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Deceit of Blooming With wondering eyes, interrupted by routine, I look at the tender yet unbending branches of deceitful inspiration searching for the sorrowful flowers of words when nature turns turbulent during the spring and the froth of flowers shine in the excited seas of gardens. I say: how conspicuous disguises does the deceitful creator devices what bright gleam do the colors provide what red fruits hang heavy over crevasses where, by chance, the verb ripens yet, my eyes give birth to caterpillars on the blooms and my teeth break from the seeds.
A shaft of light broke through the overcast sky and the lonely linden tree was thrown into sharp relief, each branch outlined. She was suddenly aware that she wouldn’t see Paul again after this day. She touched his shoulder and gazed into his face. The light that filtered through the clouds reminded her of a moment on a day in Leningrad when she had looked at Volodya in just this way. Something flashed. “Give me hope,” he had said. A thought struggled to be born. It came slowly, gathering momentum, then raged through her with terrifying speed. It electrified her. Paul felt the jolt through her arm. His eyes widened. “What?” “Don’t tell anyone about leaving.” He held her gaze questioningly. The idea was so thrilling, so disturbing, but suddenly she knew it was meant to be. It would account for everything: Paul’s departure, Volodya’s hopes, her future. “We don’t have much time. Don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.” She pulled him behind the ugly statue. “Look, is there some way you could stay with Vera and maybe arrange some papers and identification for yourself? Not tell anyone you’re Canadian? Just blend in. Pretend to be Soviet?” “This morning you were warning me not to leave. Now you’re telling me to blend in. What’s with you?” “Well, is there?” She was growing impatient. “You mean by—how? Buying papers or bribing someone? I’ve heard it’s done here, but I don’t know if we could arrange it. Why?” “I want your passport.” Paul was listening hard, but before he could answer she went on. “You said this morning that if I loved Volodya the same way I would do the same thing. Well, I do love him—but I can’t stay here. And he doesn’t want to stay here either. He can’t get out. He’s not going to be given an exit visa no matter how hard he tries. But if we had your passport…” “Whaat! That would never work. Just walk out pretending to be me!” “Yes. Yes, he looks like you. About the same height, same eyes, everything. He could leave the country with me…that’s in just three days’ time. You know, he could pretend to be you for the last days of our trip, then he could stay being you even in Canada. He would have your identity, everything. You could get another identity here. Oh, God, what an idea!”
mulling over the specials at the supermarket, folks no longer said they thought they saw the boy hopping a fence or skipping through a yard. They began to say they saw Kimble. People who formerly supported the manhunt, just like some of the characters on the TV program, were now actively assisting his escape. The Widow Nighs, for example, an enthusiastic follower of the drama, left cakes and soft drinks under a cardboard box on her patio. And the Bartons, it was later learned, left their garage unlocked at night. They added a cot and sleeping bag, a stack of comics, grilled-cheese sandwiches. Mr. Barton hooked up an electric heater on evenings the temperature dipped. The manner in which our neighbours referred to the police also changed. Of course, most appreciated the presence of Sgt. McManus. His baton disciplined the delinquents in ways no parent could. But while these strange doings were unfolding, all cops— not just the sergeant— became the feared Lt. Gerard. Even the TV character thought to be the killer of the doctor’s wife, the one-armedman, landed a role in ourmystery. Teens took to walking around with an arm tucked inside a shirt. I did it. So did my pals. It was cool. My brother Burt and his thugs roamed the streets most nights picking fights and boosting anything not chained down. Had they come across Fender in the early days of the search they would have pummelled him ferociously. But because they hated the thought of being allied with Gerard, Burt and his pals began doing whatever they could to atone for their misplaced allegiance. If Fender was reported hiding out in, say, an empty lot, an anonymous caller would inform the police he’d been spotted elsewhere. We all began wearing red baseball caps identical to Fender’s. It was a craze, like the Hula Hoop—our way of expressing solidarity with the fugitive’s tenacity. Late one night, when it looked as though the cops had Fender boxed in, Burt’s pals started darting between the houses, yelling, He’s over here! After him! The cops couldn’t distinguish one red cap from another and returned, flummoxed, to the command centre. But just as school was about to resume, the dew thick in the high grass, the police trapped Fender in the glow of a moonbeam. He was attempting to cross the school grounds accompanied by a family of raccoons.
Forerunner Soon after the musicians arrived with strange instruments in their hands, music sounded so familiar and fleeting, like the thief who came to grab precious stones that belonged to us, the woman crossed her legs as if to hide her secret and the maestro who waited anxiously to find out what kind of smoke we smoked, got up and hugged our wise friend. Then a fly, quite unexpectedly, landed, like a queen on her throne, on the maestro’s skin, who never understood the reason for such movement, but said in a loud voice. I’ve arrived here to entertain you. Fame had gone to his head, there was no other explanation and we turned our eyes toward the prophet who just whispered: music, the language of the Universe. I like him who is the forerunner of thunderbolt and vanishes like the thunderbolt.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 