sâmbătă, 11 august 2012
Rare were those nights when he could feel life draining away in his veins and , he had to face it, this was just one of those nights. Thump, thump...He could hear the arrhythmia. His heart was working but one ventricle whas never chaching up whit the other. Whas that normal ? Whas he finaly about to..... Maybe he just had too much coffee and the thump he felt in the back of the neck was his pulsating heart drowning in brown smudge. Or. He was imagining it. Just his sleep starved mind making up stuff to keep him awake.
It was late. He knew it! Time was ticking away at the speed of the heartbeats of his unborn child . How many there were? 180 beats per minute? So fast?
Bad week they had. Monday they were immigrants , on Tuesday their child was already a passport bearing citizen of that kingdom on the edge of the world and by Friday they were all back in the comfortable unhappiness that the East End provided so generously.
Pour little soul, rapt around in his mother, like a tapestry woven out of threads of fear and change.
Yes. He was a storm , he raged like one since he came back. Could he be a danger to his family?
“Are you dreaming?” he asked himself in the rarefied light.
No he wasn't. His dreams were all in that other language that his mind was speaking some times. The one he could not understand.
Come to think about it, he didn't dream since he came back .
Liar! He was dreaming every day, walking down the street, when he was seeing people that couldn't be there, or when he was seeing the main boulevard turn in a fjord and the municipal police station transformed to a castle.
Yes. He was dreaming every day but it was hard to admit.
The bed has amnesia. He sed. Why is this a memory matrece if it doesen't remember me? Is it my bed? He rose careful not to let his wife feel their bed turning into just her bed and wondered what to do. He could have had a smoke, cigarettes were still cheap , he could have had another cup of coffe, just for the bitterness... He chose instead to get quietly dressed and to sneak out the door like a rober in someone else's home.
“There's no need to hurry now!” he told himself. “You can take it easy. The hard part is over. You’re staying!”
The ex-immigrant turned on his mp3 player; he still had the music downloaded in the days when he could see from his other apartment's window the edge of the world.
Outside it was poring. Why is he like this? He shouldn't be that numb. Maybe it was just fatigue setting in.
“Did you fell asleep?”
No, he wasn't sleeping. If he were, he would have dreamt of being an angel, a cherub to be precise. A cherub dressed in two of his wings like immigrants dress themselvs in foreign accents, with fore heads that changed among themselves like people and streets in a days gurney and, of course, with a flaming sword sharpened to perfection by the grind of ignorance.
He felt like going to a church. An empty one like a Lutheran cathedral or maybe one of those adorned with a miracle-making icon1. Like the one in the merchant's church up in town.
Somebody should invent Lutheran churches with miracle-making icons! If he is to comeback to the land's end he will personally build a church that is Lutheran outside but has a Christ Pantocrator2 adorning the ceiling.
The streets were pretty strange with all that rain pouring down, half riverbed, half tarmac with a bit of effort, even half fjord.
He felt like flying a bit. Not much, like in the old days, when he was imagining himself flying over the mountains and the sees to get in his wife’s bed3 . No! Just a bit, 'till the center of town.
“Cherubs have four wings. Two for flying and the other two for redemption.
How wold the sleepy taxi drivers in the station nearby would have looked at him if by mistake they could read his mind.
“Redemption? What's that about?” Taxi drivers are saved in the good old fashion way not in some orthoprotestant gibberish from some far away heresy!
“I redeem myself, you redeem yourself, they don't redeem themselves.” Was that correct? Was his English still usable?
The merchant's church was locked. “Whas the sky closed at night? No plains ,no redemption? Taxi drivers don't get salvation ‘till early next morning ?.”
He led a cigarette watching the evangelist's four beasts adorning the church's old gate. Strange beasts they were. The immigrant could just make them up in the reddish lights of the cigarette. The eagle, the lion, the bull and the fourth one, the... Come on! He must know the fourth head. They were the heads of his cherub body. Lion ,bull, eagle and...what was his fourth head? ”Make yourself comfortable 'cause you are not leaving 'till you find out what you other head is.”
He was so preoccupied with finding his forth damn head that he did not even noticed when he passed through the gate. Did the gates open just for him? Did he fell asleep? asked for the emty church to answer.
The miracle-making icon had to be beautiful, but was hidden by the chains left in offering by the believers that got their wishes granted so that not many actualy knew how she looked.
“What do ya' want?” Asked the Virgin Mary holding her baby Jesus from underneath the tokens like a gypsy woman smeling of holy tabacco in her tent.
“I'd like to ...I don't know. Can I...like...?”
“Didn't I grant you that wish last time ya' were here gadjo4?”
“Well... I don't know exactly if...”
“O.K. I can sea how ya're pined...I'll help you again but...now ya' owe me a Lutheran church with a miracle-making icon. Not for me... For the danci5. Got it?!”
“Yes ma'am, I got it.”
“Good! Now go away. Su' little one 'cause in the morning I has some faithful comin' to get some salvation and I's work to do. They knows what they want. Serious people with serious wishes, not like ya', I mean.”
Thst was a dream.
It can't be ...! No way. He sed when they shouk him.
“Hey! Hey! Snake du norsk?” The police officer asked while the imigran was waking up in front of Frogner Kirke. He was numbed like a cherub that didn't see the church bell in his filght.
“No! Sorry lads, I only speak English.”
“Are you O.K.? What are you doing here so early in the morning?”
“Nothing much! My bed in the hostel isn't free yet so I'm just taking in a bit of early morning redemption.”
1Theologically, all icons are considered to be sacred, and are miraculous by nature, being a means of spiritual communion between the heavenly and earthly realms. However, it is not uncommon for specific icons to be characterised as "miracle-working", meaning that God has chosen to glorify them by working miracles through them. Such icons are often given names (especially those of the Virgin Mary)
2 literal translation is "Ruler of All" or, less literally, "Sustainer of the World". In this understanding, Pantokrator is a compound word formed from the Greek for "all" and the verb meaning "To accomplish something" or "to sustain something" (κρατεω). This translation speaks more to God's actual power; i.e., God does everything (as opposed to God can do everything).
The Pantokrator, largely an Eastern Orthodox or Eastern Catholic theological conception is less common by that name in Western (Roman) Catholicism and largely unknown to most Protestants.
5Small one in Romani