In this first issue these pages are turned over to a lover of art who travels and guides those foreigners in love with Greek beauty. He loves to explore difficult paths that are usually hidden. He appears in the wee hours when he shouldn’t. ‘Moisture’ –not exactly a poem- could be a melancholic -not quite triumphant- song about all the ‘nos’ we never turn into ‘yeses’ just by pressing a button, just by turning our heads... the text below could be a short story, a theatrical work or the damp soil in a forest some distant morning from now when the sun’s first rays fall on it after a crystal cold night has imbibed it with knowledge (and Zachariadis stood naked in the sunlight to dry off)....
"The moisture's to blame"
by Andreas Zachariadis
Early in the morning
perhaps late in the evening
I’m sitting at home
I draw a circle on the mirror
with my fingertip
The bell rings. A stranger is standing in the doorway.
He walks by me,
lies down on my bed and
dies.
I’m flustered.
I roll him onto the floor and go to make something to eat.
I’m suddenly hungry you see.
Perhaps I ought not to feel hungry now, should I?
Having said that the fish was delicious.
Why my bed in particular?
Unacceptable!
I only picked up the bed cover from the dry cleaner’s yesterday.
I cannot eat another bite. I chuck the rest out.
The bell rings. A postman is standing in the doorway.
He hands me a book,
walks by me, lies down on my bed and
dies.
I begin to worry, during the course of the day I come to fear
the visits.
I imagine the postman's book
in the mirror, that -due to the moisture- could
stick inside the freshly-drawn circle.
I listen to the hum of the fridge.
Why?
Why my bed in particular?
What have I done wrong?
The first one began to stink.
I drag the second one from the bed and
let him fall on the first one.
They are not looking at each other.
I listen to the radio.
I sing to myself ‘Somebody up there is waiting for you...'
The bell rings. A young man is standing in the doorway.
I ask him if he wants to die.
I denies it so categorically,
walks by me,
stops in front of the mirror,
removes the book from the circle,
leaves it lying open on the table,
trips over the postman,
falls on my bed and
dies.
‘Do you think there’s anyone who wants to die!’ he just managed to say.
Likeable guy.
Unfortunately there are very few like him.
I’d liked to have chatted a little with him.
I lie him on the floor,
in a garbage-free corner.
I look at him, but
my glance is not returned.
I’m still alone.
I managed to read something from the postman’s book.
Anyway, as one turns the pages,
despite the humidity,
the letters roll down the page.
You see, they are really quite heavy.
Only thoughts stick to paper.
I concentrate on a crack in the wall.
It’s from the earthquake.
There’s nothing left to snack on in the house.
The bell rings. Someone is standing in the doorway.
‘Do you want to die?’ I ask him.
‘No,’ he replies.
‘In that case you'd better go home!' I warn him.
His glance signals that he doesn't understand me but
he leaves.
Is that perhaps the solution?
I go to the three dead men,
I ignore the garbage, I lie on the floor,
so I can look at them deep in the eyes
and tell them to go home.
No reaction.
I show them the mirror
-the circle has faded-
but no-one except me gets up.
They stink.
I open the window onto the vent
and put on a CD.
A blast of air ruffles the book,
stopping at the first page.
The bell rings. I was expecting that.
Someone is standing close to the door,
the other guy says that he doesn’t want to talk anymore,
that they have lost their clarity of thought.
I don’t understand them; both are naked.
They walk by me,
touching each other with symmetrical movements,
they lie down on my bed
hand with hand
.... foot with foot...
………..knee with breast
……………eyelash with navel and
die.
I place them on both sides of the third guy,
the good-looking one.
He has now stopped smelling.
I lie down on my bed.
I no longer hear the bell ringing.
END
BACK TO "HETERON IN ENGLISH"
