AN OLD MAN
By Sissy Pantelis
At the back of a noisy café, bent over a table, sat a lonely old man reading a newspaper. Years weighed on him and he looked sad. Who knows what gloomy thoughts were in his mind?
A whisper made him look at the door. He saw a young watch-seller. A handsome boy who looked fashioned in Eros’s mastery. His lovely face was glowing like the moon under the funny tall hat with an antique golden clock attached to the leather top. The youth reminded the old man of himself. He also used to be good-looking at that age. Like the young man, he would go from shop to shop, selling small figurines made of seashells. How swiftly years had flown by!
The watch on the young man’s hat showed half-past twelve. How swiftly time had flown by! But on the old man's ticker, it was twelve, and on the antique café clock, a quarter past twelve. What was wrong with those timekeepers? Had they lost their mind?
He shrugged and went back to his newspaper. But bits of conversation from the other customers reached his ears and wouldn’t let him concentrate on reading.
“…For two years I have been writing, merely to create one idyll. Shall I ever go higher on the steep ladder of Poetry?”
One idyll isn’t that bad, thought the old man. Never in his life had he completed a single poem.
“Why are you out so early?” A man asked two beautiful women in red dresses. “And how come you’re wearing your most expensive jewels?” He added, glancing at their amethyst-studded bracelets and rings adorned with brilliant, glittering emeralds.
“Because the barbarians are to arrive today. Such things dazzle the barbarians,” the two ladies answered in a single voice.
The old man heaved a loud sigh. That same old story… Didn’t they know yet that this was just a legend?
“… a terrible shipwreck,” a sailor said to another. “No survivors.”
“How sad! And who did this? The barbarians?”
“No, it was a violent tempest and a furious sea storm...”
The old man was downhearted at the news. He pushed the newspaper aside and rested his head on the table and closed his eyes.
Incantations in some unknown language echoed in his mind. Were his loved ones, lost among the dead, trying to speak in his dreams? Only that speech did not sound human.
He looked around, saw faint lights, and knew the soft murmurs were merely the gentle sizzling of the fire.
There was a long row of little white candles. Golden, warm and lively, the music of their flames fading away in the darkness. He followed the path of the candles. Those left behind were extinguishing and
vanishing. He would only move forward.
One candle was missing. That was quite disturbing. On the side, he spotted a woman kneeling in front of a golden icon of the Holy Virgin. Holding the missing candle, she prayed for the speedy return of her son, a sailor at sea.
The mother’s prayers were to no avail. Her son was on that ship that had perished in the storm. The icon remained silent, but he would tell the woman. She had the right to know her son was dead.
The candles disappeared, and he was inside a church. The only light came from the gleam of the silver and golden icons. A few people were sitting in wooden pews: women clad in black long dresses and hats, veils covering their faces. Men in dark suits and ties. The mother praying to the Virgin was not among them.
He approached a man: “Did you see an old lady with a candle?" He asked politely, but the man ignored him.
“… she was over here only a moment ago," he insisted.
Annoyed, the man in black placed a finger before pursed lips. “Can you keep silent? This is a funeral. Please respect our grief.”
Only then did the old man notice the tiny coffins, surrounded by black candle stands. Oh, God, why were all those small children dead? Distressed, he went to pay the last respects… and gasped in horror.
In the wooden boxes, there were no children, but... dolls. Oh, they looked like angels or innocent infants that would never grow old. Magnificent in their sublime robes, with roses adorning their heads and heavily scented jasmines covering their feet. Yet, those breathtakingly attractive bodies bore no trace of humanity.
“They’re only dolls,” the old man whispered. But a lady just beside him overheard his words.
“Oh, ignorant one, know that those are unfulfilled desires. We have to mourn properly their passing. If we don’t, they will become fearsome nightmares that will haunt us forever.”
He shook his head and moved to a chair, far from the insane assembly grieving for dolls.
He needed to sit; walking along the candle path had exhausted him. There were neither doors nor windows in the church. So much the better. Whatever existed outside might be worse than this ghastly ceremony.
Soon, he grew tired of the monotony of the scene. He looked around and saw the mother praying before the golden icon of the Holy Virgin. He joined her, begging for a way out.
The Queen of Heaven seemed to hear his mute prayer. The golden hues of the icon glowed as the picture shifted into a large wide-open window allowing dazzling sunlight into the church. The old man closed his eyes and rubbed his aching eyelids; then he looked out.
The most incredible parade was passing: gorgeous young men and women, nymphs, satyrs, sirens, elves, animal-headed people with alluring figures. Some played music; others held bright-colored flags that looked like silk rainbow scarves flowing at the wind. Those who weren’t dancing were flirting, kissing, or boldly caressing each other. The cheerful bunch followed a large golden chariot. The sirens
sang:
Come and join us
Come to the Regiment of Pleasure
Glowing Love’s fond embrace
Blessed balm
Shall soothe your longings…
If only he could flee this gloomy place and join them! He heaved a sigh and cast his eyes down. Something changed. He looked around and saw he was in the parade.
No longer old, he felt light-hearted, and was soon singing and dancing with the merry band.
A delightful young woman took his hand and danced with him, then wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his lips. They made love again and again, and he was happy like one can only be in dreams.
“I must be in heaven,” he muttered.
“Oh, no,” his lovely companion laughed. “That place is overrated. Actually, it’s quite dull.”
He laughed and he caressed her, but she stopped him. “We'll take over where we stopped,” she said with a smile. “But you have to answer one question. In the Regiment of Pleasure, we don't live by rules, but this custom is sacred here.”
He stared at her, confused.
“We ask all newcomers, sweetheart,” she went on. “So, my darling, what is it that you really desire? What would satisfy your body, soul, and mind?”
He lowered his eyes and bit his lips, but said nothing.
“Just answer, my love,” she said. “In the Regiment of Pleasure, we know neither guilt nor shame. Right, you stay silent. I’ll help you.”
She clapped her hands; a group of young women – human females, elves, and nymphs arrived. They were as beautiful as a blazing sunrise, with eyes gleaming like precious jewels in the morning light.
“You can choose any of us—or take us all,” a blond woman said in a musical voice. “We’ll sing and dance and make love. When you become tired, we’ll play the most enchanting music, drink the finest wines, provide your favourite dishes. Also…”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he answered, his voice quivering. “You are all beautiful, like goddesses, and one night in your company is certainly worth an eternity in heaven. But I have to be honest. This is not my heart’s desire.”
“No need to feel bad, sweet one,” the fair-haired woman said. “In the Regiment of Pleasure, we are never embarrassed about our desires.” With those words, the ladies left and his companion clapped her hands again.
This time, they were surrounded by a band of men. Their faces were like shining moons and their bodies perfect as statues of ancient Greek gods. Among them were some sensual, wild-eyed satyrs with large, erect genitals almostas tall as their torsos.
A young man with blue eyes alike to sapphires stood in front of him. “Besides all the things the ladies offered,” he said in a sensual voice, “we can hunt in the woods or perform your preferred sports
competitions. Afterward, we can talk about science, art, philosophy.”
“He’ll get bored to death,” chuckled a satyr. “Ladies are far superior to you in any of those things! Even discussing philosophy with them is stimulating, for they have more passion and imagination than all of you together. Not to mention their exceptional skills as storytellers.”
“We equally know excellent tales,” the young man protested. “The songs of our bards are as enchanting as the ladies’ legends.”
“Sure! You steal their stories and put them into songs! Anyway – it seems to me that the young man here has no interest in any of this. State what you desire, my friend. Don’t be shy. Games of chance? We can play any of them for days. Do you prefer dream elixirs – dope, or intoxicating spirits? All for free and always high quality stuff…”
“None of those!” the old man, now youthful and handsome, shouted in exasperation. “However wonderful, these things are not my heart’s deepest desire. What will make me happy is… to sail at sea!”
There—he had said it. He expected everybody to mock him, but nobody laughed.
“Fine,” said the satyr with a shrug. “Why don’t you just say so?”
“Come with me.” His lover gently took his hand. “I’ll take you to our chiefs.”
They walked among singers, dancers, and musicians who performed while holding the bright-coloured flags of the Regiment, and arrived at the golden chariot. Surprised, the old man who was now young saw it was occupied by two golden-crowned swans and two silver-crowned white eagles.
“This young man wants to be at sea,” his companion said.
The eagles nodded in consent, their eyes glowing like amber under the sun.
“Is this your deepest heart’s desire?” One swan asked in a human voice.
"It is, Your Majesty," he replied firmly.
The swan flapped his wings. And the man became a seagull that flew swiftly over the sea. That was an extraordinary sensation, but not quite what he had in mind.
But at once, everything changed.
He found himself in the ship where he had been working as a sailor. It looked brand new: everything was tidy and the colours so vivid... Nothing like the worn, faded nutshell in his memory. The vessel also seemed deserted.
Where were his companions?
He couldn’t be alone on board; they were probably busy and would likely call him soon to work. But for the moment, he felt more like a passenger than a member of the crew.
Taking a deep breath, he enjoyed the scent of the breeze and stared at the sea as the ship was swiftly sailing. The soft white sea foam sounded like music. He had often wondered if the sparkling spume of the white-capped waves could be the dream of the mermaids sleeping deep under the sea. Dazzling sun
reflections danced on the water like golden candle lights that led to an infinity of paths.
This was why he had been a sailor. He enjoyed everything, even the hard parts of the job and felt at home with his traveling companions. But the best of all was to breathe the perfume of the sea breeze, enjoy the waves. And the magic of the ocean glitter, bright gold beneath the sun and silver-white under the moonlight. Even stormy and wild, with her song turning into an angry roar, the sea was magnificent in her merciless fury.
Only far away from the land did he enjoy this feeling of absolute freedom...
A prominent white form crowned by bright light emerged abruptly out of the water at some distance.
What was that?
A giant candle? Not likely.
A lighthouse maybe? But its light wouldn’t be that much intense by daylight!
As the ship approached, a splendid ancient white building dominating a glorious landscape came into view. That was most probably an old palace or a shrine.
Sweet voices echoed into his mind: “Just because they’ve broken our statues and driven us out of our temples, yet we gods still didn’t lay down our lives. Our souls are still alive in this loved land of ours. When an August morning dawns upon you, the vigor of our life stabs through your air." Even as the voices spoke, ethereal graceful forms swiftly floated above the temple.
He stared in awe, not daring to utter a single word.
“Rarely, we encounter a pure soul made of light, burning with the fire of passion. Like yours, bold traveler. Onto our shoulders, we will carry you to the Temple of Poetry that gleams white over the sea.”
“The… Temple of Poetry?” The young man stuttered. “This is too great an honour, but I don’t deserve it. I am not a poet, never have completed a poem…”
“We appreciate your sincerity,” the voices sounded slightly amused. “But men of impetuous passion and bold enough to enjoy a life of freedom deserve not only a place in the Temple of Poetry but even the privilege to join us in Olympus, our divine home.”
Hearing those words, the young man smiled. He could not understand why he had gained such immense praise, but this was the happiest moment in his life.
**
In the café, the sailor and the poet were looking at the old man, sound asleep on the table.
“We should wake him up,” said the sailor. “He shouldn’t be sleeping here at his age. He will rest much better in his bed.”
“Oh, don’t do this!” The poet stared at the sleeping man in awe. “When awake, he looked so gloomy. Look how happy he is right now! That smile on his face... Who knows in what wondrous dreamscapes
his mind wanders! If only I could share his visions… Great poems frequently take birth in dreams. No,
my friend,” the poet said with a heavy sigh, “just let him sleep. May he enjoy his journey in the realms of the divine Morpheus.”
Sissy Pantelis was Co-editor of French SF magazine Galaxies for 3 years (2006-2009) and frequently collaborated with SF Mind Meld.
She has had more than 50 short
stories published in various magazines and anthologies. Mostly in English, but
also French, German, Spanish and Greek.
Her work has been published in Comics – on commission in the USA and Colombia, South America. Her two graphic novels - Red Nightmare and Blue Sparkles were published by British publisher MARKOSIA in 2016.
She is currently working on a novel, so writing fewer short stories.
This story was inspired by various poems by Greek poet Constantin Cavafy. The poems used are in the order of the text:
-An Old Man (I gave
the title of this poem to the story. It could be "An Old Man's
Dream", but I preferred to keep Cavafy's title).
- At the Café Door (I
used the translation by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard
-Since Nine O'Clock
-The First Step (in conversation customers in
café)
-Waiting for the Barbarians (in conversation
customers in café)
-Voices
-Candles
-Supplication
-Desires
-The Windows
-The Regiment of Pleasure (I used the
translation in English by David Mendelsohn).
-Ionian Song
-The Regiment of Pleasure (at the end, the
statement of the Olympian Gods).
The poem in the text is an extract
from the Regiment of Pleasure.
Illustration - Flying Dutchman by Russian painter Michael Cheval.
No comments:
Post a Comment