he or she? I don't know. It continues to nag me. I get up, push back my chair and leave the refectory,yelling: “Return to where you came from, bunch of bloody ghosts!”
9:20 pm on my fluorescent watch. It is still snowing. The night resembles a live lacework. Dapple-grey. I'm about to cross the garden, heading towards the annex, when I hear a flutter. I turn around and see Leila shaking a tablecloth on the doorstep of the kitchen. She beckons to me, whispers something I don't quite get. Disappears for a moment, then comes out dressed in a synthetic fur coat, carrying a straw bag on her left arm.
All the lights of the mansion are out except in the living-room, where the only animated object is the television screen. Ghost entertainment in a ghost house.
Again she whispers: “Antonio, Antonio....” I approach her, hesitantly. “But why did you keep those sunglasses on during lunch?”
As no answer comes, she pursues: “Would you mind accompanying me to the bus station? I'm afraid to go there alone at this hour of the night.”
She's right. Not a soul around. Shadows. And the thriving, intensifying lacework of the snow. Two street lamps pathetically sustaining the assault of undetectable machine guns. The frenzy of a myriad tiny white bullets. Sudden whoosh of an empty bus - flash of neon in the darkness. Seconds later a truck wobbles its way up the opposite direction. Then again that pervasive quietness, which is neither silence nor sound. What a grim sight indeed! ... eerie beauty. The pavement is wide enough for one person. Cobblestones covered with slush. I walk at the edge of the road and catch hold of Leila's sleeve: “Be careful, you can break your neck on those things!”
She smiles, her gaze flitting now here, now there, and says: “How thoughtful of you! My husband wouldn't mind at all if something like that happened to me.”
Before I realize what she means, the trolley picks her up and they vanish in the dark.

Ten weeks already. When will I get out of here? No one has a clue. Yes, the doctor. But we're not on speaking terms. Mme Liliane and Mlle Helene won't talk either. They've been instructed not to. So, I barely greet them. Leila shows compassion but can't do much. As for the other inmates, I've lost all patience. That monkey business of srniling and countersmiling is weighing on my jaws. Very soon I won't be able to utter anything but platitudes. In fact, my vocabulary has shriveled up like an accordion. The safest thing to do is to entrench myself in that annex room on the first floor, where at least I can pull faces at whatever and whomever I wish. Whims, they call it.
Mly last evening in the rest-home. I've gotten accustomed to these crinkled, indifferent, cadaverous grins. Even developed a sort of attachment to them. They're all here in the television room. Except for Monsieur Lazarus. He supposedly left with a relative ... Gone to the country, somewhere near the coast. He's disappeared without saying goodbye. No one has ever commented on his departure, as if it were an accepted thing to vanish like that, overnight. A likeable old chap he was. Obviously, he won't return. Death doesn't bother to leave greeting cards behind.
I give the place a cursory inspection and, with a boldness which only the spirit affords, I pry into the mind of each inmate. What right haveyou? It's like wire-tapping, or just about. But I can't resist the temptation. They've told me so little about themselves. It's my way of showing ... concern. If only for the silence we've shared. I don't want to leave the party like a scoundrel. They taught me self-restraint, made me conscious of my mortality.
What is Mr. Dupont brooding over again? He's so straight and stiff in his chair. Never sits on the couch. Oh, no! Tbat's for the 'slack buttocks' of the monumental lady. She's sneezing, poor creature.
('Poor, my foot! If you don't stop this act, I'll gag you. It wouldn't make a difference anyway, you dumb fish! Go on ... how I'd like to see you crawl in the middle of the desert ... and stuff two corks in those alligator nostrils of yours!”)
Their eyes finally meet. His threatening, hers glowering:
(“You're wasting your energy, nervous brat! I know why you're so mad at me. You have no clue as to whether I hate you or simply despise you. Keep guessing.”)
Weary of her 'eternal absence,' he clears his throat and turns on the television. It howls. He is doing it on purpose. To test the audience's reaction:
(“Decibels, decibels, until they pierce your eardrums and pound your sclerotic brains.”)
The Countess rubs her forehead in protest, then reels as if to grab something. Tries to get up but wobbles and falls back in a grunt:
(“Drunk again, hey! You clod! You wet blanket!”)
Has Mr.Dupont got the message? Certainly, and that is why he plays with the knob. Lowering, increasing the volume, lowering it again:
(“Blueblooded goose. You've been to America so many times, eh. Why the hell didn't you stay there? A real pity you missed the Titanic - I would have loved to see you jump into the ocean, wheedled by some cute iceberg.”)
The monumental lady lends her usual deaf ear ... and dead eye. As soon as Mllle Helene enters the room, everybody puts on a demure look. The television announcer speaks in a soft, mellifluous tone, while Mr. Dupont glances through the window, missing nothing of what goes on inside. It is night now and the window makes a perfect mirror. The Countess, a filter cigaret hanging on her lower lip, fumbles with the table lighter in front of her, striking it nervously. She strikes and strikes, obtaining only jeering sparks. Swears, then hurls it off. Mlle Helene picks it up and with a firm movement of her thumb, gives her a light. The Countess grumbles an irritated “thank you,” puffs and coughs, continues to puff. Gets into a spattering fit and crushes the long butt in an ashtray.
All quiets down with the appearance of Leila, followed by Mme Litiane. Coffee and tea are served. The Algerian girl does it with great skill, pouring each his habitual dose. She knows exactly who takes milk and who doesn't. There have never been any complaints about Leila. Except in the very beginning, when an old, bigoted lady almost panicked at her sight: “What is she, an Arab? God forbid that the Moors invade us again. They've wreaked enough havoc in Spain during centuries.”
I'd like her to stay a little longer while all eyes are fastened upon the screen. But she gives me a wink, letting me understand that she isn't through yet with her work. She expects me to join her afterwards in the kitchen. I probabiy wn't see her again. A sort of premature nostalgia settles in my chest. I shall miss this unearthly place where the trivial too has its importance.


THE CHOICE

first appeared in The Body Politic (Canada)


Spring, in a small town of the Auvergne region in Central France


MOIRA: At first I took him for a gigolo and gave him the cold shoulder. It was his bohemian elegance and his striking good looks. I am wary of boys who are so handsome. But then I watched him throughout the dance last Saturday evening. At one moment girls were fluttering around him like a swarm or dazzled night butterflies, he declined their invitations with a wan smile. Some of the girls, out of spite, sniggered at him. Then I detected panic in his eyes, or so I thought, and I began to wonder what he could be searching for in a place like this. I'd seen him twice before. He would sit alone at the far end of the dance floor and would glance at the door every so often as if expecting someone. I assumed he was about to leave when he crossed the floor over in my direction and asked me to dance with him. I refused curtly. Five minutes later he was back and reiterated the invitation.
He held me by the waist as if it were the stem of a glass flower and I perceived a tremor in his fingers. Slender and a good head taller than me, he told me he was new in town, that he'd come here because he had landed an interesting job as a designer at the toy factory. “Turning a new page,” he said as we whirled to a slow waltz. He acted very gentlemanly and craned his pallid neck lest I should think wrongly about his intentions. His chin now and then brushed my temple. I assumed he had had a strict Catholic upbringing and was proven not to be mistaken.
“I spent twelve years with the Jesuits,” he said. Behind the Polish and the discipline,behind the Cartesian reasoning, I sensed the seething of a volcano.

DOMINIQUE: I waited three weeks before I dared approach her. I must be cautious and not appear too eager. My cheeks are on fire. She won't notice, it's too dim.