Louw Alex. Stitcher

straight line of flycatcher

The fact

(From the author)

Not so long ago I came across a very unusual official document entitled:

"Application for the mercy killing of the patient commonly known as Stitcher"

This document was sanctioned by the Minister of Health of the Republic of South Africa, and had attached to it a small letter as well as a thick tattered note-book.

The letter read as follows:

"The patient Stitcher, who also assumed the nickname Rat King, represented a rare example of nature's anomalies. Rat King was born into a mixed Anglo-Afrikaner family. From birth he bore a deformity - there were two separate torsos, joined at the abdomen to a single trunk and pair of legs.

Rather, Rat King consisted of two individuals from the waist up (two heads, two pairs of arms, and two hearts) that came together as a single individual from the waist down (one stomach, one liver, and one sex organ of indeterminate nature).

The parents refused to destroy the monster, and decided to bring him up in isolation from society, right up to their own deaths. The greatest surprise was an ability of conjoined twins to sustain themselves, and to make a living of their own. Under the supervision of their parents, they developed a certain prowess with a sewing machine, and through a middleman executed small orders from outside customers. Because of this skill, Rat King was given the nickname Stitcher. It brought to light the phenomenal co-ordination of the creature's double pairs of hands.

Difficulties arose with Stitcher's ability to earn a living, when the two connected individuals fell out, and ceased to communicate with each other. They produced no more work, and thereafter communicated with each other only through alternate notes written in a note book, after the fashion of some sort literary game (note book attached to this letter).

Through a state grant, the patient was provided with the services of a professional psychiatrist. After a long and careful examination, the psychiatrist suggested eliminating the consciousness of one of the component individuals, leaving only its physiological functions.

As it has turned out, the procedure intended to liberate the remaining individual to allow him to take care of himself, has not had the desired effect. That individual is still unable to provide for himself... unable to function... refuses to, in fact.

For this reason, we request permission for the mercy killing of the patient, in order to relieve him of unnecessary suffering, and society of the expense of supporting him".

After examining Stitcher's note book, I offer it to the judgment of the reader. If you see things as I do, perhaps you'll agree that we have here a case not of straight-forward mercy killing, but rather one of the well-planned suicide of the individual, executed by the medical profession. This journal served as map to coordinate the patient's plan of action.

In any case, it's up to the reader to decide for himself.

In the note-book you can find messages written in Red Ink. They are in the hand of Stitcher's psychiatrist. It is quite clear that they were made by the doctor after the patient's eradication.

"We will shuffle time a bit by its slimy little feet"

Herman

"Gracious Sir, who will count the cases of

grasshopper heart attacks caused by fear?"

Johannes

The Straight Line of Flycatcher. 1. IX.

Prologue

Africa is so recognizable in its pre-dawn hour. A first red line on the horizon against the absolute darkness of the night - that is dawn in the real Africa. Any poetical description would pale in comparison with the one that came into the mind of the Boer, who watched the horizon on the tenth of December, 1899: "As if a whip has torn away the skin of a black ox."

The man who drew such a bloody parallel belonged to the Boer commando under Floors du Plooy, whose people lay in ambush, waiting for the English troops. It was difficult to judge the numbers of the Free Staters - the men had skilfully hidden themselves between the rocks, in the wild country. Next to the Boer had settled another man. These two had established themselves some distance from the others. From the similarity of their features, it was clear that they were of one family. Indeed, they were father and son. Nor did the resemblance stop there. Both were enormously tall, noticeable in spite of the fact that they were not standing upright. The ammunition lying next to them appeared too heavy to have been brought by only two men.

Motionless, the father watched his son. The son amused himself with a little chameleon which he had captured. The young man's carelessness worried the father somewhat. Not for a moment could he forget their real purpose on the slope of this hill. They were ready to repulse the approaching British regiment that was moving from Molteno to regain the important railway junction at Stormberg. If the Free State forces were to fail here, there would be a straight road for the British to Bloemfontein - capital of the Republic.

War had divided the Cape Colonial Boers into several groups. Those who had been living under English jurisdiction for a long time did not oppose British authority openly, out of self-preservation. Others, encouraged by Boer successes in the early part of the war and inspired by patriotism, were joining the Republican forces. A smaller group served the British.

Father and son were Cape Boers who had joined the Republicans at the beginning of the war. Now the thoughts of the older man turned to his own young brother. Friend of his childhood, closest person in the world besides his son, his brother had thrown in his lot with the English.

The two brothers had been very well educated. Lively minds and eccentric behaviour characterised them both. They were a blend of dual natures, English and Afrikaans, living in the mixed world of the Cape Colony. They had a wealthy background and combined in themselves the good manners of the upper crust of Cape society, partly influenced by English Colonial culture, and the strong nature of Dutch pioneers. Piety and the old family traditions had, by some strange means, blended with the decadence of modern philosophical ideas. This duality begot uncertainties, which swung the destinies of the two brothers in different directions, and took them to opposite sides.

Looking at the chameleon in his son's hands, the old man thought how people too, change their colours under the influence of their surroundings.

"What is my son thinking? Being so close to English society and modern education has led him away from his roots. Much further than my brother and me. I didn't worry about keeping up traditions. His mother died so early. His uncle... Oh, again I can't put my brother out of my head!"

He spoke abruptly to his son:

"Please, concentrate your attention, don't waste your time on trifles!!! And in the fight keep low down. Khaki will blow your head off!"

"All right, father," said the young man, putting down the chameleon. He smiled softly, and looked at the velvety sky with its fading stars.

The night was filled with a myriad of fragrances, rising from different herbs and flowers. In the last minutes before dawn, the sounds of the night - the barking of jackals, the rustle of porcupine quills, were giving way to morning calls. Occasionally a pair of red eyes would flash out and disappear again. The orange silhouettes of the rocky mounds became clearer and clearer against the slope of the hill. Warm air hung motionless and pure in the first rays of the sun. The polyphony emanating from the orchestra of birds embraced the whole world. Then a warning whistle shot out from a family of meerkats.

***

The British regiment moved in close formation across the open veld. On a white horse, General Gatacre rode at the head of his column of three thousand men and two batteries of artillery. The wheels of the guns and ammunition limbers had been wrapped with hide thongs, to deaden the noise of their passing on the stony trail. Gatacre's aim had been to achieve surprise and to fall on the Boer positions in a dawn attack. But the two guides who led the expedition had lost their way. The general was annoyed about the sunrise and the uncertainty of their location. The occasional neigh of a horse, and the accidental sound of horseshoe against stone, were betraying their presence to the enemy.

The Boers knew that the English forces were very close, real, and inevitable. The fifty Republicans under Commandant Du Plooy hoped for help, but the messengers who were sent to the neighbouring laagers could bring back no more than seven hundred men. The enemy column approached within range. The decisive moment had arrived.

The father raised himself on one knee and chose his target. His son did the same. As a hunter who must choose at which animal to aim, now he had to make the first awful decision about a man.

Not less than two dozen experienced English soldiers fell under the Boer fusillade. The unexpected attack threw the bewildered British column into disorder. An invisible enemy poured down a hail of bullets. Some of the English withdrew down the hill. The main group of infantry tried to rally against the attackers, shooting back at an invisible, unattainable target. But the position was hopeless and in order to avoid complete extermination, the soldiers laid down their weapons.

Twenty-eight British were killed, six hundred captured. The Boer losses consisted of one killed and several slightly wounded.

In the evening of the same day, the soft light of the setting sun shone on a small procession. With a short pipe in his mouth, and a face that expressed no emotion, the father strode through clouds of dust. Behind him on the horse he led, across the saddle, hung the swaddled body of his son.

This is for those who've just learned to read, as well as those who have already forgotten how to do so.

Those who have ears, shall see.

Sunset and sunrise. The sunrise over my double smooth cream white body. On the brim of a milky swelling flow, pouring porous preposterous glow, shoots of thin hair quiver and tremble. A bright light from behind, strobing through, colours their stems...

Steamy bright horizon - morning is breaking. I prefer morning as the night distorts all colours. Takes you by the throat. Vol jakkalsstreke! Squeezes... Makes you jammer. Yam-jam-jammers you, yummy hum-gums you down. Those who live through the night to see the light, they know the feeling.

Save yourself?

Hide yourself among the fleshly parts!

Shall I? Amongst my arms, hands, kapilere, vocal chords, pols, hartkloppe, digestive organs, spysverteringsorgane. No one will find me there. Hide and seek. Though you seek me all day long, never will you find me!

Two of us are here. One with shapely long shins, long hair, long nails - chiselled silvery gondolas. The other, flat knees, flat locks, flat flatulence, flat nails with flaky flecked paint.

Nail edges uneven?

Indeed, her edges are uneven - the she-negro... black Shiva.

We differ in height. One is lower...ekskuus... shorter than the other.

On the quivering brim of milky glow

Steamy horizon's preposterous flow!

Better morning's brace than darkness fears

Night brings shadow to your ears.

Those who have ears shall smell.

And those who have none...?

Lizards, varied snakes, slange, chameleons, salamander-types...

She-black-Shiva lacks one thing, I lack another.

Warning! Dawn approaches.

Day has: 24 hours (ure)

1440 minutes (minute)

86400 seconds (sekondes)

Reg! Right! 87864 (eighty seven thousand eight hundred and sixty four) - plenty! Like a swarm of locusts!

Yes, I'm not alone!

Shiva and I, our minds move in different ways. I believe in white walls, white roof-trusses-beams-joists, white sheets, the worn out sleeves of white blouses, squeezed-out tubes of the white remedy for haemorrhoids. I believe in myself.

Shiva believes in shadows on the walls, with flaky flecked paint. Houses without roof-joists, air showers, the glare of squeezed-out tubes of a white remedy... She believes in me.

Wait, wait... there is something else. Daar skuil iets agter. There are three of us! There's our in-between-ness as well. Something that connects us. The inner-outer-connection. The squeezed-out out-ness of her into in-me.

I'm not alone. Ciphers. Clouds of locusts

Stream from the shell of a depressed pill.

Sunlit walls, look-out tower less the joists.

Her shadow squeezes cells in me.

So who else is there?

Well... Shiva's brother. The two look alike. As children they both rejoiced in lice.

Shiva-girl, who might she be?

Lousy louse-ridden lass is she.

Do they see each other often?

No. He comes no more to our room. No more the serpents of his cigarette smoke coil into the air... And the aroma of fresh Kenyan coffee... gone?

Beg your pardon... it's still here! Shiva drinks coffee with me!!!

He comes and breathes in

Freshly brewed Kenya.

Cigarettes from a square tin,

Your honour, they're genuine!

Are we the same colour, Shiva and I?

No. The colour of my skin differs from hers. It's not like hers. It's unlike hers.

In hues, tones, tints and shades. Do you know, changes of colour often occur? You see it in hair, nails, walls, chameleons. Sometimes it lightens... when a source of light rises. Sometimes darkens... when the source disappears.

Shiva's skin smells under the sun. It smells like the yapping of a jackal, like the rustling of a porcupine's needles, like red eyes blazing in the dark...Shiva's whites are red.

Source of light sustains its colour.

Shiva fears to unravel by night.

Tower, joist and that Nazareth fellow...

Red yaps, needles, squirrel's insides.

Squirrel?

There it is, sits on a staff. Stuffed squirrel! Stuffed by Shiva. Stitched by Shiva... Looks more like a rabbit. Squirrel skewed into a rabbit. Skipped the tail, starched the ears. Lousy stitching of the louse-ridden lass. So often I've stitched over hers... but no more! No stitches - no speeches! My life is the roll of a dice. Dice for lice. Needle's eye to paradise.

Those who have ears shall remember.

A sunny host hastens hence. Orderly ranks approach herewards.

Ghosts, healers, doctors, shrinks. Already in the room? What have I started? Did I start this? The host surrounds and hems Shiva in. Like a ghastly ghoul with flaky flecked paint. The furry stuffed skewed squirrel-rabbit on a staff squints. Splits into four furry staffs with a fluffy hurdy-gurdy herd of sonskynperdjies. Sun-stallions or shifting squirrels, shooting solar rabbits?

Shall I ask for help?

Too late now! Shiva stands her ground. Unflinching, unshakeable Shiva! The sonskynperdjies shudder. Sun-stallions shattered. The day shivers, and shambles off. I'm saved by Shiva's shadow.

How many horse-chariots are crushed?

No less than six hundred... and twenty eight!

Evening. "In the evening of the same day, the soft light of the setting sun shone on a small procession." We roll... Those who have ears shall breathe. Inhale the joint.

Where is Shiva?

Shall there be no more Shiva? A small procession of minarets.

Night takes effect, breaking up sun-horses.

Day turns on its own blood-stallions!

The beast's cut skin fashions horizons.

Crude crutches made of skeletons.

Shiva limps. Shiva writes "Flycatcher".

Hampered horses hempen their noses. With flaky flecked paint. The suddenness saddens Shiva. Those who live through to see the light, should have ears... preferably two pairs in moonlight!

Red Ink

The note book of the patient plays an important part in the proper evaluation of the two individualities of Rat King. I hope this journal will prove me right and confirm the choice I have made.

From the very beginning I was faced with a dilemma. Which one of the two personalities had the dominant role in the character? Which one of them needed to be corrected? Stitcher himself did not respond to any questions put to him. But now that I have these scripts in my hands, I may eventually find some answers and draw suitable conclusions.

As I believe, one individual called herself Shiva. Or should I say was named Shiva by the other, who called herself Vanessa.

Shiva associated herself entirely with an English background. She shut herself off completely from the external world. Refused to speak even with her other half. For example, all the duties of eating and drinking were performed by Vanessa.

Vanessa, in her turn, associated herself with an Afrikaner background, but was forced to write in English under pressure from Shiva who simply rejected any other language... refused to understand any texts that were not in English. This probably explains the peculiar expressions and even grammatical errors in Vanessa's manuscript. She quite freely uses Afrikaans words and idioms.

The problem was that Shiva, who proudly wrote her book and didn't want anything to do with the world, was the strategist for Vanessa, and determined all her objectives.

Vanessa was a skilful intermediary with the external world. She was the tactician who took upon herself the short-term routines, like taking meals, or going to the toilet. However, by non-verbal means she would push Shiva into some necessary tasks, for example, to cover her body with a blanket against the cold.

Two separate agendas of the patient have put me in a quandary...

Which should take precedence, tactics or strategy?

Which of the individuals should be destroyed, leaving only the physiological functions, and which of them should remain intact?

Part One

Dances around the cliff

Over a mountain pass, rode a horseman. Holding a hat in his hand he declared aloud:

"I salute you, blessed land of high mountains and fresh sea air. I salute your firmament raised aloft by black eagles, and your forests guarded by spotted leopards... Quick, quick to the edge of this pass, to view the place of my childhood dreams. This is the last turn - Ah!"

The horseman lapsed into silence. He reined in his horse, and for a long time contemplated the panorama that had opened in front of him: the magnificent line of seashore, the splendour of high cliffs, and below them the soft sandy beaches. At the foot of the mountain he saw vineyards and farmhouses, and beyond these - next to the sea - the city.

The horseman began to recite in a whisper from the New Testament:

"And I John saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb. And the building of the wall of it was of jasper: and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass."

He lingered some moments, then slapped his horse and began to descend, swinging in the saddle as if in a state of exaltation. He took no notice of the dust, which covered his clothes and bags in a thick layer. His hand never once rose to wipe the sweat running from his face. Nor did he wince when he touched the scorching metal of his musket. The horseman thought the war was over for him, and he was now going to meet people in peaceful surroundings. He thought of how he would need to introduce himself to them.

***

A group of workers, watering vines, ceased their activities and watched with curiosity the figure approaching on horseback.

He grinned to himself:

"So that is who comes to greet me first - slaves! It is to them I must pronounce my new name."

He stopped at the edge of the vineyard, and threw his arms to the sky. He waited until the crowd of half-naked workers crept timidly closer.

"What are you looking at, my children?" began the horseman. "I notice that my gun interests you - it is my grandfather's musket. You know the sound of its voice, not so? Bow to it - it was born in Holland - a country you've never known. Yes, from there came this lethal steel. I came not to send peace, but a sword. Consider the respect people have for it: if it should look at you, you become pale. If its barrel should point down you sigh with relief. Also, I see that you admire my horse. A good steed indeed! Only, he does not like people of your kind. If you approach him, he will strike you with his hoof. This beast has been hardened in hunt and in battle. Bow in fear, vine-growers, new horses are drawing near. Before them, not only you but I too will kneel."

From the unusual manner in which the horseman expressed his thoughts, it was evident he belonged to that group of Colonists produced by Cape Town's world, where the cultures of the English and the Afrikaners had become entangled. His own nature was even more contorted. The change of expression on his face during this discourse, suggested two different personalities were at work in the man. It was as if Siamese twins, joined at the back of their heads, were seated on top of the horse. The first twin continued his lofty speech, the second grinned in silence, wrapped in his own simple thoughts, weighing his repulsion for world, and repeating to himself: Absurd!

"Are you keen to know what I carry in my bags? In this bag are some changes of the finest shirts from Holland, and piles of money, which two generations of my ancestors have put together. This other bag contains gunpowder. Money and gunpowder have much in common. Money - it is paper, made from wood. Gunpowder too, it comes from wood that has been turned into coal. Mix it with a little brimstone and a spark of fire: an explosion will destroy everything living. And when Man touches money he goes to the land of brimstone and fire - to hell. Ha-Ha-Ha. Also, I carry letters. But because you are not literate, you cannot read them. And that is good - I would kill any one who even dares to touch them... Besides that, I have here my mouth organ. I will play it to you later, when I have accomplished the business which brought me here."

The workers did not understand in the least all this babble of the horseman. They exchanged amused glances at the strangeness of his discourse, and chattered amongst themselves in their own tongue.

The horseman raised his voice and continued:

"Even you, you wretched people, you laugh at me. What then is waiting for me, there in that city?"

He snatched off the hat from his head, and lifted himself in the stirrup.

"Then call me ... Johannes!" he exclaimed.

At this the horseman moved away from the astounded workers, touching with his hand the one object that he had not declared: a small basket containing a chameleon. Having ridden off a few paces, the twins turned in the saddle, swapping places, and the second, previously silent Johannes shouted back loudly:

"Don't worry yourselves, vine-growers. I'm not the one to whom you will answer for your sins. I have come to get answers from others."

I raise my hands to the Sky.

To pray?

No, I praise! I sing praises to the dancing clouds that sway from dream to reality. I sing praises to the black eagles soaring high out there, binding reality with what is beyond. I sing praises to my night fears, those leopards lying in ambush past the bounds of my dreams. Salaam to you all!

Quick! I must cross over that evasive arched bridge.

Black eagles in the sky

Leopard's shadow passing by

To Heaven I sing my praise

I shall sing while Shiva sways!

Shiva, is she not here?

Wake yourself up! There's a city beyond the window. I'm sure there is. Were I to approach the window the city would unravel. The New Jerusalem... Salem... I'm lame... Sal-am... saal-lam. Opsaaloumaat!

Shall I take the plunge, and go to the window? Cannot.

Not dressed? No, that's not it.

Naked? Whatever. Let the city reveal itself, even if I am!

Ah, a minaret? One, two, three... all twelve of them. A city of twelve minarets! Sunrise of twelve golden minarets, through a transparent pane of liquid crystal! A greasy nose-print on the glass is un-transparent...

Approach the window - Jerusalem.

In a crystal frame - naked Chaldean.

On the glass, an un-transparent trace

Of pug-nose print - but there is no breath!

No breath? Are you sure she's alive? Yes. Simply breath-taken of sheer joy!

Shall I dress? And go flying down the flight of stairs?

I pass one flight - no-one in sight. A second flight - people!

They peck at something from inside a ragged newspaper. Why do they look at me like that?

Certainly my dress is pretty. It's made in Holland! I doubt such as they have ever been to Holland. And never will.

What if there's a war?

A war with Holland?

They eye me silently, creepily, stealthily. Rooinekke! Their eyes creep under my dress. No, no, trust me, you'll find no Holland in there!

My breasts? They're big and white. You can't see the white through the dress. My dress is as red as their necks. Rooirok. Rooijapon! And Shiva has black breasts! She does not like rooineks. Neither do I.

Who can love them anyway? Their mums? Mistresses? Lovers?

No! Can't see it! They eat words from the newspaper, with flaky flecked paint.

Musty word-eaters!

Absurd!

Pass by them, quickly pass by!

Now the third flight of steps. My dress rustles past them... nobody has been touched. Triumph!

I shall post the letter quickly and dash back, again without touching anyone.

Ha-ha! And I shall kill anyone who dares to touch the letter. From Vanessa... Vanessa's letter. Vanessa is my name. Shiva calls me that.

Shiva calls me Vanessa

Were there any who cared?

Past rustles the red dress

No-one touched, no-one dared.

Shiva rustles by too. Her dress is white. She looks back. Shoots at the rooineks:

"You will remember Shiva!"

With the vineyard well behind him, the horseman dropped these ostentatious tones, and courteously sought directions to the district where his interest lay. He arrived in the vicinity, on the outskirts of the town, at noon on the eighth of January. After searching a while he found a farm that seemed suitable as a base for him to reside.

Johannes knocked at the door of the big farmhouse. The door was opened by a maid who escorted him to the spacious front room. Shortly, the whole Afrikaans family came in to greet him. These were the Jouberts: father, mother, two grown daughters and teenager son.

After a formal introduction, Johannes explained to his hosts that he had arrived from a small town in the Cape Colony, about three hundred miles east up the coast, that he had come on matters of trade, and that he intended to stay for a long time. Mr Joubert bade him choose one of several houses on the property. Soon, Johannes' attention was drawn to a small cottage in Dutch style, which was surrounded by peach trees. Not far from the cottage began a little path, leading up the hill. Mr Joubert told his new guest that this path circled the town, and along the way branched down to different parts of it. Johannes accepted the rental without dispute, and entrusted his horse to his host. He said he preferred to walk on foot. Mrs Joubert offered him a guide from amongst the staff, but Johannes politely declined.

Unable to bear any more of this formal conversation, he suddenly blurted out:

"I like to walk alone! It's nice to make small discoveries for oneself, and sometimes face the unexpected surprises of a new place."

But he noticed the puzzled looks on the faces of his new acquaintances, and reverted to the manner of speech more common for them. Johannes wanted to know where he could buy a good English suit, as well as a Sunday-best to wear to the Dutch Reformed services. Mrs Joubert said that he could buy a jacket for church at a shop situated nearby the farm. However, a suit was a different story. She told him that the inhabitants of the city usually waited for the arrival of a ship, which annually delivered clothes and fabric from England. If the traders had anything left in stock now, it was unlikely to be a suit of such a large size, as these were in great demand because of the height of the colonists.

Then a little embarrassed, she added:

"Perhaps I could make a suggestion. There is another son in our family, who is away now. On business. In his wardrobe there is a new suit, which he has never worn. My son is about the same height as you are..."

Johannes thought in amusement:

"The English suit, which the absent son has never worn and probably never will, even when he returns."

"So where is your son?" inquired Johannes.

"In Natal. He is visiting my sister's family," answered the hostess, blushing at the same time.

"So, Natal, Natal... Anyhow, I shall buy the suit."

With these words, he suddenly picked a flower from the bush growing next to the cottage, and kneeling down, presented it to the lady. The family was startled by this gesture. The two daughters turned to each other, and the teenager edged behind his father.

"For your ladyship's honour, because you have raised such good children, particularly the one who is on business in Natal. Everything is going well there."

Johannes and Mr Joubert looked in each other's eyes and knew that they understood each other well. In recent times, Republican forces had gained a number of victories in Natal, and everything really was going well there.

Mrs Joubert clasped her hands together.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" she said, rushing off. "I will send for your things and order water to be heated. We are dining at sunset, so you have some time to relax."

The whole family followed her, and Johannes occupied himself unpacking his things, which had already been brought by a light-footed servant. A basin of hot water followed shortly, together with suit, hat, pair of gloves, and walking stick.

Alone at last, Johannes ripped off his shirt and bent over the porcelain washbasin. He began to shave his beard, dense and unsubmissive to the blade. In the habit he had practised in camp, where a mirror was an excessive luxury, he operated by feel alone. When the procedure had been completed, the mirror above the washbasin reflected a Johannes changed beyond recognition: long

blond wavy hair, brown sun-tanned upper half of the face, and pale, freshly-shaven lower half. The brown forehead was crossed by deep lines: traces either of the work of the harsh sun, or of a difficult past. Those straight lines were reminiscent of furrows ploughed into the dark African earth. Clearly it was sweat, and not a life spent grimacing in saloons, that left those fissures in the brow of a descendant of pioneers. The web of small wrinkles which spread from his eyes reinforced the resemblance to cracked earth. His widely set blue eyes blazed against this ragged surface. In their transparent depths danced an orange swirl of sparks, flashing and dying out, like the reflection of campfires. That is why those huge calm eyes seemed charged with inner fire, ready to burst out at any moment.

His wide straight nose drew in the air greedily, at the demand of voluminous lungs. The finely defined nostrils, alert in guarded motionlessness, resembled those of a predator following the scent of its prey. If the forehead and eyes represented Earth and Fire, undoubtedly the nose knew well all the fragrances of the African Air.

The fourth element, Water, was reflected in the expression on Johannes' face. This face, usually calm, still reacted to external circumstances - it vibrated very gently, like patches of sunlight on the surface of water. The secretive workings of the mind showed themselves in the subtle change of emotions which shadowed his masculine features.

When Johannes had arrayed himself in the new suit, his entire figure presented an impressive but now very different image from that of the grand horseman on the mountain pass. From hardened Boer, he had transformed himself into a refined English-like colonist, looking considerably younger than his forty years.

Before dinner, Johannes went for a walk, beginning to explore the neighbourhood of the Joubert farm. The estates in that region of the town belonged mainly to rich Dutch settlers. Johannes' particular interest lay in one of these.

In the days following, the newcomer took prolonged walks in the town's environs, and into the town itself, though keeping away from the Castle, where the English garrison was stationed. He returned to the farm only to sleep and seldom communicated with his hosts. Thus, in quiet walks, flowed the days of the twin Johanneses. Sometimes in the sunset hours, somewhere on the mountain path, beautiful sounds of a mouth organ would break through the silence. But the concerts did not last long. Often the melody ceased as soon as it had begun.

***

Once at noon, on his customary walk through the Dutch settlement, in a street deserted because of the heat, he suddenly came upon some boys fighting. Seven teenagers surrounded one small boy, who appeared to be much younger than the rest of them. They tried to attack him from different sides. His only means of defence was a horseshoe with which he struck his assailants, quickly and accurately, one after the other. He was covered in dust, which indicated that in his struggle he had been on the ground repeatedly.

Johannes delayed interference, admiring the deft movements of the defender. One of the aggressors jumped on his back from behind. This did not throw the little boy, and squatting, he blindly struck his attacker in the knee. Another decided to exploit this situation, striking from the front - the horseshoe was ready to receive him as well. Two cries merged into one. But the day belonged to the attackers. In the next second, a heap of bodies had piled onto the outnumbered boy.

Johannes stepped in. He kicked the howling teenagers to different sides and helped the little hero up from the ground. Looking into the face of the boy, Johannes could not hold back his laughter. There were no tears. Dirt and blood covered the angry face and the crown of dishevelled blond hair.

"I do not dare to intrude into your personal business, but I see you are a master at fighting," said Johannes when the other boys had melted away. "Tell me, are you just as good at other things?" Johannes looked the boy up and down. "I would like to make you an offer."

"Do you want me to beat someone up?" the boy asked doubtfully, examining the tall figure of Johannes from top to toe. He wiped an injured nose with his fist.

"No, I need a nimble fellow, who knows how to catch flies."

"Catch flies? Then go and hire a vagrant! There's lots of them hanging round here. They've got nothing better to do!"

" I need a specialist, to whom I can entrust a little tamed chameleon. I shall pay in advance."

The boy scrutinised the face of the man, then after a few seconds stretched out his hand to Johannes.

" Done!" he said.

A step out of the house! Just look at them...how easily they move on their two pins!

Personally, I'd have preferred to be born a centaur. To have one trunk and four legs!... or maybe even a spider, or an octopus, or a rat king...

Be careful what you wish for... lest it come true!

A step outside. Just an imagined jaunt. Out into the surrounds. Unfolding the space. Stretching out the boundaries of my post, extending the bounds of my interests. Where is the post now? One thousand metres to the left. Out there on that boundless street of a thousand doorways. How far do I stretch, this time? It's still within the bounds, within my compass. Finally I reach and step into the door of the past... beg pardon, the post!

"Hello!"

Over there at a corner of the counter - a woman, two girls and a boy holding a conical parcel. What are the names of the girls?

"Waxy and Cherry".

"How nice they are!"

The boy strikes a contrast... contraposing them. Counteracting! Stands OUT of the corner. Contrary boy. Outside the confines of my interest.

They finish their counting and leave. From the counter-boundaries? No, from the room.

It's my turn now. The letter... I stretch out my hand... to Holland. To the Hollands Kenyan!

Natives put on themselves a mixture of things, a wardrobe of mixed countries!

Just look at him - he is black as Shiva. Who? The Kenyan brother? No the post-counter- man. Stands at his post... looks so bounded! Is he ill? Let me try a few words of encouragement... they always help!

"I really like your suit! I know a fine suit when I see one. I sew myself, you see! Where's it come from?"

"From Holland."

"From Holland?"

"Yes, my son had it made for me!"

Can you imagine? The son of the post-counter-man also lives in Holland! Shiva's Kenyan brother lives in Holland! So, is the son of the post-counter-man the brother of Shiva? No!

Simply, all existing brothers have gone to the land of tulips. There they've consigned themselves to one well-connected concoction.

Among tulips their brothers wander,

Waiting for parcels of cherries and wax.

The letter from here to Holland I tender.

My post with my lines and my conical facts.

What's said is done! I set the seal and now, quickly, out of here. Out on the street again, I pass those two girls and the contrary boy. It is so good though... to feel the past-post-counter-connection... when connative doubles split and the world folds back into a connected whole! Thanks to counterbalancing Mother Nature... the well-concordant mother from the past... beg your pardon, from the post.

I set out in a counter-pace. There is no way back. Just forward now! The post-corner is backwards and out of the way. The way back is forward, past the streets. Forward - backward? Yes. That is how I move this figure of mine, like a chess-piece as it quivers and trembles over the chess-board in the hand of an amateur chess-player... left and right... back and forth... hither and thither. There it is - a total counter-balancing game of double-split that folds together and finds rest. To and fro! Now it's back a thousand metres to the right... a well-comprised whole. Welcome home!

The same staircase, or is it another?

Oof...! There we go for the second time. I pass the rooineks... great! More of the stairs, key in my hand. The second ingress - I press myself into the room. Well done! A return from the imagined world of single halves - people that consider themselves whole, but as a matter of fact are just split-doubles.

I'm back! Into the corner I place my hat, gloves, the cane, the receipt from the post, the key. I bend my face over the porcelain washbasin... beg your pardon... I bend over the porcelain washbasin of warm water. A room with a mirror is an excessive luxury! I can reflect myself in myself. If I so wish, I can see Shiva, and if I wish, on the other side I can even see Vanessa!

I can see in a mirror reflection

That contra-deviating face!

Is this image of two, my invention?

Turn the key and it's gone without trace.

The deviating face - a devious surface.

`Long blond wavy... round sun-tanned upper half, and pale lower half with cleft. Tall with a web of small... widely set blue ... a small wide straight... calm like patchy still water... shadowed masculine'. How lonely are those nounless adjectives! Cleft! Hurray! One! Water! Two! Turn the key! Three! Furthermore there are adverbs - the left blue is left on the left! The right is left on the right! Also blue? No, unfortunately the one on the right is brown. The inside surface of the glass is as calm as the surface of its contents.

Calm surface of post-office counter

The web of wrinkles - still.

Wind shadows past the postmen

They stand there, all tranquil!

I change my gown. Red - to red with dragons! The sun is moving slowly, and, as if it were a servant, dresses me in multi-coloured garments. Before my meal I take a walk with the Sun in my Red Tower. Chinese woman Fumanchu!

My window is a procession of minarets. My wall-paper is the tulip-bearing fields of Holland. Never could I explore throughout all my pagoda of solar glass... with its infinite facets of crystal surfaces. Who else lives in my tower? Shiva's spirit? Shall I summon it? Let me blow through my crystal key.

SCHU-U-U! Fumanchu calls Shiva-a-u-u!

So nice the sun does everything for us. If we struggle to put on our clothes, the sun paints our garments onto our bodies. In the light - white Vanessa. In the shadow - dark Shiva. Contrasts of Chiaroscuro! Drawn skin-colour!

I hear a knock at the door. Must be a blowfly... a boy come to pick up the suits...pak klere. But today nothing has been drawn, there is nothing to fetch... no pak to pick. If it's not been drawn, it doesn't exist!

" Hey, you-u-u-u, Shiva, you haven't drawn suits today, have you-u-u-u?"

"Well... me - Vanessa, I have not either-r-r-r!"

They knock so timidly. I open the door. A new messenger confronts me... Can you imagine! it's the contrary boy again, from this morning's solar walk. The split-double has folded and the well-comprised imagined boy has materialised!

"I came to collect the suits. Shiva called me..."

He's telling a lie. Shiva never calls anyone and does not talk to anyone... As you see, he's embarrassed now. Rooinek. With golden eyes? I look at them. My gown reflects in them! Fumanchu - red bounded in gold!!!

He tries to pick up a dropped conversation... He has been expelled from boarding-school...? Over a fight...?

Well, well, he's quite at ease now. Lost his shyness. You can see he is well-informed...well-grounded...well-hooved!

By whom is he grounded? A boarding school? With what is he hooved? Horseshoes? The lucky beggar! Horseshoed grounded beggar!

"Well, what can we do... come in! We can share happiness and a meal. Have you brought a meal?"

"Ja! Flies in jelly!" - He takes out the jar. O-o-u-u-u! An amateur-u-u-r Flycatcher!

"Tell me, are you just as good at other things?"

"Yes. Call me Pin King!"

Red with gold. Pin King. Picking Pin King.

To you I come to stay a while

Our words well-hooved

We share some happiness

Unfold the image of a horseshoe-lyre

And times I loved the hunt

Now no longer a desire

Though I kill no less ...

So young and already so cruel.

"Will you help me to pass the evening?"

"I will kill for you whoever you wish me to kill"

"Oh! Thank you for that. In fact yes... Kill the night!"

III

In the morning of the following day, as agreed, the boy came to Johannes' cottage with a handful of flies. Johannes named him Flycatcher. The boy made protest at this name, knowing that the payment he received for such a trifling job was more than generous.

After breakfast, according to his new habit, Johannes set off on foot towards the town. From the house, the path meandered round the cliffs, and the traveller had to cross many streams flowing from the mountain. Now in the summer, they were not full and it was easy to pass over them, jumping from rock to rock. Some of the streams took their course to the town, and Johannes used one riverbed as a route down. It was a magical moment for him, when he reached the end of a green bush-woven tunnel and emerged at the edge of the town. The stream became a canal, crossed by beautiful curved bridges. Along its way stood houses, overlooking the water. On their terraces the inhabitants whiled away the morning hours. In front of the houses grew tall and magnificent oaks, which threw lacy shadows over the rushing water and onto the whitewashed walls. The green of the leaves, the yellow of the sun reflected on the walls, the multicoloured umbrellas and the motley dresses of women - all revolved slowly, as in a kaleidoscope, against the sea glittering in the distance, and the blue fathomless sky. All this was reminiscent of an Amsterdam, shifted from gloomy Europe to colourful cosmopolitan Africa. Indeed, the city was a motley patchwork of characters.

Raising his hat slightly, Johannes greeted the Dutch families who dwelt in the houses along the river. He approached a crowded street in the centre of the suburb. The crowd here was quite diverse: there were those who came from different parts of Europe, there were the Malays, the Negroes from Madagascar, and the yellow-faced Hottentots.

As he rubbed the growing stubble on his chin, Johannes thought about his new duties towards his own appearance. He turned into a small street that he knew from previous walks and approached a barber's shop. In the open doorway sat a Malay barber, a mole on the side of his nose, and a cup of coffee in his hand. Seeing a client, the barber jumped up. He greeted Johannes, gesturing him into a small room, where a second Malay was already busy over another chin.

Having seated the newcomer on a chair, the barber began to wrap him in a cocoon of white cloth, rattling away in a quaint dialect of Afrikaans:

"God sent you here on a warm day. Even without a beard after your shave, your face will not freeze outside. The wind is not yet up, and the ladies on the street will smell the wonderful aroma of Eau-de-Cologne rising from your cheeks. I wouldn't mind being in their place today, to meet such a handsome man."

"Instead of ladies I meet only chattering barbers!" retorted Johannes.

The mole-nosed Malay laughed and continued his chatter, lathering the cheeks of his client.

"Have you heard, Ali," he asked, turning to his colleague, "what Andries pulled off a few days ago?"

"Allah is my witness I've heard nothing."

"He returned home from a pub and went to the chicken-house which belonged to his mother. She worships her chickens, and doesn't even trust her servants to feed them."

"I know. I know. That rich Dutch family. The chicken-house is like a palace! I myself could live there instead of the chickens."

"Ali, if you interrupt me once more, Allah will send your soul to that chicken-house as one of the chickens! So, this Andries gave some grain to the birds then poured a bottle of brandy into the feeding trough. After a good laugh over the drunken birds, he went back to the pub. The poor mother (let her never see another day like that!) found all her chickens dead that evening. She wept for a while, then ordered her servants to be beaten, just in case. Then she told them to pluck the feathers, to save at least these for pillows. The dead birds were thrown onto the rubbish dump. That night was cold and windy. I wouldn't want, Ali, to see the dreams of the poor woman that night! Probably she saw her lovely chickens in her dreams, because she was hardly surprised when she was woken by the cackling of chickens. Coming to her senses and still not believing her ears, this lady ran through the courtyard to the gate of the rubbish dump. When she opened the gate, the chickens ran into the courtyard squawking viciously, plucked, bare and blue with the cold, which had sobered them up. They nearly ran down the woman who stood amazed at the sight of the birds running towards their roost. The poor things were trying to regain the warmth of their missed world!"

Everyone laughed who heard this story - Ali, his client, Johannes, and the storyteller himself.

"When you laugh, keep your razor away from my throat," Ali's client warned. "I don't want to become the next victim of Andries' jokes!"

"Is it true, what they say," asked Ali, "that Andries' sister Cornelia is getting married on the fifteenth of February?"

"It's true. Already as a child her parents betrothed her to Herman Bothma, who comes from a very rich Afrikaans family."

"She's a wonderful girl," said the mole-nosed barber, in his turn. "She rides a horse in the saddle, as men do. Also, they say she doesn't really obey her parents, and even resisted the marriage."

"You two should keep your tongues reined in," said Ali's client. "Speak about the hostess' chickens, but not about her daughter!"

Ali finished shaving without entering into further discussion. His client paid and left the shop. After his departure, the barbers carried on with their chatter.

"We can't even open our mouths to speak about pleasant matters! I could understand if I was speaking about Marius, the suicide who's on everybody's tongue. That would be another matter..."

"This is why they talk - Marius's body hasn't been found. But in my opinion, it's for the best. According to Dutch custom, you're not allowed to bury a suicide. However, in this case, Allah took care of him."

"They say that Marius shot himself over that woman. That's what happens when you can have only one woman."

"You are wrong, my brother, people would shoot themselves more often if they had to deal with a few wives. Only thing is, the family beats everything out of you, and there's no money left for gunpowder!"

The conversation continued in the same vein, and the barbers were so involved with each other they did not notice what an attentive listener they had in the person of Johannes.

***

When Johannes had left the shop, he went for a long walk to the town centre which lay next to the harbour. Ox-drawn wagons and visiting farmers on horseback filled the streets, crowded also with smartly dressed men and women strolling about. The women resembled many-coloured bell-shaped flowers in their widened dresses. The similarity to flowers was enhanced by bright umbrellas, which protected the faces and hands of the ladies from the burning rays of the broiling African sun. It was clear that the sea was close by, as Johannes crossed the square of the fish market. Next thing he emerged into the open, where a large number of barques of different sizes had been dragged out from the water. It was apparent he was near the harbour.

Johannes breathed in a lungful of air and sea-spray, and walked on the wooden boards of a jetty leading out to the sea. Moving past the seamen and stevedores who were engaged in loading the ships, Johannes paid them scant heed. He aimed towards the furthest point of the jetty - the last point of African land. Reaching his destination and standing on the edge of the vast ocean, Johannes looked into the distance for a long time. He took off his hat and allowed the sea breeze to play through his fair hair.

The breeze stiffened, becoming strong and fresh. Suddenly, Johannes felt that he was not alone at the edge of the pier. He looked round to see behind him an old man dressed in shabby clothes. From the eyes of the stranger shone a striking madness. The man extended his arm and blurted:

"I was sent to you, Piet. Come with me. They are waiting for you there."

Johannes started with disgust and strode off towards the harbour, shoving away the old man who stood in his path. He heard behind him the sound of wooden shoes, and a pitiful voice:

"Where are you going, Piet? They are waiting for you there."

Johannes increased his pace and almost ran. On the way up the street he did not look back, and therefore could not say whether what he heard was the sound of wooden shoes or of wagon wheels striking against the cobblestones. The wind increased, almost to a gale. The lady campanulas had disappeared, plucked by the force of air. The motley, crowded streets had been transformed into deserted whitewashed passages, filled with clouds of red dust. The wonderful canals of the upper part of the city were littered with wind-driven debris, which was flying about in red vortices. Clenching his teeth and gripping his walking stick and hat under his arm, hands in the pockets of his trousers, Johannes cleft the wind.

In his head appeared the thought:

"The Eau-de-Cologne of this bastard barber promises some strange encounters."

"We've done it! Well done... the night's been killed!"

Peep of a new day. Mmm... morning! Pin King is here. Again eats jelly. This time filled not only with flies, but also with sunlight. The sun solicits an escape together... another solar escapade of the soul... out of the solo-body and far from contrary Pin King.

Catches flies, contrary Pin King

A gourmet meal from far-off Peking.

Both of them, one part of two sides

One or the other, one second decides!

Remember those rooinekke yesterday... they ate too. From the mint newspaper. What could they possibly eat from newspaper? Letters? Words? Must be pedants. Letter seekers. Words eaters. First they load words into their bowels, then fire salvoes out through their mouths.

I have to get away from here. Now, in the morning the arches of the mind are unburdened. Let me free myself and cross the elusive arched bridge that leads to the city of other open minds. Have I yet reached the end of the tunnel? Indeed I have!

Here it is, that sybarite city. The inhabitants dwell in the morning... the morning inhabits the dwellers. Magnificent oaks throw lacy shadows on the colloidal waters and the pale walls of the wells.

Let me tint the city. Waft green shades onto the foliage, yellow tones to the patches of sunlight, wave motleyness onto the coloured umbrellas with flaky flecked paint.

And the dresses of the women?

Well, to Shiva I grant white. To myself, red.

Spins and twists the glowing blue globe -

Vanessa's sphere of eyes!

Turns and swirls as in a kaleidoscope -

Shiva's skin galvanised

What do you think of it now?

Amsterdam, Holland? Andholldam!

Jerusalem, Africa! Afslamsalaim!

In the centre there are Dutch. I - Vanessa!

Outside there are Negro. You - Shiva!

I have to take good care of both of my homo-spheres. Appearances are important! Even though deceiving... Anyway, I always think of my duty towards appearances. Where can I find a barber? In the space between the surfaces? There should be not only the Dutch and Negro, but also Englishmen, Chinese, Malays... Where else do you think Pin King comes from? I turn into a small street. I know it from previous walks. Come into the barber's shop. Do enter.

The barber is a Malay with a mole on the side of his nose. (The role of barber is played by Vanessa) She calls out a greeting:

"Hi, Shiva!"

Inside the shop is a second barber. (His role is played by Shiva) She turns away without responding! She cuts hair silently. I greet her once again.

"Welcome, Shiva! You enhance streets with the amazing aroma of cologne shaved off your cheeks."

Her cheeks move slowly:

"V SHALASHE SHURSHIT SHELKAMI SHUSTRY DERVISH IS ALSHIRA!"

Does she hide behind the idea of verbal drivel? Sounding brass and a tinkling of cymbals... Must have been overfed with letters, overdosed with words from newspapers!

Then she spits:

"You silly woman you, Vanessa! That was said in Malagasy!"

The barber is a Malay! That's explains it... Well, let me try your Malagasy:

"SHIVAN DRA DRAALS! DRAAI SHIVA DRIFS! KU KLUSH KLAN!... Did you understand? Well it actually came as MY Malagasy. I can translate it for you: Shindra is glorious, all talk about Shindra! Shindra is not alone! Shindra has a sister!..."

"Hey, you with the mole, keep quiet! Do not let your tongue loose. Do not free the name of Shindra's sister..."

Too late!

"CORNELIA..."

Cornelia is loose... Cornelia has slipped out of his mouth onto the floor. Now she lies there in slippery water... all soaked... in the midst of cut hair. Our hair.

So came the name...Cornelia van der Perdekrag.

You will see Cornelia forever

As you close your eyes - in all your dreams!

Peaked, as hair-spokes above the blue city

There she lies as real as she feels.

Well, let her lie there if she wills. You know she does not lie there alone... The city centre lies near... Near Cornelia? Well... near the port. Near the peaks. Near the sea...

The centre. The City. The country. Africa. Africa lies near the sea. Loses itself down into the sea.

In Africa, near the sea, live: Dutch, Negro, Englishmen, Malays, Portuguese, Chinese. Where else do you think Pin King comes from?. They live loosely, that is, inhabit the city. They meet on a wooden pier of the city. They take off their hats and allow the sea breeze to tousle their hair. Who is not allowed to tousle the hair of the inhabitants? Well, beggars like the contrary Pin King. And which beggars do they allow to tousle their hair? Malay barbers...and the wind.

But today I, Vanessa, shall not allow the wind to touch me. I shall not surrender. Even if it should demand from me some work embroidered with silk threads. I will not give in.

Let it fill the channels with multi-coloured pieces of monetary paper. Let it turn upside down in its dance of candy-papers, potpourri and macaroni asterisks. Let it sing and whistle. Play with itself! Leave me. Get away from me. I don't know you!

Hey wind, I will not surrender!

Hey you, get away from me!

Your Rose of Winds, silly beggar,

You should have left at the sea.

Back at the beautiful arched bridge. Home!

My inhabitant is still there. The inhabitant Pin King still eats.

"You know, you look much better with your hair short, Rat King."

"FILINGSH!" This means Thanks for the insult - in Malagasy.

At the close of day, spurred by hunger, Johannes sheltered from the wind in a small tavern, Victoria & Kruger, in a part of town familiar to him. The unusual interior of this place would astonish anyone entering for the first time. It comprised two sections: an open hall with tables where Afrikaners could be served a traditional supper, and a bar where one could order drinks in the manner of the English. The master of the house, in order to attract custom, had created behind the counter a large panel, painted in oil on metal. It presented in outline the two figures of Queen Victoria and Paul Kruger. Victoria laid her hand on the shoulder of the President, as he knelt before her. Below this composition was a caption which read:

Oath of allegiance

Kruger's head was turned towards the spectators, and his opened mouth was formed by a large gaping hole in the metal panel. Visitors to the tavern were given the opportunity to throw an emptied bottle into the mouth of the President. Inside the hole was hidden a small plank attached by means of a rope to a bell. If the throw was accurate the bell would ring and the fortunate thrower would earn a free drink. What seemed at first a commercially futile idea had proved very profitable for the owner. This artful rogue had taken into account the political currents amongst the people. In most cases the thrower, as if missing the target, got his empty bottle, not into the mouth of Kruger, but onto the head of the Queen. Sometimes visitors specially ordered a couple of bottles, for the purpose of repeating the error. Consequently, the boy cleaner had his work cut out with the broom, and the bell, to the satisfaction of the owner, was silent.

The day Johannes visited the tavern, things were not all going to plan. This was evident from the gloom on the face of the owner behind the counter, who was pouring free drinks one after the other. A large group of refugees from Pretoria, loyal to the English, had descended on the tavern and the President was grimly swallowing glass missiles. To cap it all, two English officers entered the door at the same time as Johannes and ordered a couple of bottles at once, which promised to be disastrous for business.

Sitting at the table, Johannes was busy with his meal when a group of dandy young Afrikaners rolled into the tavern. They commandeered a large part of the hall, pushing together several tables. At their arrival, the public silently re-aligned themselves into two hostile groups. As he listened attentively to the conversation of the newcomers, Johannes established that the leader of the company was none other than Andries de Villiers, the very same person of whom he had heard so much in the morning, at the barbershop.

The conversation took more or less the following course:

" If you, Andries, continue to drink as you do now, what's going to happen to you at your sister's wedding? Look out for yourself, or we'll have to celebrate your funeral at the same time."

"That would be no wonder! This damned town is in constant mourning. Just remember Black Week." Andries spoke especially loudly, so that the loyalists at the bar could hear him.

"There's no doubt who'll end up head of your family. You'll be buried, and your sister occupy the vacant spot. Cornelia rides a horse no worse than you do, and can hit the bull even if she uses an English carbine." The last words of Andries' interlocutor were addressed to the loyalists, the rest to Andries. "A real Amazon. Nobody can argue with that. I wouldn't want to be in Herman's shoes. To have such a wife as her! Just don't try to put her down!"

"Don't you worry, he's the equal of her! Exactly on time for the engagement he dashed up on his horse, all afoam. The damned beast dropped dead of exhaustion, right on the threshold."

"Such a feat, and not even in war. To his wedding as to a battle-field."

"Look, what's the aim of this bloody war?" Andries flung out an arm. "Herman will get married as appointed. He got engaged as a child, to follow traditions. This is my point: the war is about our damned traditions. The reason we're not yet fighting is that we can't desert our lands. So we'll get married and have bloody children. If the war rolls to our parts from the north, then we'll fight. Only, we need to decide on whose damned side..." This last phrase was directed towards the group of loyalists.

"Our forefathers appoint our marriages, and the young people are not very happy about this," continued Andries' friend. "Your Cornelia despises her groom. Very often I saw her in the company of Marius, before he did himself in."

"Look out your head doesn't get a bullet as well," Andries flared up angrily. "Cornelia knows how to keep the damned promise given to Herman's parents. Do you think there are not enough men who trail after girls? You're the first in line. Only, Cornelia doesn't allow men like you near her. And that's why you're so bloody full of envy."

"So she didn't allow me to get near, but then, she didn't chase Marius away. And perhaps the bullet will find your head sooner than mine."

The quarrel, which was about to go out of control, was interrupted by an exclamation from another of the gathering:

"Do you two really want to aim at each other's heads! Let's rather exercise our skills on more suitable targets. I see Paul Kruger is up to his neck in empty bottles."

Instantly Andries changed the direction of his verbal onslaught.

"Why empty?" he demanded. "Let greedy pigs throw empty ones. I would treat the President with good wine, and not to broken glass." With these words Andries advanced to the bar, pushing a path through the crowd, and ordered several bottles, asking for them not to be opened. Then without aiming, he threw the first missile at the head of Queen Victoria. Then another full bottle followed, and another.

The people standing at the counter watched in sombre silence as Andries amused himself. While Johannes followed this drunken spectacle with his ears, his eyes were focused with much more interest on the behaviour of the two English officers. From the start, they had cocked their ears attentively to the words of Andries, but when the full bottles crashed against the painted Victoria, both of them grabbed the handles of their pistols. Without waiting for the officers to react any further to this show, Johannes turned to Andries:

"Hey you, maybe that's enough of pouring streams of wine on poor 'Oom Paul'. He's already satisfied from your damned drunken misses."

Andries goggled at Johannes, as if not understanding that the words were intended for him, and after a short pause hurled at him the bottle that remained from his bombardment, shouting:

"And this is a present for you, beggar, so you don't envy the President."

Dodging the throw Johannes countered:

"Why damage the house, breaking everything around? Let's take our business outside, and sort out our private matters there."

Andries ripped off his jacket as he rushed to the door. Johannes followed leisurely. The remaining assembly streamed out one after the other, eager for entertainment.

In the middle of the dusty street, a crowd gathered behind each of the two antagonists. The two hostile camps stood facing each other.

Johannes thought to himself:

"So here I suddenly find myself in the English camp. La guerre, comme la guerre. I foresee a melee. How in hell's name can we get out of this?..."

The warriors met for the first exchange, and immediately recoiled from each other with howls. Each of them clutched his wrist in his hand, bent down, and danced in the dust of the road. The spectators, primed for a fight, could not grasp what was going on. When at last they understood, there rose a roar of laughter: for some strange reason, the fists of the opponents had met in the air. The collision was of such force that it robbed both men of any hope of putting on a professional show. To kick and to flail with one hand, like two invalids, was not proper in society. Laughter defused the tension. The crowd dispersed, and all went back to their business.

Andries and his company returned to the tavern. Johannes took the familiar path towards home. "There was just no better way to earn a bad reputation amongst the Colonists!" flashed through his mind. "Though perhaps not amongst all. Let's see if we can draw any good from this damned escapade."

I cannot eat in front of the contrary Pin King. Counter-eating, contra-drinking contradicts me.

Spurred by thirst and little bit peckish, I, peculiar Vanessa, rush to the corner of the room. Pop into the corner cafe "Angular CafИ". Can't lose the heights of banality now! Look it's already evening!

Ha-ha! Can you imagine...long time no see... Pin King again! He is here as well... pretends he's a bartender now.

"Do you have a licence to sell a liquor?"

"Oui do! We do...weirdo!"

Most probably, he picked all this wine when my stitching affairs were going well. His face peeps into our faces... expresses the height of banality! The open mouth forms a large gaping hole in Pinkish space.

Okay, when he is a bartender I'll call him... Poephol or Poppull. You think he'll be offended? Well, then maybe his name shall be Poorpal!

Attention! Attention! Behind the door on a staircase the rooinek pals popped up and whooped... They can pick up the scent of liquor through hundreds of doors!!! I have to protect my stuff... there in my bar-washstand with a mirror, amongst the empty crystal decanters I still have some full ones... I tried to run some experiments. Letters from the newspaper could not get into the empties. They were constantly popping out of the mouth. They did swarm into words but then they refused to pop into the decanters, so I had to come up with a solution... Ha! They were loose... they became lost... The rooineks can tell you all about it... As soon as there's a rooinek, you'll see a word is popped! And a rooinek will have no idea how to pull it off... Poephol! I beg you pardon, Poorpal. Slipped out! Losing themselves... Like Perdekrag...

Perdekrag! Perde - horses, in Dutch. Are they Dutch or what? You're kidding me! Get out! They have just eaten Dutch newspaper, so Dutch letters are popping out. That's all...

CORNELIA VAN DER PERDEKRAG.

Gosh! It's happening! There she comes! Shiva's shadow on a wall... pushed out by a neon flame. Neon!!! Pinkish...flashed. She is pinkish... she is flashed!

The neon fish with paddles

Sea-horses without saddles.

Perde creep on slopes,

Lope per-de-velde-loops.

The door swings open... and the leader comes in! All stand in horror! The whole procession follows. Retinue... attendants, associates, supporters.

Magnificent honourable Shindra! Tfuuu! All languages are bound into a boundless pack... All of them are here and I have only four wine-glasses.

The city is in mourning, Shindra is in mourning. Poor thing! Pour him a drink! Hey you, are you real or are you only the shadow of Shiva on wall-paper with tulip-bearing Dutch fields?

"Met perde..."

"With horses?"

" No, no, this time it is Cornelia! Can you imagine, our puckish Cornelia is engaged!"

"Engaged to whom? What's his name? The name of the groom?"

"Look at his finger, his ring, his honour... tell us Shindra. A ring with the name written on the inside?"

Heck... what a misfortune! A hole in the wall-paper has ruined the name...

Well, what can you do now? Pay attention! There, I see a real invasion of "Angular CafИ", by true rooinekke without shadows. They pick a fight! Picador throws off his cloak!

"Hey, Rat King, sell me one of your bottles!"

"Will you believe me if I tell you - there's nothing, nothing left...? You see, I do not sew any more! Ask your sister-horse. I do not sew... That's it! My hand is in pain!"

Hey, Shiva, are you left-handed? Show me your hand!

Bah! Babah!

Aooooooh... it hurts!!! Why did you do that? So, now I'm in real pain! Both hands now are lost... Can you believe - collision of two fists? As if I'd struck myself in a mirror.

Contra-hit. Contra-attack. Contra-diction.

Please, just tell them: She does not sew! She is sick! The wine has run out!

Oh, widows, weep for yourselves!

Future widows will cry,

Perde and cows will die.

The widows to be, realising all those

Draining cups of whisky morose

Listen, you, Shindra! Do not show your red nose in my room any more. Can't you understand - It's not blood, but the pinkish neon of "Angular CafИ".

"FILINGSH!"

Next morning Johannes lay in bed, recalling the conversation in the tavern between Andries and his friend. This led him to realise that the strange lady of whom they spoke was the one he had met a few days before, while on one of his walks.

On that day, the whole town had been excited about the advent of a new English Commander-in-Chief, Field Marshal Roberts. Many hoped that his appointment would signal a turning point in the unfortunate course of events for the English Crown. Those who sympathised with the Republicans wondered, with some anxiety, what the arrival of the renowned new Commander would bring.

For some reason, Johannes had taken the musket with him on his walk, though he had not intended to hunt. Perhaps a moment of childish fantasy drew a heroic picture in his imagination: one shot from his grandfather's rifle into the Field Marshal, resulting in the end of the war. Victory won by heroic assassination... Leaving his fantasies, Johannes shouldered his rifle with a customary movement, and strode up his usual path.

Shortly after, round a bend in the path, there appeared an unusual figure, which on approach turned out to be a young woman leading a saddled horse. Johannes was astonished at her appearance. Her head was crowned with a man's hat. Over her white shirt, tightened at the waist with the belt of a long dark skirt, she wore a skin bandolier. Over her shoulder she had slung a short English carbine. This warlike equipment posed a striking contrast with the rest of this Amazon's appearance. Her beautiful face of slightly oblong shape was adorned with wavy blonde hair which escaped from under the hat. Her blue eyes, the childlike full lips and the bright glow of her cheeks gave this creature an angelic appearance. Her fine long fingers seemed tiny against the rough wooden surface of the carbine.

As he met up with the woman, Johannes exclaimed:

"How is it possible to shoot with such a preposterous weapon? I would wager you have no hunting trophies." At the same time, the inner Johannes pushed forward with the thought: "What a pretty bird this is!"

The lady shot an angry glance at Johannes, and with amazing dexterity for so seemingly weak a hand, dropped the rifle from her shoulder and in an instant aimed it at the impudent fellow who dared to address her so.

"This weapon is not intended for hunting," she retorted. "It serves as protection from itinerant savages."

"Then I'll agree that it is practical piece, though look how ugly this carbine is! Examine my old rifle: you see the long barrel, which guarantees accuracy. Let me take it from my shoulder and stand it on the butt. You see it is almost the same height as you are. The similarity is not confined to size. The lock of the gun in its refined craftsmanship reflects the perfect lines of your hands. The slender curved part of the stock is like your waist... If there is any beauty in a weapon it may be found in this old Dutch rifle." Flattery, flattery, my boy! It will take you anywhere.

However, this rifle compliment did not bend the lady, and she answered in unfriendly terms:

"But with your handsome rifle you have little chance against the many rounds in my magazine. While it is shaping up its feminine features for action, I will make of its owner a Swiss cheese."

"Alas, the Cape Colonists worry more about rationality than our old traditions." Damn, it's not having the desired effect!

"I see that your English suit does not hang so badly on you. I sense you are not from these parts, to judge from the free manner in which you speak of us. Remember, here we use all that is better, faster and handier, with no regard to the national origin of things." Then after a moment's thought she added. "And so of people."

"I notice that apart from nationality, there's unfortunately nothing in common between us," laughed Johannes ruefully. Oh, God help me! What on earth might lure this woman?

Smiling back in response for the first time, the lady said:

"Maybe we have the German Mauser between us!"

"What!" exclaimed Johannes, "and you can permit yourself such political carelessness with the first person who comes your way." Got you, now, little patriot! From now on you'll not get away!

"Why not? I don't know your name. You don't know mine, and never will know it. There were no witnesses to the conversation, and that means there was no conversation. Besides, what did we talk about, other than the comparative merits of our rifles."

"Then goodbye, beautiful lady. But you should remember, there's always a witness to an event. If someone like the Arabian Caliph Haroun al-Raschid, who speaks the language of birds and animals, were to ask your horse, he would get the desired confession. I make no mention of our superior Witness, from Whose eyes you can hide nothing." Why do I need a witness, anyway? When I've accomplished my business here, you'll be next for my cage. Though Cape Town is a big place, such birds as you are rare, and I'll find you easily.

Without waiting for a response, Johannes went on his way.

On the morning after the scrap at the tavern, the details of this short encounter rose up in the mind of Johannes. As he lay in bed, his eyes not yet open, he said to himself:

"Oh you were wrong about my not knowing your name. Cornelia de Villiers, sister of Andries. But what a family! My hand is so swollen that it needs a dressing."

Johannes' thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the front door: Flycatcher had come for the chameleon's morning feed.

Waxy and Cherry came to my mind. Are they the lyre-birds that Pin King wanted to slay? Declared his hunt on Menura novœ-hollandiœ... Hollandaise Lyres! Lyre Waxy and Lyre Cherry. Lord wants to allure lyre-birds and he lays a lure to larrup it.

"You know, I've hunted too!"

"Liar!"

Well, I did sort of... I clinched... I tied... I sewed the squirrel up! Shiva stuffed it. Stuffed it up! I stitched after her. And now there it is - sits on a staff... The bullet shafted it precisely onto its eye. And now this rabbit-shifted squirrel gets into my eyes. Who shoots so precisely? Sniper? She does... there she comes with her faithful dog on a leash. Dressed in well-fitting buckskin breeches, gun magazines and moccasins.

Lurid buckskins,

Inflatable moccasins,

Half-lowered hammocks

And bullet-proof yashmaks.

Look, your dog is on the alert! Butts up, seeing this two barrelled butted piece! Wow, I've always known, people ARE capable of making alluring things. Dual... binomial... twain-bodied beauty... What a pretty lyre this is! But this weapon is not meant for hunting. I'm not lying - cannot shoot. The gunpowder became soaking wet when it lay there in the slippery water on the floor of the barber shop. And then?

Shall we get acquainted, even though we know each other?

"Well, Vanessa."

"Wet, Cornelia."

"Wily Shiva."

"Wail Dog."

Bows all the way and her well-hooved dog-scientist submits his paw. Powerful stuff! Dog knows what it is... Flattery, flattery, my boy, it will take you anywhere! Anywhere? Liar. The flattery does not take me anywhere from my room... I've just lain in my lair and in lieu, lured into lying to myself... La-la-la! In Dutch and in Malagasy. Very politely. Flat flattery and leered lies. You see, I've learned it's simple - politeness is an indication of a good up-bringing.

"Does your dog eat squirrels or... rabbits?"

"It depends on what they stuffed with."

"It's obvious. My squeamish skirmishing looking rabbit is stuffed with bullet buttons, gun-cotton-wool, fibre gun-powder and corduroyed cordite... like everything lifeless on earth it's dead and quiet... At war is a war!"

However, look, around us it's so pretty: chocolate shadows, pepper and salt twilight, orange and lemon flashes and creamy blanks! And all these turn and spin in round dances on roundabout sea-horses.

The dog takes a bite from the skin. The skin with absent spotty paint. Shiva-girl, who is she? Louse-ridden lassie she! Thoughtfully, Shiva spins a roundabout. You will know Shiva!!! Well, I shall join the ranks so you will know me too... me, Vanessa.

Cornelia van der Perdekrag,

Rides horses in roundabout tag.

Pretty face gets the finger!

Your dog tends to malinger.

Take a bite from your own skin! I now sew only the skins of squirrels and lyre-birds. Trophy-hunting. Yes I'm... in anticipation of literary lyraid lyre-trophies on lyrics. Because there is nothing better, nothing more alluring than hunting words of lyre-tails. Words hoofed by lyre-birds, or wings of lyres hoofed by words.

Johannes dressed himself rapidly, opened the door, and was shocked at the appearance of Flycatcher. The boy looked shaken, his face was flushed, and from his nose ran a trickle of blood.

"So early in the morning, and you are already scarred in a fight," said Johannes by way of a greeting. "Where on earth do you seek out rivals?"

"Why should I look for them?" answered Flycatcher gloomily. "Other people find enemies for me. I've just had a fight with Kosie Joubert!"

"And let me ask you, who got him entangled with you?"

"Got me entangled? Who do you think? Our new hero that tangled with Andries, that's who! On the side of the English, as well! News spreads very fast in our town. And I have to suffer all kinds of blows. All because I stick to my job. I should just send your chameleon to hell. With you, I'll lose more than I get... Why, these days, do Afrikaners fight on the English side?"

"You see, Flycatcher, sometimes I fight for the English, sometimes against them. When you grow up you'll understand that people can't always do what they want to do."

"Oh yes, I already understand that. My father, for example. We used to live in Bethlehem in the Orange Republic. The old man died from being an unbridled drinker. Also long fingers. Once he went to visit his friend on a farm, and nicked a horse's bridle from the stable. Took his chance when his friend went out for a second. He stuck it round his waist, under his shirt. But the old fool didn't expect that his visit would be a long one. His friend kept him longer than he thought. He sat my father at the table, and poured him drinks all day and all night. The thief sweated and itched under the loops of his belt. Then he was invited to undress and lie down to rest. He had to refuse, so that the hidden treasure would not be discovered. This is exactly your case, when a man has to do the opposite of what he wants. My father wanted to leave, but the booze wouldn't let him. He suffered like this three days in a row. Then he came home at last. When he unwrapped his booty, his stewed skin peeled off his stomach, stuck to the bridle."

Johannes looked attentively at Flycatcher, and thought to himself:

"What a strange fruit you are, little boy. From the first moment I picked you up from the middle of those pugnacious boys, I perceived some rarity about you. Like a magnet I attract to myself all freaks of Nature. Your kind could be counted on one hand in this town, and all of them are around me: the boy, then this Cornelia woman... She also seems somewhat askew, some sort of creature living in her own little world... Norwegians, when they cast their nets, pull out only Norwegian herrings. And Irishmen catch with their nets only Irish herrings. So here, freak that I am, went for a walk in the city and immediately attracted two other freakish elements. Amen."

With this he addressed the boy:

"I can see, Flycatcher, that I'm not your favourite person after yesterday's skirmish. But I'd like to know who dealt you your blows, before my time?"

"My unlucky again! Always pushes me t-o the wrong master! Before you, it was Marius. First he worked for the English, so I suffered for that. Got a pounding on the street for it. Then Marius committed suicide. Remember the day you saved me? Those boys were teasing me because I used to work for a suicide."

"It's unbelievable!" exclaimed Johannes. "Why did I not ask you back there, what the reason was for your fighting? You knew Marius? Maybe you also know Cornelia and Andries? This is the first time I've heard that your father is dead. Who are you living with now?"

"That's three questions! The first answer you know already - I was working for Marius. Then, after my father bit the dust I had no relatives, because my mother died very young. The housekeeper Katy looks after me. She works for the family of Andries and Cornelia. She doesn't come from round here. But I like being with her. So, I know everybody. And everybody will hate me from now on, because of you. At home and at work." The boy touched his hurt nose.

Johannes paced the room back and forth in agitated haste. Rubbing his hands in excitement, he gabbled:

"I promise, Flycatcher, to settle all your problems. I will apologise to Andries. Believe me, everything will turn out well for you."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself. Andries is a bastard. He deserves a good thrashing. And I can take care of myself. I agreed to feed the chameleon. I did not ask about your political ideas. It was not part of the deal. Why must the thing die just because its owner keeps his feet in both camps? And the people round here are just as nice - you'll see! The Jouberts will greet you as if nothing happened. They bow so politely to the English troops. Meanwhile their kids beat the living daylights out of me. Two-faced creatures!"

"My dearest Flycatcher, conversation with you becomes more and more interesting. Maybe you are informed as to why Marius killed himself? I have heard that we cannot discount a love triangle."

"What I don't know, I can't say. I don't poke my nose into other people's affairs. As far as I'm concerned, each person who betrays his people serving the enemy sooner or later puts a bullet through his brains. Nothing unusual in that."

"May I ask you another favour? It goes without saying I'll pay for it. I'm very keen to meet the family of Cornelia, and in particular her fiancИ, Herman. Could you not take me to the church for the Sunday service, and point him out to me?"

"No! I will not go to church for money, to show you Herman. I go to church for prayer. And you may go there with me for that too. And anyway, I can see you need it. There, let it be so. I'll show you Herman on the sly."

"Thank you, Flycatcher. I'm glad to see I was not mistaken in you. You inspired me with trust when I first met you."

"So, at last, let me give some flies to the chameleon. Then in future I won't disappoint you."

I've dressed quickly! Quickly? It would've been nice to dress quickly. Before, they helped me to dress, and now all that happens is Pin King spies on me... peeks on me as I dress myself. A drop accumulates on the tip of his long nose, fills, grows... just now it's about to fall.

"Mind your own business! Don't drop your drop from the drop of your nose!"

"Yah, sure. As if I were interested... With you, I lose more than I gain. What kind of body is that anyway? Do you call it a body? Well... maybe I'm engrossed a little... but just because it's a double-bulk thing!"

It's shakes, grows, fills at the tip,

Soon the drop will have fallen.

The full stiff puffiness of the face

Black eye, cigar and nothing spoken.

The full bulkiness is in me... or bulky fullness is it? What others have in profusion, I have yet more... twice more...double more than them. A storage... a bulk of natural spare parts, that is what I am!

Let's see... who has managed that storage before?

First it was our daddy. He played with us-double, put me on a wooden horse - perdjie... sonskynperdjie! He supported me on the right. Shiva, on the left, was supported by mum... It's not easy to teach a wooden horse to balance under a double-bodied bulk!

They both have gone... finished with this world... left my room, left a gap in my universe. After them came one who sheltered me. Zoid was his name. Full bulk of round kindness! He told me about the existence of the world. A world inhabited by wandering halves of people. Halves separated from the earliest times, when Zeus divided Androgens from a single bulk of two united, into two separated half-ones...

Zoid brought me proven numbers of the existence of those halves... or should I say, he brought me proof of their existence in numbers... the measurements of their bodies. With those half-measurements I sewed half-suits. Or should I say, I sewed quarters of half-measures. Because Shiva would spin the other two quarters. Well, to be exact, I spun, Shiva directed the half-measured quarters...

The full bulk of kindness, however, did not last long, and once again I saw a gap in my universe. And a gap also, a hole, a stab, under the left breast... though, I'm sure it was not fatal... I know, because Zoid lived with someone... the one - she-half... a woman... and lives with her still. Even now, I remember her measurements!

You see, they never show me to anyone. Or should I say, they don't show me those whose measurements they bring... I see only those whose measurements I don't know. They drop by to look at me... Shadows of a different kind!!!

Pin King sticks around all the time. Then there is an associate of van der Perdekrag and Shindra - the very pretty Marchioness N - a shadow from the moon in the wall-paper. Shindra recommended her to me in writing. Clearly the recommendation was false! What else can I expect - Shindra is a solar shadow!

The Fakeness of my shadows is more fake than my squiff rabbit on the shaft!

How do I know about the gap under the left breast? Well... the ever-present bartender Poorpal told me, of course. Who else would he tell, but me? With his large gaping hole of a mouth that can hold nothing in, he told me about the gap under Zoid's breast.

Two holes... Double-dealings! Two lies like a double-barrell butted piece... that gun! The beauty of it!!! Double-shot! Those double lies are so captivating!

Shindra is practically stitched...made out of lies. The way those suits were stitched...made of fake numbers... lying numbers!

Zoid has spilled the beans - also couldn't keep it in. Sometimes they ask to make it narrower, at other times - wider... I must admit, the shadow on the wall-paper is more real than those dimensionless, measureless customers.

At least my real servant is always around. Pin King - Poorpal - the servant of three mistresses!!! Shindra-Cornelia-Vanessa.

To tell the truth, I - Vanessa - always come third... always the last. I always get left with the hole in the bagel. Pin King brings a bagel, shows to me and eats it. The contrary boy! Appears before me bagel in hand, and pretty soon disappears just like the bagel, from the hand, down inside. Eats himself out... of the room...

What will you say when, soon, there'll be no-one to spy on? What then?

So, before anyone disappears, I shall ask him immediately:

"Who shot Zoid?"

"Mmm... self!"

"You?!"

"No, Zoid shot himself!"

Gosh! A suicidal nocturne. The bagel disappears by devouring itself, gulping itself down its own gap, stuffing itself inside its own hole. However, it does not devour itself completely. First it disappears, then re-appears somewhere on the periphery...It appears again with a new gap under the breast! Let's play a nocturne for the stick with holes. Is it a two-barrelled stick? No, this time it's single-barrelled... and it's called a flute!

Does he lie about Zoid's death? Certainly he does...

He peeks on me then turns and says:

"Okay... you got me! But I do not poke my nose into other people's affairs."

Ha-ha! Of course he doesn't...

The shadow of a minaret cannot bear his faked lies any more, and kills this Pin King. Church bells ring for him! But the shadow of the roof joist raises Pin King up again to the choir. Two-sided chameleon! It changes not just colours, but shadows too. Just look, how the drop on his chameleon nose begins to shake. Lights, reflected in it, begin to spin in the room. The walls with absent spotty paint replicate the sham! The broken empty capsule of morning, from a squeezed-out tube simulates a forge. The watch-tower in a window neonates, mocking my aquarium of neon sea-horses. Matrosseperde. Reality squeezes itself into a corner, as if it was in the "Angular CafИ".

The joists shadow like the wall of Peking

The contrary creature gnat Pin-King

Still, it's not nice to peek on people. Let me give him a punch in the face! Into the firm fullness of his childish face. Pin King dragged here such a load of new and hard stuff. And now he wants to admire the result of his efforts.

Here are Zoid, pretty Marchioness N, and van der Perdekrag who marries some Boer with a strange name, either Mampoer or Foeir. Shall we drink to the honour of those great names?

Sculptors of Hellenic times

So white in a park amongst the trees:

Pheidias, MЩr?n, PraxitИles,

Skopas, PolЩkleitos, LЩsippos.

The watch-tower in my window neonised

Congotelised and calciumonised.

The violet horse at the candle-light,

Perdekragodised and raycrystallised.

Two jellyfishes load water-melons at a sluice

The loaded water-melons are jellyfishenised.

Curtain falls! Alas, just four wine-glasses!

Red Ink

"The individual Vanessa has the best prospect of survival" - That decision I took even before starting to peruse Rat King's diary.

And I believe I was not mistaken. Certainly Vanessa could have become my ally in the game against Shiva. As a tactic she had tried many times to confuse the great strategist:

- She questioned the reality of some of the characters in Straight line of Flycatcher;

- She created her own heroes from non-literary, non-fictional space;

- She tried to impose her own strategy.

But after the procedure, I thought she was not strong enough in herself, and needed some support for further development.

After the defeat of Shiva, the vacant post of strategist would have to be filled. A new ideologist might have been able to compel her, not just to eat and drink, but also to sew...!

If I had chosen Shiva to be my ally, in my opinion Shiva would have rejected in her universe, not only the sewing machine, but bread as well...Shiva would never have held food, not even close to her mouth.

Back then it seemed to me, that after intervention the remaining head would start to chew, the surviving hands would start to sew...!

Unfortunately, this has not taken place.

VII

It was a lovely Sunday morning. The air rang with church bells, and burst forth the divine radiance of sunrise.

Johannes met Flycatcher not far from the church. The boy was not alone, but in the company of a woman. "The housekeeper Katy," guessed Johannes. Truly, they were a remarkable pair. Flycatcher, wearing a hat, his new suit buttoned up, looked neatly groomed. He strode gallantly, putting on the airs of a gentleman. Katy leaned gracefully on his arm. The boy's face was solemn and concentrated. But it was the appearance of Katy that most amazed the old hand Johannes. Her bearing was straight and elegant, and for this reason Katy appeared much taller than in fact she was. Her dress, clearly much worn, had been skilfully tailored to fit her slender figure. The beautiful line of her long neck added to her erect head an admirable poise. That is why her eyes seemed so strange - big and grey with a timid expression that contrasted with her dignified posture. Her straight nose and sharply defined, well-drawn lips would have done any Roman woman proud. But instead of the luxuriant ringlets that might be expected on the head of a patrician, her hair was cut straight and short. Absolutely grey hair, cut straight and short.

Flycatcher introduced Katy and Johannes to each other in a ceremonious manner, and the three of them advanced to the gates of the church, which gradually received the numerous members of its congregation.

"Katy, you have very unusual European accent," Johannes inquired on the way. "I can't guess where you are from."

"From Sweden," she answered. "I came to Africa one year ago and I know Afrikaans and English not well. Please forgive me for my pronunciation."

"No, no. You speak very nicely, considering the short time you've been in the country."

"I know Dutch a little - it's helping me. But now I'm trying to make better my English. The servants in families of high English officers are being paid very well. If I will be able to gain a position in such a family, I with my boy will breathe a little easier. Financially, of course."

"I can earn enough, Katy," interrupted Flycatcher. "God forbid! Spare us from serving the English. The few extra coins are not worth the trouble."

"What trouble are you talking about?" Katy laughed at him.

"Oh, Katy, he always knows what he is talking about," said Johannes, coming to the boy's aid. "But in reality he is holding back some of the truth, particularly where it concerns him."

Talking in this way, they approached the church and fell silent, preparing to enter the holy building. Johannes entered into deeper thought:

"Until now, family and church were united in my feelings as a single whole. Long ago as a boy, lying on the grass and looking into the sky, I imagined that the tall trees were pillars supporting the dome of heaven. I waited for my mother's call to lunch, as a voice from above. In my game of thoughts, I imagined that the Kingdom of heaven took its roots from Earth. Then later, in more mature years, soon after the birth of my son, I considered that my relatives were the embodiment of Saints who inhabited my world. The Groot Trek of Afrikaners was founded on holy families like mine, which gathered at each Sunday service.

"And here I am now. There remains no more of my family. Only myself alone. No, faith has not died in me. But with the loss of the last member of my family, the concept of the Groot Trek has shattered. I just cannot accept that this road is the right one if innocent people, who in their nature are good and kind, must pay with their lives by following it. Now I'm alone and my road has to be my own. I shared in the mistakes of my people, and will not do so with them again.

"However, it is so strange to find myself in church with a feeling of detachment from my religious circle. 'Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and we - him; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture. Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name!'

"'We - him!' I'll create my own world. Ask of myself and reward myself. Amen."

Johannes snorted with disgust at himself, as he understood that his outspoken self now spoke not with others but with himself, and occupied, so to say, the entire person. He had cheated. Then he smote himself mentally, sending the rebellious rank back to its place, and entered the church.

His thoughts inside took a different turn. Already in their pews were a number of worshippers, and the three newcomers occupied a vacant bench behind those who had arrived earlier.

The service began. As Johannes joined his voice with the choir, there grew on him a sense of spiritual upliftment/ enlightenment. Katy did not sing because she did not know the language well. Her eyes were closed and her face expressed joyful tranquillity. Flycatcher sang with great gusto. A paleness spread over his face. His hands, holding his hat, trembled slightly.

Johannes meanwhile scrutinised the gatherers, trying to divine where amongst them might be the de Villiers family. However, it was not easy. Then Johannes noticed the puffy face of Andries, who looked about him with obvious boredom. This find led Johannes to the family that he sought, and soon he recognized Cornelia from the turbulent avalanche of blonde hair. He waited for a pause in the service.

"I can see the family of Andries. Which one is Herman?" he asked Flycatcher in whisper.

The boy leapt out of his trance. "On Andries' right," was his short and angry hiss.

The service proceeded on its own course. Johannes did not take his eyes off the man who interested him. But Herman turned not a single time through the entire ceremony. At last the service was over, and the congregation set off silently from their places.

Suddenly a loud peal of laughter burst out. The bewildered flock stared at the man, perpetrator of this blasphemous act. Johannes was roaring with laughter. Poor Flycatcher, red as a crayfish, caught his shameless friend by the sleeve and dragged him from the church.

When finally they were outside, Flycatcher could hardly hold back his tears.

"What are you doing?" he shouted. "Are you drunk, or what?"

Johannes dampened his irreverent mirth.

"Forgive me, my friend," he answered, "it came over me so suddenly. I saw in the congregation a man who studied with me some time ago at the University. Back then, I lived in the same room with him and another two students. He had one unpleasant peculiarity. Whenever he was falling asleep, the room would fill with an unbearable smell. We three teased him, saying that he had a short skin, that as he closed his eyelids all his skin was dragged up, and opened the way for the gases at the bottom. Ha-ha-ha."

Flycatcher quivered with rage.

"I don't know if you really are a fool, or just acting," he said. "But now, you hear me, now it's not only me. You too will suffer. Suffer blows from the people around here. You can count on that, for sure."

Just at that moment Cornelia's family passed near by. The eldest, without doubt the parents of Cornelia and Andries, looked at Johannes with contempt. Andries spoke something into the Herman's ear, pointing at Johannes. Cornelia for her part fixed her gaze with unconcealed interest on Johannes' hand, which had suffered in the fight with Andries and was now wrapped in a black cloth. Meeting his eyes with hers, she bowed slightly in greeting, and so confirmed her recognition of him as the fellow from the mountain path.

Cornelia's family was dumbfounded by that gesture of recognition. Meanwhile Johannes thought to himself:

"Without a doubt that scrap with Andries has brought me some reward. But really, how spunky and independent is this girl, Cornelia."

Reality is a bath of banality. The main objective is not to let the peak of banality fall. For some people it is the usual procedure. However, for Shiva and me it's something else! Our bathing is every time almost like Baptism. Into the tub of water, whether we wish it or not, both of us have to climb, simultaneously, together.

Yet, our sleeping arrangement is quite apart! Shiva, in general, does not sleep. When I sleep she writes, sometimes reads. She reads daddy's books... or should I say grand-father's books - they are all on the nineteenth century. Daddy did not buy any books. He was fond of aquarium fish. Neon fish...!

Never in my life do I read, but sometimes something somehow emerges in my head. Like all of a sudden I would remember some Pythagoras trousers... Shiva is the one that swots... Over head and ears...up to the brim and eyes. And considering the fact that she does not sleep, she always manages to look pretty cool and fresh.

I have to say, the toughest part of our routine is dressing and undressing! Even though we only have one piece of clothing. A three-part garment - skirt and two shirts stitched together! Always there is so much hassle with that! But thank God we never have to deal with shoes. You see, we almost never go anywhere. Occasionally to the "Angular CafИ" and to the bathroom. And that road which leads through an alluring arched bridge to the other world, needs no shoes...

On the other hand, it can look so effortless when the sun helps us to put on our attire. The beauty of it!

We are in our birthday suit. Ready to be garbed. Depending on the day, depending on the light, Sun clothes us as it wishes. Tide-changes bring with them miscellaneous arrays. As the rays move they offer a vivid display of patterns. A variety of spots and streaks, checks and stripes. Beads, garlands, precious stones, feathers and plume. Peacock, chameleon, zebra and leopard, all are there to assist! Iris, tulip, `daisies pied and violets blue'!

Hey Shiva, which garment would you prefer today? There is a spectrum, a play of beautiful colours. I choose the red dress, you can wear the white! And if Sun is not in the room? Then shall I wear a lunar shadow, and try to befriend the pretty Marchioness N.

The beautiful "N"atal

I recognize by taal.

The beautiful "N"atalie

I paint in silver alley

The beautiful "N"atalia

Escaped me in Italia

The beautiful "N"atasha

I make my lunar usher

Do you think Marchioness "N" comes from Natal? She is not at all a marchioness, nor marquess! Neither is she marseillaise or marcosian. She is not merchandise, marquees, marquois, marqueterie nor marcasite. She is not even a martialist. She's a Boere-meisie! The meisie in Hollandaise style. Miss Meisie "I" is a lunar-porcelain-faience china girl. Pin King stares at her as if moon-struck, as if he'd never seen a naked china figure before... Fancy FiancИe Faience - white lunar porcelain! A drop on the tip of his long nose again? No! There are many drops now. And not because he's lewd, he's just wet... beg your pardon, he's actually soaking wet as he helps to lather us. You Shiva, lucky Shiva you today! Today you can relax and not render your lathering duties. As you normally must do in return for my dressing you, and covering you from the cold.

Reflections flood the brain. Thoughts froth the wits. Ideas bubble inside:

Vanessa, Pin King, Cornelia van der Perdekrag, Daddy Perd, Meisie "I", Boer by the name of Mampoer or Foeir, and magnificent Shindra. It's not water that flows on our bodies, but nectar condensed from neon mist...fog. Ornaments of the past are engraved on bodies now hot, tomorrow cold. Tattoos of time!

It's not a harmonica in shadow juice thawing,

But a pinkish neon all around us flowing.

We are here silently praying

Our minds all over portraying.

Always... no, no, in the beginning, it was difficult. Or should I say at the very beginning it was easy. We grew in proportion, simultaneously, Shiva and I. What I didn't have, Shiva did. And what Shiva couldn't convey, Vanessa could. But then, after that, we grew and understood, there are differences. What was good for one, didn't work for the other. What was beneficial to Shiva was a burden for Vanessa.

What could we do? We were conjoined, with one trunk... attached... co-embodied! So we had to compromise, find the middle ground! Unlike those self-centred people-halves who live on their own, in one head. They don't consider twice what they do to the heads of others. They can't even figure out the contents of the nearest head... so little do they care!

We, however, have been cemented into a union. We understood from an early age that that which is smooth for some, may be bumpy for others; what for some is hot, for others may freeze the blood.

We've learned to give and take, and where you have to take care. We learned to compromise.

Not like those wandering unattached half-people. They are perpetually searching for something, never satisfied with anything, always unsure and doubtful. Obviously, if you're broken into two parts there's little chance for harmony. There's a better chance of dying like a gogga, a fly. Hunter-flycatchers are always on the lookout for those who behave like the unattached.

"Hey, Pin King, I'm telling the truth, am I not?

"Yoo-hoo!"

Because of our union, we've constructed a behavioural bridge!

Behaviour is like a merry-go-around - no matter where you are on it, there is an equal chance of being on the right or on the left... the correct or incorrect side. That is why we had to construct a bridge - an arch of rules to aid us both:

IF YOU WANT TO LIVE - BE ABLE NOT TO SPIN

1. Do to others as you would have them do to you.

2. The person next to you is a reason for respect and forgiveness.

Good day

For sewing of vital fabric of life

Flight!

All turns around without moving in Space

The day is given not to make you feel good but to have a journey

Alcohol, chit-chats, food, sleep, trances, indulgences, none of these are permitted - they cause crashes.

Failings: pride, arrogance, smugness,

disrespect, anger, aggravation.

Gossip opens the way for anger in others, which eventually will catch up with you. Keep your mouth shut.

There is a reward in case of success.

Bad day

For sewing of vital fabric of life

Warning!

A mistake will take place.

The day is given to withhold a mistake.

There is a reward in case of success.

Counter-measures to mistakes:

Do not attack, do not offend, do not react to provocation

Anger and irritation are indicators of an approaching error!

Withholding anger and irritation will help to avert a misfortune.

Learn to endure destiny's knocks

Sickness is the catalyst of an error:

Nerves are bared, senses are clouded

The worst day is for inspiration and creativity

But what is a reward? What is it for?

Well, that is a moment of joy, like a beam of sunlight! Like a powerful surge of vitality! Reward is having withstood the challenge, and happiness swells and spreads like a neon flame over the whole body. Over me and over Shiva, over the whole world... If only we could draw out that moment... carry on just like that... tagging along that "correct" path, follow the essential arch of rules! By not failing, by not making a mistake, we could preserve this blissful, perfect touch...for eternity...

Could we, really?

How on earth could we, when in fact we had to fight even over the trivial matter of sheets? Mother and father had left the room, left our Universe for ever, and not a single other soul ever cared that even monsters needed bedding. So we had to be inventive, collect small pieces of fabric. Bit by bit we concealed enough material to stitch for ourselves a poor excuse for bed linen. Conceal, hide, steal... Foei! That directly violates the law "Do to others as you would have them do to you" - without doubt a breach of our bridge of rules!

Poephol...I beg you pardon, Poorpal! He cries while this neon is swirling, gliding, falling... It's difficult not to cry in this mysterious descending flowing unfolding pink mist! There it is glowing in the dark - a burning reflection of the red dress, blazing escaped neon! A creation dashing out of the night. The outer torment of the inner box. Tiny buzzing dots that form the pattern of the picture. The run-away photon! Confined, restrained, twisted images of the tube.

Pinkinish! Pinkish! Violetish! Velvetish! Pearl-nacreous-cymophanous? Foeir! All my thoughts have run out, drained, washed away by the moisture of the mysterious mist! Soaking wet again like Perdekrag's fiancИ.

Thank God we have another source, another capacity!

There they go! The neon fish - Foeir and neon fish - Shindra! The reservoir shrinks to the size of daddy's neon fish aquarium. That's all the parent of mine has preserved from the twentieth century. New...neo...neoteric... none... neon century!

It's time to rise out of the glowing flow... into the watch-towering shadow.

Awakening is like a fire-alarm!

How can he dream like that? That linking contrary Pin King... kingpin of ours!

"Are you asleep, Pin King?"

Apparently not!

"Then snooze away! Lekkerslaap!"

He's a former Scholar, now Harlequin

Jellyfish's son, unloading water-melons

Sleeping peacefully daring Pin King -

Liberated his flowing sluices

Aha! He's asleep now. Look how he sleeps - so peacefully, so serenely. Freed from himself! However you, Shiva, cannot be put to sleep even with loads of liquor. Urgently, drink... a fifth glass of wine!

No, we'll withstand the temptation, and be self-rewarded!

VIII

Ten days passed after the memorable incident of that Sunday. The days were filled with remarkable events, some momentous, some less so. Amongst the lesser kind, was a conversation between Johannes and Flycatcher that took place on the Monday morning.

"So, how do you like the looks your hosts throw you, after yesterday?" asked Flycatcher when he appeared in the morning.

"Don't you worry, my friend," answered Johannes, "I settled the whole matter by explaining the reasons for my laughter in the church."

"The same explanation that I got?" grinned Flycatcher.

"Oh no," rejoined Johannes, "it is difficult to expect of people who are less weathered than you, that they understand the real essence of the matter. I told them that there, in the church, I was given some very good news about an unexpected windfall that improved my mood beyond measure."

"And of course, the news was delivered by a carrier pigeon?" retorted Flycatcher.

"No, by you. In the morning, you brought me a letter, which you had fetched from the post on the previous day. I opened and read it at the end of the service."

"O, now I understand," smirked Flycatcher. "I fetched it from the post! I just couldn't get it before. I couldn't see why our Johannes didn't rush off to greet his friend. The one he hadn't seen since University. Maybe he was scared that if he squeezed and hugged the short skin, he would spoil the atmosphere of a friendly meeting?"

"You know, Flycatcher," Johannes answered angrily, "you are not the only one who has powers of observation. Here is my observation: you are extremely disrespectful towards your elders, which is very unusual for Afrikaans children. There is no explanation other than that your respect for grownups vanished as a result of your own family experience - I mean your drunkard father."

With those words Johannes grabbed Flycatcher and pulled up his shirt. He saw what he expected to see - the healed but easily distinguished traces of whiplashes on the boy's ribs. Flycatcher tore away from Johannes.

"You can guess as much as you like." he shouted. "Just keep your hands to yourself. The old drunkard has been under the ground for a long time. Soon you will laugh yourself into the same state!"

"All right, all right," said Johannes, "forgive me. I allowed myself undue familiarity. Believe me, there is a reasonable explanation for my behaviour in the church. But it concerns my private affairs."

"That I can understand," agreed Flycatcher. "Private affairs are private affairs. Only, please keep me away from them. But what have we got here? Somehow I fetched some sort of letter from the post, when actually I was helping Katy at home the whole day. And Cornelia's family saw me."

"I promise you, Flycatcher, in future before I undertake anything I'll talk things over with you, for my own good."

"That will be much better. The chameleon will be safe and its owner will be able to support it. And remember, I myself delivered the letter about your windfall."

Instead of answering, Johannes threw up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and left the house, keen to extricate himself from the zealous Flycatcher.

***

The daily walks of Johannes began to take on a special purpose. Very often, he would visit selected public houses in the hope of meeting Andries there and making peace with him, as he had promised Flycatcher. The opportunity arose on Saturday, the twentieth of January, and could not have been called a remarkable event. It appeared to be quite an easy task to introduce himself formally and make peace with Andries over a glass of wine.

To judge Andries by his words, he had "nothing against laughter in the church." He himself was "bored to death there; why may one not laugh?" But then in the tavern, Johannes "should not have stood up for the bloody Khakis", who "fell upon our lot in Natal today."

***

It was the English general Warren who fell upon our lot in Natal, and that was a momentous event. On the twentieth of January began the attack on the hills of Tabanyama, whose aim was to relieve the siege of Ladysmith.

The Cape Colonists were alarmed at the information that was leaking from the field of battle - through heliograph signals - through telegraph lines - to the general headquarters of the English - to the army officers - to the soldiers who arrived in the town by ship in vast numbers - to the port prostitutes - and then to the frequenters of the port taverns, among which was the tavern where Johannes and Andries conversed. While Johannes was winning over the sympathy of Andries, the English soldiers in another part of the country were trying to win a hill, on top of which hid the Boer defenders.

The half-mile slope covered with grass, which before that served as hunting-ground for secretary birds and as play-ground to the motley butterflies of Natal, became an impenetrable strip of death for the attacking English infantry.

At four o'clock of that hot cloudless day, their faces grey with fear and wet with sweat, Her Majesty's resolute servants crawled up the hill towards certain death. Their position was hopeless, but nevertheless wave after wave of condemned souls lapped at the foot of the hill, increasing the number of corpses, and increasing the joy of the vultures that had a panoramic view of the battle. When darkness fell the attack ceased, and three hundred stubborn English soldiers remained behind on the hillside.

***

On the twenty-first of January, the Jouberts were visibly alarmed. That was no surprise to Johannes, for he knew that their son was on business in Natal, and business there was precarious. The town itself was ill at ease. Among the farmers who were arriving in town, and among many of their townsfolk friends, the word rebellion came up more than usual. This word added an unpalatable seasoning to the dinners of the English administrators. Tension mounted with each passing minute.

Even the usually cool-headed Johannes, on learning that Flycatcher intended going with Katy to the port to watch the debarkation of English troops, requested permission to accompany them.

The lesser kind of momentous events of that day produced an encounter with the same old madman, who threw himself on Johannes with the words:

"Quick, Piet! Come with me! They are waiting for you there. Come with me, before it's too late!"

This encounter again sparked in Johannes a wild reaction, which was not even mollified by the presence of Katy and Flycatcher. He grabbed the vagrant by the collar and, to the amazement of his companions, exclaimed:

"Go to hell, you bloody cur, or I'll shake out of you all the pitiful remains of your miserable soul!"

The old man, released to freedom with these words, hobbled away limping aslant. He presented the wretched figure of a marionette, moving next to the solid column of marching English soldiers, in the rising cloud of their dust.

***

Meanwhile, in another part of the country unrolled an event of a great moment. That was General Warren's repeated attack on the left flank of the Boers who defended Tabanyama. This manoeuvre was a nightmarish repetition of the previous day's action. In just the same way, the burning sun lifted heavy vultures up into the air. What kind of weight had the English soldiers to carry in their hearts as they climbed the same fatal hill! What kind of horror had the defending Boers to experience, facing the death-bed candidates as they arrived, killing again and again with their well-aimed shots!? The war was turning people into victims and executioners. Who were the better? Only Spioenkop would tell, and that in the near future.

Spioenkop was a tall hill with a long broad spur on its south-western slope. This spur provided an access route through which the British decided to resume the attack that had foundered on the twenty-first of January, with one hundred and seventy dead on the English side.

***

Spioenkop, Spioenkop ... The name grew and exploded, soon to become a symbol of something unheard of before in the history of war. The gossip reeked of unbelievable fiction: "Two hundred heavy guns pounding the summit of a hill" - that concentration of fire had never been seen before in the annals of artillery.

In the Joubert household there arose incessant discussions on a certain matter, in whispers, even though no strangers were in the house.

"S-S-S-Spioenkop, S-S-S-Spioenkop," the hiss would be heard.

But if guests arrived they would fall silent immediately, and then Johannes had to come to their aid. These circumstances in the house threw Johannes together with an Irish doctor, Terence O'Hara. This was one of those lesser events of the twenty-third of January. O'Hara served in the English garrison, but in his free time practised medicine among the Dutch colonists. In order to rescue his hosts, Johannes had to take over completely the conversation with the newly arrived guest.

"Does Doctor know other Afrikaner families?"

"Oh, yes. Doctor knows other families."

"Does Doctor know the family of Cornelia and Andries?"

"Ah, yes now. He knows all members of that family very well. He even helped Cornelia to obtain permission from the English command, when she wanted to hunt with an English military carbine. As for Andries, he also can tell an amusing story, which led to the nickname of Andries-the-chicken."

"No, Johannes has already heard that amusing story, but he will be so pleased if Doctor knows and will share with him some other stories, less funny. Did Doctor know Marius-the-suicide?"

"Indeed he did, excellently well."

"Perhaps Doctor saw the body of Marius after the unfortunate incident?"

"No, Doctor did not see the body. Even though Marius shot himself in front of many townsfolk, his body fell from a cliff into a raging mountain stream, and was never found in spite of a long search."

"Does Doctor want to listen to Johannes play a mouth organ?"

"To be sure, Doctor will hear Johannes, with the greatest pleasure."

The short acquaintance concluded with a few Irish melodies, performed by Johannes so masterfully that Doctor O'Hara was seized with immeasurable delight.

***

In its turn, the momentous event of the twenty-third of January was a night attack on Spioenkop, by an English column of two thousand infantry. Artillery bolstered the attack and the column successfully seized the summit. Under cover of a night mist the victors dug trenches, shallow for the rocky soil.

At seven o'clock in the morning the mist dispersed and, to their horror, the English discovered that, just as on the twentieth of January, they did not in fact command the summit. The vanguard occupied a position not far from ridges and knolls behind which hid their enemy. Everything repeated itself: a cruel hurdy-gurdy. The events of the twentieth and twenty-first of January were only a dress rehearsal for the real nightmare. This tale of woe was exacerbated by the fact that the English had to advance not only under the fire of Boers who were settled ahead, but also under the crossfire of other Boer positions. The shallow trenches which had been dug at night, were perfectly exposed to rifle fire and cannon shells from other vantage points.

By nine o'clock the English had run out of their supply of water. By noon, the Boers had skilfully adjusted their guns for accurate fire onto the trenches. By that time, the corpses of soldiers were piled in two layers in the trenches. Those still alive, who now hid amongst the dead, were driven off by the powerful Boer attack. But the English returned to their terrible position, having met reinforcements, which came to their aid from below. This manoeuvre added a third layer of corpses to the existing two in the trenches. Again and again, the Boers centred their cannon fire on the ill-fated ditches, shredding their contents into a bloody jumble.

All quietened with the approach of the night. Simultaneously, under cover of darkness, both sides began to flee as far as possible from that devil's place - Spioenkop. Ox-wagons of Afrikaners raised dust on the roads right up to Pretoria. But meanwhile a small Boer detachment under General Botha, ascended to the top of Spioenkop, and saw to their surprise how the English army of thirty thousand men had packed up camp and recoiled across the Tugela.

That was the twenty-fourth of January. The lesser event of that day was that the hand of Johannes, bruised by Andries, had healed completely and he removed the bandage.

Shiva, Shiva, are you really surprised that I've managed to fish out a thing or two about wars? Yes, indeed, I've been on a successful espionage mission - sneaked across your narrow evasive bridge. Crossed the river to the other side, where I could angle better. Trawl a thing or two! And now I will tell Pin King all that's on your mind. All your memories, reflections, recollections. Pin King will listen, flare up and then fizzle out. In front of me he will lay in ashes, slightly smouldering, fuming. Poorpal! Ha-ha! Maybe the idea's not so cool! Shall I rather entertain him in some other way? With a meal? As he chews and swallows his ribs move in the most ridiculous manner.

"And the result of that?"

"Not too different, isn't that so? Very much the same. Poorpal! The ribs are so neat and white after a clean wipe off"

We hide our white ribs in cages,

Put on neat general's badges

Pull in our famished tummies

Paunch drums - an army of dummies!

Well, when do you think it was that the drums first beat out the signal for a military campaign?

"With Shiva?"

"Shush! Be silent! Quiet!"

In any case, it's all the same now. I've already pried into every nook and cranny, thrashed out all the crinkles of your brain.

The Carthaginians waged war with the Romans, even though they lived on a different side of the sea.

"So, where did they fight their wars? In the middle of the sea?"

"Of course, not! They called on each other, just as I do with Shiva, and Pin King with both of us."

Then again, there were other wars. Attacks against each other. Fools! Idiots! Did they not understand, that they were part of one? That they grew on one trunk! Fighting themselves! In the last war, in the very same fashion, you Shiva, since you took the side of Shindra, suffered defeat. The tummy is black - the scar is white. A Meteorite from the country of fools in the night sky of Wise men.

Shindra with Shiva and Vanessa are Carthaginians! For further convenience, and to avoid confusing that last war with the first Punic war, we shall be named Caphagenies... or Caphrogenius. And the Romans, rooineks? Let us carry on calling them just as they are - rooineks.

"Shiva! Are you angry Shiva?"

You see, you yourself have identified yourself as a khaki. In your "Flycatcher", you pen exclusively in their language. You set your hand and seal on it. You thought you would lose us, throw us off the scent. That's impossible!!!

Your so-called Malagasy, I have deciphered it. It is a Caphrogenius language. So, you are a spy, a spioen!

War is declared!!! From now on, we are at war with each other!

Spioenkop! Spy-hill is your head. The whole thing took place in Natal, which is where Miss Meisie "I" comes from. Shiva spitefully escaped from Natal!

She skipped spirally from one mountain to another, saddled on solar Sonskynperdjies. She spiked all enemies she came across. She spiritedly skippered ocean ships through the skipper's daughters, wave-shaving sailor schipperke... She spicily skimmed through the communication wires. She would spin through brothels overflowing with spirochФte port whores. There they performed a Roman Caesarean section, which has left a scar. The child was delivered and named Straight-lined Flycatcher.

"Oh, please, calm down, I'll stop just now!"

The child was named Meteorite from the Country of Double Fools in the Night Sky of Lonely Wise men. They hardly had time to write down his name in the metrics before the child died. Tragedy? No, that is the norm! Short life of meteorites. A consequence of riding solar Sonskynperdjies. Shifting skew squirrels. Shooting solar rabbits. What else can you skip away on?

Don't you know that there are no rabbits in Africa. However, if we dig deeper, we do find one! Apparently it was found by a rooinek. The military action was founded by a rooinek. Doctor Rotkod! He-he! Rot-cod! The one found was named River Run Rabbit according to the Roman custom. Rotkod hardly had time to report his findings to the zoological circle, before the rabbit had ceased to exist. It was rubbed out. The rapidly running river of rabid life of the rubbed-out rabbit had run its course. A test rabbit. Testy rabbit! Oh-ho! Discovery!

Here, it would be quite appropriate to place on the threshold, the lunar shadow of Miss Meisie "I".

As soon as one mentions Natal, immediately one expects to see Natalia. Let us collectively also not forget the others: the Meteorite, Shiva, RRR (River run). And simultaneously, we should go together down by the bridge to the sea, to have a look how the waves break, how the waves are disturbed. Hello to you, wind-beggar, from the third chapter of Flycatcher. I shall not allow you to touch me. I shall not surrender to you. You, silly-beggar, you will not drag me down with you. Get this - on my right now resides Pin King, on my left, Meisie "I".

With these words, the old man, released to freedom, limps away sticking to his road.

"Get your wreaths down to the water."

Pin King looks at me. Oh, yes, indeed, at this moment, I do look majestic!

The Army of Caphrogenius! The army of Caphrogenerals! The hot sun has lifted heavy signature stamps into the air, having killed on its way the lunar shadow Meisie "I". The wind, offended by me, has whispered curses above Spy-hill. Little losers - shallow trenches are filled up with pink neon. Over Spy-hill, the spirit of war, lifted by Rotkod, has been revived. I hate you!

Spies are digging trenches shallow,

Necks are bursting neon colour.

Heroes whisper the curse of witches

Across Espionage Mountain's ditches

"The heroes?"

"The fallen one!"

"Hey, Pin King, you shall remember Shiva!"

The boy spat upon the shadow cast by the dusty spirit of war.

Too late, Pin King. Its shadow is already higher than the watch-tower. Already higher than the twelve minarets of the city of Twelve minarets. Surrender is inevitable?

By no means! The unrestrained Pin King creeps about in the clouds of dust and exhumes stones, which transform his pockets into inflated grey pineapples.

The city of Twelve will nooit see the dawn.

The dusty urchin cares niks for my moan.

Grey pineapples are given as change.

Under the eaves I cry on a bench.

Locust flocks. Lumps, grey together. Turn into a cloud. Grow into a dusty army. The number multiplies.

Pin King, please, do not miss!

Fumanchu, Fumanchu... is it possible to miss with a meteorite?

Red Ink

Well, well here at last I get a mention! Ha-ha! Doctor Rotkod...! Otherwise I might have been a little cheesed off... Imagine, you work with a patient for so long, and at the end not a word about you in his diary! And it was not only me left out... Rat King avoided all contact with the twentieth century...

One could assume that the patient himself lacked information, as he was confined in one room. That he created in his mind an entire world, based only on the literature inherited from his grandfather... Literature of nineteenth century! But no... not so... In his room there was always a TV switched on, and Stitcher readily watched it, only sometimes turning off the sound...

His perception of the world was sometimes odd. Rat King regarded the Punic war as the first, the very first war. I can still understand that, as it really was the first recorded war between Africa and Europe... But why on earth did he call the Anglo-Boer war the last one?

All the recent wars had an Afro-European component...

What was that strange "taboo" on the twentieth century?

His clear unwillingness to deal with the recent past...

Maybe therein lies a clue to the antisocial behaviour of the patient?

On the same day - the twenty-fourth of January - Johannes went on one of his customary walks to town. In the middle of the day, wishing to escape from the unkind rays of the sun, he dived into a town park. There, to his surprise, he stumbled across a noisy gathering, comprising about a dozen ladies and gentlemen, among them Cornelia, Herman and Terence O'Hara. The group had made themselves comfortable in the shade of the tall trees, on dainty garden benches. Johannes approached the assembly and greeted Doctor O'Hara first. The lively conversation petered out, and all turned curious eyes upon Johannes. The doctor introduced one by one all present, among whom two already knew Johannes. He was introduced formally to Cornelia, and that evoked mutual smiles. Their accidental meeting and the conversation on the mountain path, came to both their minds. Herman remembered Johannes from the scandalous incident in the church, and had since heard a great deal about him from Andries-the-chicken, which produced some dryness in their reciprocal handshake. Johannes spoke first.

"To my embarrassment," he said, "I could not help overhearing the subject of your discussion. I beg you to forgive my involuntary eavesdropping, but it is impossible not to give ear to the name of Spioenkop. Maybe because one anticipates hearing it everywhere."

"Yes indeed," responded the doctor, "we were talking about the events in Natal. I myself, as you see, represent the apparent minority, let's say the beaten party. Still, it's a good thing the patriotic spirit of my friends was not translated into physical action against the British Crown. Fortunately, instead of applying Lynch's law to me, the present company made of me a target for their good-natured banter. It's sure you'll join them, by right of Afrikanerdom."

"By no means," replied Johannes. "Boers usually display noble feelings towards the defeated, and I will not make an exception. Besides, all participants in the Spioenkop campaign fled that hill as if they had seen a ghost on the top of it - both the English and the Boers. What happened there we can't regard as anybody's victory or defeat."

All the company began to fidget impatiently in their seats. Apparently, Johannes had broached a subject that had arisen more than once during that day.

"Ah yes," exclaimed O'Hara, "they saw a spirit - it was the spirit of war and death itself. The bloody prophecy which anticipates the coming century. Judge for yourself: Dum Dum bullets, machine guns, trenches in the ground like graves prepared for soldiers, barbed wire that tears off human flesh. Although we Europeans were somehow theoretically prepared for all this..."

"Nevertheless," interjected Johannes, "the practice exceeded worst expectations."

The doctor clasped his hands.

"All right," he said. "Even if we were not prepared in practice, we had the spiritual training on our side. We are familiar with teachings on the Apocalypse. But now imagine for yourself the horror of the local Natives, living in the virgin world of innocence, now witnessing that kind of thing! How do you think the black ox-driver feels, suddenly finding himself under the shells of modern guns?"

At that point one of the ladies entered the conversation.

"Allow me to point out that black people are not as sensitive as you're trying to depict here. I remember one incident that I think you, Doctor, told me yourself. Remember once, when you were on duty in the hospital, a black woman in childbirth would not await her time in bed, but constantly strolled about the hospital. In one of the wards that she visited, she accidentally bent down, and a newborn baby fell out of her, onto the floor! So what kind of sensitivity is that?"

"Wait a moment," exclaimed Johannes, "I too have heard of this amazing incident. Then I was told that the baby didn't just fall onto the floor, but held in his mouth his Birth Certificate, drawn in proper order. Is it true, Mr. O'Hara?"

"What kind of nonsense is this?" burst out O'Hara, surrounded by the loud laughter of all gathered.

"Or then maybe this incident did not occur on your duty," said Johannes, "but the similarity of circumstances proves that all Natives are equally thick-skinned. But what about other living creatures on the field of battle? How do you think the oxen feel? All right. Maybe these, like the Natives, have had time enough to become familiar with our measure of human kindness. But how would a meerkat perceive bombardment? And porcupines? And grasshoppers? How do grasshoppers react to a bayonet charge? I think they must imagine that a battle between Gods and Titans was raging in their high grounds. A shellburst to them is the Apocalypse present. But gracious Sirs, who will count the cases of grasshopper heart attacks caused by fear? By the way, your thick-skinned Native takes the world of grasshoppers, or all Nature for that matter, closer to heart than we do. Do you know, ladies and gentlemen, that black people are afraid to death of chameleons? Why do you think that is?

"A chameleon is a lizard, not venomous, helpless and harmless. The fear of snakes is understandable, but a chameleon, that is an odd threat! I tried to find a clue to this strange phobia and arrived at this theory: as a result of their seclusion from civilisation, Natives have a completely different perception of the world. Judge for yourself: they do not run to club meetings, they do not play on the Stock Markets, they do not go bankrupt, they do not elect themselves to Parliament. Most of their time they spend in a motionless state, when they sit and look on the world surrounding them. So in that long motionless gaze lies the secret. They probably developed in themselves the talent of seeing the invisible. I mean not really invisible, but invisible to us. Because their lives flow with a different speed, perhaps they can discern the forms of another reality hidden from us. In that slow, almost caricature movement of the chameleon, they see some kind of inexplicable horror. Clearly they see a creature which lives in a different dimension. A dimension in which something threatens them. We in our turn see only the tip of the iceberg - a small half-paralysed freak. Maybe time itself flows in a different way for Natives? With our progress we have brought them a different perspective, the fruits of which they have not failed to add to their own. We are, should I say, the modern Prometheuses, who have brought them fire from Olympus. Ha-Ha-Ha."

Johannes' audience did not share his mirth. A glazed look had come into most of the eyes fixed upon him. It was unclear why, and to whom, this strange hypothesis was addressed. However, Cornelia's face expressed unconcealed interest.

Cornelia's inner world was based on sublime curiosity. Often she would embellish reality with invented details, and so lived in her own imaginary world. As with Johannes, her being also had a kind of dualism. Only, behind the philosophical preaching of Johannes stood a cynic. In the case of Cornelia, she had to make an effort to bring her speech down to earth, descending from a soaring flight where the even more convoluted, turbulent roulades of her spirit sounded with full power. From there derived all her walks with the English carbine, her masculine attire, and her fastidiousness in choosing amongst suitors.

Even as a child she was inclined to hysterical excitement. With maturity she curbed this disposition, though only just enough to refrain from fainting at such words as "exalted souls". So Johannes specially elevated his performing self to a higher level in his speech. However Cornelia, for her part, had constantly to rein in her nature, which had always been ready to plunge her into swirling currents of neurotic parallels.

"Let us imagine a Native ammunition-carrier at Spioenkop," Johannes tripped on. "A minute ago, which for him is an entire eternity, the slope of the hill was an uninhabited field of flowers, where a chameleon wobbles its way. The creature lifts its foot for one step. By the time it puts it down again, the whole countryside is covered with people writhing in agony, fallen under a volley of gunfire. If you take a private soldier, Johnny, then time stopped for him when the chameleon lifted its foot. But for private soldier Tommy, time ended when the chameleon put its foot down. Our Native ammunition-carrier sees simultaneously all three: Johnny, Tommy, and the chameleon. Somewhere inside himself, he believes that everything exists in time. But if there is no time, then nothing exists. Nevertheless, time ended for Johnny, then for Tommy, yet the chameleon had not made a single step. The ingenious lizard escaped from time, or maybe created its own extended time, which will survive and stand out against other perished times. The inner belief of our Native observer suddenly cracks. Is it really so, that if there's no time, then nothing exists? For Johnny there's no more fighting, because time no longer exists for him. But the chameleon lives in a time that remains intact. So maybe everything exists beyond our time. And this everything begins where time ends. And the chameleon is a border-guard between the two realities. Obviously our Native ammunition-carrier does not philosophise in that manner. He just sees it. The chameleon is the ferryman Charon. Ha-Ha-Ha. Not so?"

The listeners were exchanging glances of amazement, riveted by this strange discourse of Johannes. Bewilderment and impatience could be read on their faces. Meanwhile, Herman watched Cornelia closely, as she seemed so fascinated by Johannes' ideas.

Herman Bothma did not possess an inner person different from the outer, being quite a direct fellow. Neither did he suffer from bouts of clairvoyance. So, out of this bemused company, he was the first to speak.

"Here we go, ladies and gentlemen," Herman concluded loudly, "the panacea to all our troubles is at hand. We need only to force the bloody chameleon, this border-guard, to move faster, and it will drag time behind it. With this expedient, we will be able to finish the war at one stroke - by supper this evening. Does anyone here perhaps have with him a tame chameleon? We will shuffle time a bit by its slimy little feet."

The strain caused by the monologue of Johannes was turned into a burst of laughter at Herman's words. Looking at Herman, the inner Johannes clenched his teeth, while the outer roared louder than all the rest. He laughed unrestrainedly for the second time since his arrival in town, echoing his earlier laughter under the dome of the church.

Cornelia did not share the general mirth. She was nervously twisting a lace handkerchief in her hands, and looked angrily at her fiancИ Herman. When the laughter had abated, she entered the conversation with an apology unexpected by the group.

"I ask you to forgive my fiancИ his clumsy joke," she began. "He has learned of your pet chameleon from me. Your renown in the city has blossomed since your brawl with Andries. The boy who lives with our housekeeper Katy, the one you call Flycatcher, brings food for your lizard. Katy told me about it. I'm sure that after today's lecture the number of rumours surrounding you will multiply. Perhaps it would be better if, right here and now, you tell us something concrete about yourself. Otherwise you may earn the reputation of a tease and unbeliever."

"Oh no, I'm not an unbeliever," Johannes retorted.

"So tell us then, what do you do? We must know something authentic about you, or else we'll have to be satisfied with no more than gossip from the tongue of my brother."

"Authentic stories are rooted in the distant past," began Johannes. "Even as a child I had a talent for orientating myself in complicated enclosed spaces. Right next to where I grew up was a huge system of intricate underground passages. My parents strictly forbade children to go near the caves, because there were many cases of people perishing in those labyrinths. It's a well-known fact that when parents disapprove of something, this produces in children an effect exactly opposite to that expected. From early childhood I adored playing in the vaults of the caves. Over time I got to know the underground system so well that I became the undisputed authority amongst the local boys. Nobody dared to descend into the caves without my leadership.

"Believe it or not, when I grew up I chose for my mИtier the commercial production of amusement mazes. I create them for parks and other places of public entertainment. Sometimes I build standard walls for my labyrinths, other times I lay out garden mazes, creating them out of trimmed shrubs. But my favourite kind is a house labyrinth, with an intricate arrangement of the rooms inside."

"And do you have many orders for buildings of that kind?" asked one of the company.

"New projects demand long and careful preparation of the potential client. At present, I am engaged in just that kind of preliminary activity. But the largest number of orders I receive is for perfecting mazes already completed, and also for repair and maintenance. In new labyrinths, everything works smoothly: when you open the door you find yourself in a fathomless cosmos full of stars, or in a virgin tropical forest, or in mirror-like space with neither beginning nor end. But the old labyrinths greet you with dusty cobwebs and broken mirrors, with decaying canvas sagging from the damp, and with drafts."

"And in your labyrinth," Cornelia enquired with merriment, "do you have a room where time does not exist?"

"No," grinned Johannes. "Among my feats there's no such room."

"And if someone were to ask you to create such a room, what would you arrange in it?" persisted Cornelia.

"Sometimes one has to cudgel ones brain in order to fulfil the wishes of the client," said Johannes, and a light shadow passed over his face. "It is difficult to answer this straight off, but I only know what must not be in that room."

"And what is that?"

"Space. Entering into our world from timelessness, we are constantly worrying about broadening our space here. We build large houses, cross the oceans in search of new lands, fight for possession of distant foreign countries. The dream of every man is to learn to fly. Fine, let us imagine that we know how to fly - we would fly from Kimberly to Bloemfontein and back, and then grow weary of it. Very likely we would have our eyes set on the moon, or Mars, or even something more distant. It is clear that in timelessness, from whence we came, there are difficulties with space, if you take into consideration our hunger for that."

Suddenly Herman stood up from the bench. His face was pale and angry.

"We were not hatched out of flat cow-droppings!" he shouted. "We are fighting for possession of the land! Let me point out: no sober-minded Afrikaner ought to care a hoot for the fates of dead Tommy and Johnny. Nor of the living Native ammunition-carrier. Not to mention the slimy chameleon, around which the whole conversation turns on the day of our victory. And, by the way, it was not a belligerent ghost on the top of Spioenkop. It was General Botha in person! On that note, allow me to take my leave, with your permission of course, ladies and gentlemen. Cornelia, allow me to offer my arm."

Cornelia blazed up suddenly, just as Herman had done a minute earlier.

"Why on earth do you give me orders?" she flared. "The wedding has to take place first. Go yourself, if that pleases you. The doctor will accompany me. Or even better, I'll ask Johannes to see me home."

Herman bowed out coldly, turned on his heel and strode away, out of the gardens.

Conversation flagged amongst those remaining, and the company gradually thinned out. Soon only Johannes, Cornelia and Doctor O'Hara were left in the park.

"Well," noted the doctor correctly, "how quickly everyone departed after Herman! You, Johannes, were rather carried away with your high-flying theories! The locals prefer more solid ground under their feet. Listen, on Saturday I shall have some guests around. Please join us. Perhaps in a warmer atmosphere, you will make some friends amongst the locals. And you, Cornelia, must promise me that you will have made peace with your fiancИ by that time."

"Oh my dear doctor, he will die if I've not made peace with him by this evening, never mind Saturday. I'll bet he's waiting for me, just outside the garden. Nevertheless, today he did deserve a punishment, and I ask you, Johannes, to accompany me through a different gate. And now, farewell Doctor. We shall see you on Saturday at your home."

Hey, sure would like to take a walk along a meadow on my two by two.

Through the little meadow

A sharp plough is drawn.

It ploughs the soil cutting its furrows,

As well as worms to nurture the marrows.

Naturally, Rotkod cuts not only worms. He-he! Rotcut.

Who would it be? Those who follow. For one is Cornelia van der Perdekrag, which is an inseparable part of Shiva. Shall we raise the hat and poliiiiitely put it on again.

"So, she's alive? "

"Certainly alive, we've met already."

Ah, all those wards... pardon, words... it was like a dream-world. Took place in January on fiery Spioenkop Spy-hill

An abstract joke.

One lion...

No, not good enough...

Two lions drew a rainbow. But there was no orange stripe in it. So, they went to search for it, on Spy-hill. Where they were kicked in the behind, one for two, and were instructed not to draw any more rainbows, ever again. They were ordered to sew, and sew only... Finally, after a long time, they were allowed again to draw a rainbow, but only a white one. They were to have no rights to draw other colours, nor even mention them. This would be considered an indecency.

So what, Shiva? Does your British lion-highness now stew in lionless silence?

Don't you believe that our dirty black paws are also part of you? What if I cut our common toe with scissors - will you believe then that you are part of our Caphrogenius sphere?

At once General Rotkod appeared. He drew near. Drew out a general-shaped white tablet. It's better to place soldiers in trenches and shoot there lengthways, to save bullets. Dum-dum! One for ALL. Preferably ALL for one, which has to be Boer-bred and a damn Caphrogeneral...

I have no idea where that White Imperialism in us comes from! Because of her dark dum-dum damp dumped damn thoughts and shadows, Shiva has turned black. You, Rotkod... your heart is black!

You see, shadows are transparent. You cannot hide interiors behind transparent halves. Halves, like those giant anatomical models, representing the sections of the human body. Hearts are visible. One can read the heart. Barbed wire on each side so that the heart doesn't jump out, and nobody jumps out of the trench. Let's cover it up a bit with powder. No, not with talc, but with soil! To save on tablets.

What a smooth talker is this Rotkod! Talks in codes. He can melt anybody's heart and ears. Soft and tender ears have no chance. The ears of girls, dervishes or cabmen will weaken, crumble and fade.

Better believe it! Rotkod is rough. Rotkod is coarse. Rotkod is loutish.

Looking at the crowd though, a Boer by the name of Mampoer or Foeir is happy. Shindra is not. Van der Perdekrag is not entirely present. Whirled-twirled-swirled the spin of green benches - a fan of unfurled figures present figures of speech. Girls about girly stuff. Dervishes about dare-wishes. Cabmen about crabmeats, cabaret nets, carbonates, cabernets.

Rotkod is pleased with himself - with his successful performance. He puts his hands into his pockets and - ha-ha-ha! Rot-codes...

"Don't lose the moment, Vanessa."

"How high will you shoot lengthwise? For a porcupine it's needle-high, for a mongoose it's bristle-high. And for a grasshopper it's altogether like the high flight of a Meteorite from the Country of Double Fools in the Night Sky of Lonely Wise Men. Remember, chameleons change their colour, not their size!"

"Hey, my toe hurts, Shiva, and all because of your damn dum-dum bullets!"

How high will you shoot?

It's a difficult case!

The soul inside

Can be cruel and base.

Aimed at the belly and got the toe. Paradox of size, measurements and gauges, dimensions, magnitudes and facets, lengths, heights, widths, breadths, masses, bulks and volumes!

"What, Poorpal? Why do you fidget? How on earth did you get it into your head that you can participate in a conversation on the paradoxes of space-time? He-he! Only one Law of Nature concerns you: gases break out silently only from motionless bodies. This is the sixth Law of Nature! The first five Laws teach you how gases break out with the sound of an explosion. They escape, proceed and act indecently and therefore are captured by society with an indecent word: dualism. Shiva cannot bear dualism in people. She has taught Lyre Waxy and Lyre Cherry: `You, siamese sisters, have the right to dualism, but only until Rotkod cuts you in two with his scalpel!'. And obviously because of the doctor's successful separation, his theories have to be estimated as inestimable, measured immeasurable, calculated incalculable, bounded by boundlessness. He has tempted...presented all the present company with that crap. Even Foeir got himself into that business. Once, as Cornelia van der Perdekrag walked into the room, she dropped a scarf and looked up so coquettishly that Foeir fell to his knees."

"To fetch the scarf?"

"While all are occupied with the scarf, let me quickly justify myself! Dear Madams and Sirs, I have lost my way and I am talking with you by mistake. In a labyrinth of the park I should have turned left, but Shiva dragged me to the right. So, to clear this - I talk not by mistake, but it's not with you that I talk. I make a mistake in talking with mistaken Shiva!

At this point Foeir handed himself over! It seems he has never seen Lyre Waxy and Lyre Cherry before. Why on earth should one shadow know another? Just because all of them are cast by the same person? Okay, maybe all of them are familiar with each other when they surround a single person. But in my case - my shadows were never ever introduced. Foeir spat on the floor and departed to the Empire of double shadows. Cornelia remained behind. Politely, she took one of us by the hand and one could hear the cracking of fingers.

"Please, pretend that you're listening. Trust me, you are among friends. We shall meet at the doctor's, I assure you! Rotkod is the one who separated Lyre Waxy and Lyre Cherry."

It seems that to this silly woman Cornelia, the separation of Waxy and Cherry was a success!

But she should ask Vanessa - what would it be like to live without Shiva?

Has spat and departed.

Begun to groan and farted.

Found and started tenderly kissing

Something that was never missing.

I saw you, Cornelia! You and someone just like you in the pleats of my fabric. Pleading...

"Where, where are you, my second half?"

First find her, and then you can separate anyone you please! Otherwise, you will see what I can do with your suit-fabric... I can lose it or cut it into blankets. It can be so cold in winter. In a room without a stove, pure misery!

In his parable on time, Johannes was mistaken in only one matter. For the private soldier Tommy, time did not stop. At that moment when the discussion in the park revolved round dimensions and labyrinths, Private Tommy Holly was dying on the slopes of Spioenkop. Around noon he received a mortal wound, while he and his comrades in an advanced detachment were attempting to deliver water and ammunition to the defenders of the trenches. Tommy did not lose consciousness at the moment of his injury. At first he just lay where he had fallen, unable to understand what was happening around him, and why he could not move. Then he guessed the reason for this. But why then did he not feel any pain? On exploring his body, he realised that the only functioning part was his right hand. He could see this by lifting it up to his eyes. The rest he could not observe, as the muscles of his neck would not obey him, and he could not manage to turn his head. He groped with his good hand all within reach, and was satisfied with the result of his investigation. Everything was in its place - legs, trunk, and the other hand. Tommy thought there was nothing for it but to wait for the noise of the nearby battle to abate, and then he could call for help. He tried to call out as a test, and to his displeasure discovered that his tongue and throat would not submit to his will.

"Maybe it's all right," Tommy thought, "they will find me anyway." And while waiting, he turned his attention to the sad music of the battle.

The only object for his contemplation was a bush, etched against the empty sky. He could see only the top branches, and could not determine the actual size of the bush. To Tommy's disappointment the reports of rifle fire not only did not cease, but began to alternate with volleys of cannon fire and the bursting of shells. A thirst came over Tommy, an unpleasant development which, from the first slight hint, slowly grew into a real torment. Tommy could feel the bags of bullets lying next to him - that had been his mission. Unfortunately the water-bottles were carried by other soldiers of his detachment, and that realisation was yet another blow for him.

The monotony of suffering was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a new character in the very limited world of the Private Tommy Holly. On one wearisome branch of the bush, a beautiful bird alighted. Tommy liked birds, and could therefore immediately distinguish in his visitor, the form of a Paradise Flycatcher.

"It's amazing," thought Tommy, "it was for the sake of this bird, among other African wonders, that I volunteered for this war. Even in a dreadful moment like this, Africa is still able to surprise. But wait a second, fellow, does your kind not always live near water? What are you doing here, leaving the riverside reeds of the Tugela? Is it possible that you were drawn here by the terrible flies that whiz around?"

At that moment Tommy realised that he himself was an enticement to the flies. This thought made him quite sad. But the flycatcher did not concern himself with insects. Rocking on the branch to the rhythm of the light breeze, he seemed to scrutinise Tommy.

"Flycatchers seldom sit for long in one spot," thought Tommy. "But this one has settled like an owl, stares at me as if he wants to say something. All right, let us talk: Hey fellow, fly to the Tugela. Bring me some water." The request was uttered with a tongue which this time obeyed his mental order.

The flycatcher turned away as if offended.

"Sure, what else?" he retorted. "You can see for yourself that I have nothing to carry it in. I have only my body. It's you people who invented water-bottles, and other things for which later you start killing each other."

"I see that you have a body, but does this body have a soul? Have pity! Think of something that can help me."

"Unfortunately, I cannot ease the sufferings of your body. The body is a test for your soul. I will try to ease your soul's torments, then the sufferings of the body will recede."

"It's easy for you to say, when you don't feel them."

"Ah, you have to try to analyse and separate out those things which make the body suffer, and those which make the soul suffer. People always seek bodily gratification, mistaking this for spiritual fulfilment. That is why, when pain comes into the body, you suffer it with your soul. See now, you have been badly maimed, but you do not feel any pain. So tell me, why does your soul suffer, if the body doesn't demand anything?"

"No, I still need a drink!"

"Think once more, do you really want to drink? "

Tommy looked into himself, and was surprised to discover he felt no more thirst.

"You see yourself," said the flycatcher, "spiritual feeling in your sinful body has its reflection in the suffering of the body. It confuses Man, and throws him off course from discerning his spiritual needs. So now your spiritual need is not the thirst for water, but rather the thirst for communication with me. The most horrible thing that can happen to you now is my disappearance from this branch."

Tommy regained his consciousness, and saw that on the branch there was no more flycatcher. Tears rolled down his cheeks when he understood that he had seen the talking bird, his consoler, in a state of delirium. Suddenly, in the lens of his tears, the streak of a flying bird passed swiftly through the field of Tommy's vision. From the beak of the flycatcher to the lips of the soldier fell a drop of Tugela water. Tommy closed his eyes and whirled away, whirling further and further from the tiresome gunfire. He felt the presence of the flycatcher next to him and thought: "Of course you're right, my little Master of eternal waters - the most horrible thing for me is your disappearance from the branch."

Those were the ultimate thoughts of private soldier Tommy Holly, who spent his last long hours on the slopes of Spioenkop, and who was never found after the battle. His body was neatly concealed by a large bush, on the top branch of which rocked a bright Paradise Flycatcher.

So what if we don't have a stove in the room? Nonetheless we have a television set! A whole set! All set! Another way for a set about... a walk. The most remarkable way! The observation of a square in space. We, craftsmen, know quite well how to unwrap, cut and string together unfolding spaces. For us fabric is a plane on which we play, and which we cut and which we stretch. Fabric can be in one of three states:

First - the parts of a suit have not yet been stitched.

Second - the suit is ready but empty inside.

Third - the suit has its owner inside.

The third state is quite hypothetical - we never see the customers who order the suits. A set-up! Upset! Identical to the TV screen - a gleaming, flickering, shimmering piece of glass with images of hypothetical people in an imaginary world. Doesn't matter that the set cannot capture all at once. Still, there is potential for seeing everything on a small square!

Sometimes I watch with the TV switched off. The screen. A fine smooth surface. A mirror! Reflects the real when the real splits, divides, bifurcates, becomes polarised!

Hey, Shiva, are you happy that besides my strolls within you, I walk within other parameters too? You see, just like our television set, together you and I are framing... sorry, trimming frames for people. We dress the three states of men. All three of the states are imagined to be one. Not unusual for craftsmen though.

Just as sometimes there is a frame containing a painting - a completed, set picture; sometimes there's a frame surrounding a mirror which reflects an occurring, revolving picture, a subjective world that objectively splits; and sometimes there are empty frames. You think that emptiness is really empty? Come on! Let's look through the emptiness of the frame, past the frame and see the inner-sphere, the ultimate state, innate nature, the authentic world around us. The pictures and mirrors serve only to obscure the very thing... the essence... the truth.

Well, it's the same with the moving picture in a TV set - a plane of glowing phosphor dots that provide us with non-existing matter. It scares vision, presents a facade, the reflection of a mask, a masquerade - even though that slice, that point of view, that angle, that figment of someone else's imagination, the paper-wrap of one's fantasy, becomes a reality as soon as it's set within a frame.

Let's see. From my TV square, I learned of an artist who sat close to a wall, and just looked at it, stared, set, fixed his eyes on it, until he had his future painting worked out in his head. Of course, you Shiva, shake your head in disbelief. You'll tell me that the artist simply threw a reflection of himself onto the stone. Sure, but the thing is that from the blind flat dimensionless TV screen was derived an image which reflected an artist's inner world, and the image proved its right to exist in the universe.

The most common thing on the screen is a picture-dream: one separated half, a half-person, performs the moves of a Capueira fight on an empty beach at the coast. Perhaps this is the most treasured dream of TV viewers. Agreed! A fine dream indeed! Firstly because Capueira is a Brazilian fight and Brazilians are the same Negro-Europeans as we Caphrogenius are, and secondly because the deserted beach presents some kind of event-horizon. If a person is made of clay, then sand and water, being components of clay, are part of the person. And the imagined line on a beach between sand and water is that fine line where a shape appears. A figure, a person, an occurrence. A person dancing Capueira on the beach.

I try to move around my room in Capueira dance. As far as the quadruple-handed body is concerned, the picture is complete! It has so many more opportunities for spatial figures than a single half has. So many chances to create the perfect move. That's why generally people try to dance in pairs. Or at war, as in Capueira, Together fight against each other. The main thing in the art of fighting is the skill to be in two places at once!

Ha-ha! Pin King really was terrified on seeing my immaculate dance.

Has he choked on a cherry?

Yah, sure, who is going to feed us cherries? He nearly suffocated with the Wax of my Margarine and straight away wanted to escape from the room.

"Hey, Pin King, please stop! It's like that memorable Crayfish quadrille from Alice in Wonderland, remember? On a deserted beach those funny creatures were performing that dance? Don't you recall Lewis Carrol?"

"Never, never, do this ever again, Fumanchu! At least not before you give warning. I tell you, I've seen things, many things in this world, but never ever have I experienced something like this! Honestly, this show is not for the sensitive viewer!"

So it seems it leaves me with limited moves in my own room... No matter, let's move, move, move our focus from Pin King to the TV set.

I see that the plants and animals shown on the screen somehow represent the real essence of life. There, inside the TV box, plants grow, and animals live. They talk with each other, and to people. Get married, give birth, demonstrate the acuteness of their minds, which surprisingly surpasses the viewer's mind. To describe their lives, people use epithets like: tragic circumstances, an incredible intelligence, sixth sense, eternal wisdom, and the extraordinary ability to be aware of and feel things not understood by people.

Funny that people never apply such terms to me!

It's just great that those dreaming documentary people... those dreamer-fantasists and animator-visionaries can see in animals and plants so much more than, even under torture, they can ever perceive in their own neighbours.

It's not our place to judge. We're not here to judge. No, we're not there to judge... or rather, we are here to not judge! That's the truth! And I see that those half-ones are given only half the truth. So from the screen I collect scattered pieces of truth through scattered dots of phosphor, trying to set it together. Where else can I find out about Capueira, Brazil, and even Africa where I believe I am? They say I am ... I cannot really check. Since I cannot extend the bounds of my room even with wide eyes, widely I widen my boundaries onto the city beyond my window. I stretch for the truth. I stretch the truth. How can I verify the truth? Prove that I am in Africa? I never see African birds fly to my window... always only pigeons and European starlings.

AFRICA

A - Anti-truth

F - Fabrication

R - Reverie
I - Imagination

C - ClichИ

A - Absurdity

Maybe the TV screen has lied to me about Africa? Hardly, though! I would have seen through their lies. I must admit, the half-ones don't properly know how to fabricate the truth, to stitch together the pattern of life. Normally when they start to sew the fabric of real life, it all goes wrong and very crooked. Often through lack of knowledge, they cut and stitch live. Live reports, live interviews, live concerts! Ha-ha! At least at the end of their programmes they put in a small admission about their trumped-up story, with funny names though, like Star Fish Productions, or Cucumber Productions.

In any case, their diligence is noteworthy! They cook frequently on the screen, and eat all these imagined voluptuous meals. Many times I've asked them to bring me something from the television menu. Zoid swore at me and said all that is not for people such as we are... Well, I know... it's quite clear why - all those meals are fantastic but invented goods. Fictional TV tablecloth. Almost like a fairytale cloth, which sometimes provides such eye treats that even Shiva herself turns her head surreptitiously towards the set, devouring the screen with her eyes. It's not surprising though. Even in our small room we have all of three mechanisms: sewing machine, TV set, and an aquarium.

The sewing machine is a mechanism wherein all lifeless creatures live: needles, springs, locks, dead cockroaches. The aquarium is a mechanism where living creatures reside: neon fish, plants, snails. The TV is a mechanism wherein the whole world of imagined creatures is planted: sea, mountains, ships, trains, cakes. And can you imagine, what those imaginary creatures might imagine?

"Hey, Shiva, don't strain your neck!"

The report comes from Observatory. Of stars? No, it's the name of an area in the city.

I cross Observatory's boundaries.

The grass there is hugely overgrown.

Magic Hemp

Embracing all imaginary.

So I'm at peace. All's mine!

Table Mountain, ships and trains all are drawn in the air

All is alive on the screen. Even the Cherry Tree on the slopes of Spioenkop is covered, not with berries but with sets of opened eyes. Most of all Cherry is afraid of birds. They like to peck those cherry eyes. Cherry-cherished eyes can cry but cannot blink. Its eyes have no lids. And right now Cherry cannot even cry because she has no means. There's been no rain for a long time.

Eye eater

Cherry picker

Looking into TV's eye

Lidless berry ought to die

You, Pin King, do you want to look TV in the eye? Voila! Cheer up, you will be a bird Cherry-eye-Eater!

Cherry had not noticed on the branches the horrible Cherry-eye-eater Pin King. Because it couldn't take its eyes off the slippery crystal screen.

See you! You see!

Pin King has taken offence. Most probably the Cherries haven't yet ripened enough for harvesting.

A voice from the screen: "Even at such awful moments Africa is capable of surprising us". "Hey, birdie, what are you searching for, so far from the ringing river streams? "

It stares at our screen with somebody else's cherry eyes. Change the channel, Pin King! You can't fool yourself with these surrealists. Yah, we shall roll our grief into grass-highness! Is there none left? Do you think there's a soul in this... blip... body? All grassss is turned into a gassss (r has disappeared with a smoke) through this... blip ... body!

From which body has the grass not yet disappeared? He-he!

From the body of my squiff rabbit on a shaft. What do you think Shiva has filled it with? Oh, aye, wise Shiva you are! You are thrifty Shiva! Shiva dances, I sing. I warn Pin King that he wouldn't escape from the room.

Squirrel-rabbit singing songs,

Mirages all about are drawn.

This is not a simple weed,

Its golden images are weird.

Multi-eye and multi-brain

Squirrel fur is in the drain!

There's advertising on other channel. We do not appreciate such straight-forward lies. A baby with the voice of a philosopher spouts a wise phrase about benefits of Pampers and, contrary to his ingenuity, is bashed there on the spot, before the eyes of the amazed viewers. And what if suddenly they start showing Siamese cats, even though all know that siamese twins are people, not cats! Such as Waxy and Cherry before their dissection.

The screen is black now. Maybe night has fallen, maybe the grass from the Observatory courtyard is becoming stronger. Night is all that's left from the Waxy-Cherished multi-eyed tree that emerged from the squirrel-rabbit dream...delusion... vision... African ebony-tree whose trunk is grafted onto the English and Boer branches. A beautiful plant, strange though. Magnificent bait for birds!

"In what manner would you like to journey home?" was Johannes' first question to Cornelia as they left the park. "Would you like me to hire a cart, perhaps? Or palanquin with a carrier...?" Missy, missy, where's your horsy? came the thought from within.

With these words he took off his hat and bowed to a lady who glanced out from a carriage passing nearby.

"You know very well," responded Cornelia, "that either I ride a horse, or I go on foot. What is your needless gallantry for?" Foolish man! The whole world is before you. Measure it with your wings! said her mind.

"I notice you have no umbrella," replied Johannes, "which means that you would have used a cart in coming to the park. You are not going to tell me that you arrived here on foot and without an umbrella." What about the sun, which will burn her little wings? How then will she fly home?

"I will. Came here on foot and without an umbrella." So simple-hearted! Do you have to make yourself so obvious? Oh, how I would like to have been in the place of my brother. I'd want to bang and bang your good looks with my fists!

Here Cornelia grabbed an apple from a hawker's tray, sank her teeth into the shining fruit, and crunching the apple, continued:

"You see I'm committing another indecency - speaking with my mouth full... Somehow when I first heard about the tussle of my dear brother with someone, at once I thought of you. I don't know why, but in that stranger from the mountain path, I saw an antagonist for Andries. Whatever it was, I must be very grateful for the service you have rendered to my family. You dragged Andries out of a nasty situation. Not that it would be the first or the last of that kind." Oh, what a knight you are, positively a knight!

"Forgive me, but how on earth did I help him?" Johannes rejoined. "You know it was I who initiated the quarrel with him." Guilty as charged! Well, if not you... at least I clasped your brother!

"Do not pretend to be a bar bully," said Cornelia. "With your physical strength, it would be difficult to lose a fight to a drunken Andries. Besides, when we were in the church I noticed the hand that was bandaged was the left one. And you are not left-handed. Are you?" Oh, the masculine nature! You don't want to admit you behaved so generously. Magnificent right-handed knight! Yes, I would really like to have seen you fight Herman! Of course, Herman would have had the better of you, my poor hero!

"No I'm not. But it's been a long-standing habit of mine to strike the first blow with the weaker hand." When my right hand is for a woman's waist, my left hand occupies itself with the laces of her corset. That is the duty of my weaker hand, little dove.

"You may say whatever you please," replied Cornelia, "but I know the real reason. You fished Andries out of dirty waters. And, by the way, yourself came out of it quite adroitly." The inner world of Cornelia here accorded with her words.

"So what about today's quarrel with your fiancИ?" laughed Johannes. "Was it also an illustration of my peace-loving disposition?" Careful, lad, don't blurt out too much. Don't overdo it!.

"Oh please, Herman himself was guilty, in that undignified scene. He's very sensitive on the subject of the war. For him there are no shades. He so easily becomes upset when someone casts doubt on the national patriotism of the Boers." But why didn't you come to blows with him in the park? Mighty Boers, clashing in the park! And of course Herman wins!

"Did you know him well, before your engagement?" enquired Johannes. His inner twin too, wanted to know the answer to this question.

"No, I did not see him often, " responded Cornelia. "But his reputation is widespread. When we became closely acquainted, because of the pledge between our families, I saw in him exactly what beforehand I had expected to see." How can you men understand the way our expectations come to be disappointed by reality? Yes, HE was the one for whom I waited. And yet, the one may not be HIM.

"Pardon my indiscreet question, but do you love him, or value him just for the affinity of his views with yours?" Has she already slept with him, even before the wedding?

"I love him and value his strengths. One can rely on him in life," answered Cornelia. Love him, and perhaps some others as well.

"Unlike the deceased Marius?" His twin supported the question too.

The core of an apple flew at Johannes.

"Did you all agree today to annoy and torture me?" flared Cornelia. How could you guess? Can you read my mind? Here's another talent of our hero! However, I'll not let you clamber about my thoughts! "You, labyrinth-builder, know too much for such a short stay in town."

Got you there! thought Johannes. "Please forgive me," he said, "but I was just curious to know why such a dashing Amazon as yourself should need any support?"

"And therefore you decided to harass the memory of a man whom you did not even know. Very nice, indeed," mocked Cornelia. "But support I do need, and very firm support, because of my strength. I pray that the one who's close to me now will not buckle under the burden of my character." And her innermost self was ready to affirm every word she spoke.

"As Marius did?" Johannes retorted. She killed Marius! That's all there is to it!

"Oh you simply can't stop yourself, can you, carrying on with your attack," said Cornelia. "All right then, I too have the right to strike your sore spot. Tell me, what kind of Achilles' heel does this chameleon story represent?" It cannot be that a grown man such as you could exist without a secret burning somewhere inside. Open your secret to me. We'll carry it together! "Who were these 'Johnny and Tommy', whose deaths you yourself undoubtedly witnessed? It was enough to look at your face at the moment of your narration to understand that the story was no invention."

She killed him, buried him, and erected upon his name a handsome tombstone, thought Johannes. Now she's busy digging a pitfall for me. "All right," he said aloud, "I offer you an alliance, with exchange of prisoners. One truth in return for another. I will elucidate my entirely personal circumstances, which you guessed. In exchange for this you must answer my one, also personal, question."

"Fine. Why not play roulette?" agreed Cornelia. "The truth against the truth. And the real value, if you win or lose, is either way indeterminable. Who was that person whose death left an indelible mark on your soul?" Her whole being craved an answer.

"My son," said Johannes. "He was killed in one of the recent African wars. Do not ask me which one. That would be your second question, which is illegal. The chameleon in my care, belonged to my dead son." The truth escaped from Johannes, and his inner world convulsed with pain.

So you are married! That's low, really low! "What about his mother, is she still alive? Do you have other relatives?" piled on Cornelia.

"My wife died a long time ago." The truth continued to trickle out from the clenched fist of the keeper of the dungeon. "I can hardly recall her face," he went on. "The image of her is eclipsed by the image of my son. I had other relatives as well, but I prefer not to enlarge on them."

"Now I understand why you have Flycatcher look after your chameleon," said Cornelia. "As I heard, the boy's mother also left this world very early." Our Flycatcher will grow up into such a capital man. He's very much a handsome boy now! A future knight, as much as you!

"I hired Flycatcher knowing nothing about him" said Johannes, getting himself together again. "Let us rather turn to your story." Come, come, cough up. Let her spit out what I already know of her!

"And leave all your secrets yet covered?" Cornelia retorted. "You have secrets everywhere, even in the simplest matters." So impatient. So mysterious! What a pity I'm already fiancИed!

"Yes, and they are neither for sale nor for exchange any more," Johannes pointed out. Come on, out with it! Holy Father, she'll tire me to death. "Your turn to make a frank confession. Is it because of his love for you that Marius killed himself?"

Hearing this question, Cornelia stood stock still as if hardened into stone, with a mask of fright on her face. Then she looked around. Over the course of their conversation, Johannes and Cornelia had left the crowded streets of town, and were now crossing a sparsely populated valley which led to the estate of Cornelia's family.

"You have parted with a dear truth," Cornelia began, "and in return demand of me an even more sacred one. It's so strange that your question was put exactly at this place. There, on that very cliff, stood Marius on the fatal day." She pointed to the rocky face. "We were returning from town with my family and friends. Marius waited till we approached, with his rifle butt resting on the ground, and then shot himself in the chest." Cornelia covered her face with her hands, obviously going over the horrible scene in her mind. Never before had the inner world of Cornelia been as satisfied as now, with her own lines.

Delivered at last! The infant's name is 'Nothing New'. "Forgive me," responded Johannes, "I take back my question."

Cornelia took her hands away from her face.

"No, I will answer," she said, "so that you should not regard my reaction as an involuntary affirmative reply. If you think that my engagement to Herman was the cause of Marius' suicide, this is not correct." Understand now? Can you really comprehend what an exalted soul is capable of?...Oh...only, I must not faint!

"I did not mean that at all," Johannes objected. "And as if a woman like you would not overstep the customs of her parents, where her freedom of choice is placed in jeopardy! You would have disregarded Herman if the whole business were only about customs. I think in this case the war played a decisive role. But Marius, you see, went to serve the English." Just look at her! Killed a man and doesn't even bat an eyelid!

"No," said Cornelia. "Take for example Doctor O'Hara. He's my close friend, yet he serves the enemy." The English are a very honourable foe. Doctor O'Hara, though an Irishman...No, on the other hand, he's rather too old. "And there are many others. My adversary is not the one who serves the English, but the one who stands with a weapon in his hands, face to face with me. On the field of battle we choose sides and become friends or enemies."

"But Herman," replied Johannes, "had in any case an advantage over Marius. It goes without saying you will never meet Herman face to face in battle." And of course, without my help she'll never cope with Herman.

"Perhaps not," replied Cornelia. "Anyway, I'm glad Herman is not so weak as Marius. Marius betrayed the spirit of our present common duty by his act. Not to mention the duty of a Christian. And had Herman not appeared in my life at that moment, I would have ceased to believe in the men of today. If my brother is a typical example, one could easily lose faith in the outcome of the war itself." In military matters, the inner Cornelia was always one with the outward Cornelia.

"Why," argued Johannes, "what is so bad about him? Believe me the outcome of the war is not influenced by our patriotism in any way. The English are simply unlucky right now. Total, fated, bad luck. Don't you feel the kind of air we inhale these days? Let the Queen drag all her forces to the Tugela - it will still not help her. But think now what will happen when this luck turns its back on us." At this point, as in Cornelia's case, the duality of his inner and outer worlds became so entangled he could no longer differentiate between the two.

"So stop intoxicating yourself with the magic of our patriotism. Don't you see the endless columns of English infantry marching through our town? Forces which, unlike ours, are not burdened with wagonloads of women and children. Forces which, unlike ours, instead of a fatherland at their rear, have nothing but a fierce ocean."

Cornelia stamped her foot.

"If they destroy our army," she declared emphatically, "the settlers will rise in rebellion all over the land. There, in the ranks of the rebels, will be a place for me and for Herman. And also for you."

Johannes lifted his hands in a calming gesture.

"Hush! Hush!" he said. "Let us not harangue under the cliff of the suicide. We don't want to raise a rebellion prematurely. The inner me is not yet ready. And think of the chameleon, which still needs my care."

"You are all made of hypocrisy," uttered Cornelia. "You are ridiculous in your attempt to compete with Flycatcher. If he is responsible for the lizard, there's no need for anyone else. The boy used to serve Marius, who held him in high regard."

"Here of course you're right. Of all the strong men I've met in town, including your dear fiancИ, this boy is the toughest."

"Oh yes," agreed Cornelia, "besides helping our servant Katy in her household bustle, he also does another job for money, in parallel with the simple task for you."

"I must admit," said Johannes, "Katy herself is an extraordinary phenomenon."

"There's no doubt of it. That Sunday in the church you presented the most remarkable trio: Katy, Flycatcher, and yourself. By the way, you outshone them both. Flycatcher is clever beyond his years, and will never trust anyone unless he is certain."

Cornelia held her tongue, discerning that she had unwittingly paid a compliment, because Flycatcher had indeed chosen Johannes. But Johannes did not, or pretended not to, notice her slight slip, and continued his exploration of the theme of Katy.

"I even think," he said, "that Flycatcher sees in her something more than what is visible to us."

"I agree," replied Cornelia. "He in her. You in the chameleon. Don Quixote in the enchanted Dulcinea. Now that one comes to think of it, none of us sees what in fact surrounds us. Sometimes it seems to me that reality is as much beautiful as it is horrible. Both of these extremes would deprive us of our sanity if we could comprehend them as they are. Obviously only through enlightenment."

There came a moment for Johannes to shrivel with that accurate cut from the shrewd Cornelia. On the outside he parried this lofty tirade with an indifferent answer.

"Oh really," he said calmly, "you are putting too much into that silly story of parallel times! I spun that web of nonsense just to make everybody laugh. And you fell into it. There's nothing invisible in this world. Of course there are some secrets, but as the New Testament says, they always have a way of coming out."

After this misplaced confession, a gloomy silence descended upon the pair, accompanying them to the very gates of Cornelia's house.

"What else could I have expected from the labyrinth-builder?" uttered Cornelia by way of goodbye. "All the mystery and intricacy in your external effusions. And behind this, just a simple self-interest and desire to impress."

"So are you impressed?" smiled Johannes.

"Perfect in all things. Only, stares at the servants too much. So should look for admirers and adorers there."

Instead of answering, Johannes laughed, thinking to himself:

"Why do I laugh so much lately?"

As he watched the figure of the retreating Cornelia, he called his thoughts to order, then turned and strode back towards the cliff of the suicide.

***

The cliff appeared as a bare rock with small bushes growing here and there on top. Beneath the cliff gushed a wild mountain stream.

"The last shelter of Marius!" thought Johannes.

Something sad lay in those sharp outlines of the rocky cliff, against the empty hot sky. The line was broken only by a small umbrella-shaped tree, standing alone, as if the figure of Marius-the-suicide had rooted itself in a notch of the jagged ridge. Johannes looked around and saw behind him, as if turned upside down, the slobbering mug of the old madman.

"Come with me, Piet!" howled the vagrant. "Everything is ready. They are waiting for you. Don't delay. They need you there."

At times, it seems to me that half-ones do not exist. Each person consists of two. Everywhere just normal twins, only one of them wears an invisible cap. Seeing this in your mind's eye makes it much easier to comprehend people. What is not present in one person, is present in his other self, the part which carries the invisible cap. Sometimes a familiar person behaves so strangely it's as if he's not himself at all. The answer is simple. At such a moment, the other half is wearing the invisible cap. From time to time they just swap the cap! That's it! And then it's so much easier to react to people's nonsense or anger, so much easier to be polite with people if you always talk to their good half, whether visible or not. If the good half is in front of you, talk to it, and you will receive a proper, reasonable and kind response. But if you feel that you're communicating with the baddie - pay no attention to its speeches and speak to the second person, next to it. It's silent and invisible now, but it is there, it does exist.

You know, Shiva, do you know how I concluded that all people have their twins? Once again, it was simple! They're always talking to someone, holding small boxes to their ears. Ha-ha! Ridiculously, they pretend that inside that box there is someone they're talking to. But while they're talking, they frequently look at themselves in small mirrors on the box-cover. So do they talk to themselves?

Possibly in the same way, the era in which we live is also joined with others. With its other siblings - the past and the future. Savages for example, in the same way but with different tools, communicate with their ancestors? Not so? Perhaps!

However, I've noticed that when in groups, the half-ones often talk to their boxes all at the same time! One would think they were talking to each other, but their faces express such different emotions. And then they are so totally absorbed in the discussion. I think even the most ingenious actors could not achieve such believable performances. And if you gauge the distance between them, this always allows space for an invisible half to be conjoined.

Oh Shiva, do not put on silent ignorance. If you won't talk with me on the cell-phone, then I shall talk for both of us. I`ll become two quarters of one half. Without any trouble at all, you hear. Because, as you know, Shiva, we used to sew half-suits, each our own quarters of half-measures.

And don't pretend you are not listening. I'll not fall for that. When I inhale, I see the smoke clearly, coming out of your nostrils. Who cares that you don't hold my joint in your mouth, and do not spit out any words. With every puff, your mind betrays you, escaping your head.

Puff - SHiva - SHeeeeeee

Puff - Vanessa - Veeeeeee

Shiva SH - you are white and light.

Vanessa V - I'm warm and dark.

SH - you cry and you think nobody sees.

V - I cool your eyelids while the tears dry.

SH - Fool, I smudge the windows in our room with the tip of my nose!

V - We have found the secret of each other.

SH - you are worth of your revelations.

V - you are a genius, and I`m a genius too!

SH - if you are searching, then there are two of us.

V - be hurt, it happens not only from pain.

SH - be scared, it happens while you prepare.

V - I'm creating cigarette butts, you are crafting a story.

SH - take off your headphones and listen to the wind.

V - the wind has told me a terrible secret - we have a few days left.

SH - we shall swallow medicine, think of shadows and watch TV.

V - on the screen we'll look for a far-flung empire.

SH - what if we're lucky and are be given a lucky ticket.

V - and just like that, we escape without paying off our arrears.

Pure gold filled the room. The outstanding gold reserve in outstanding arrears? A telephone conversation has become an extraneous formality. In the twinkling motes of stars was discovered the logic of movement. In the centre of a nebula a thirteenth tower of Jerusalem has appeared. The click of a cell-phone transforms the room into a cloud of hot dust.

Matrosseperde have no parasols. They paraglide. They spread defused neon light beyond consoles in caramel dusks.

We all play a role in the diffused dust of nebulae. Does Rotkod play any role? Yes. Murderer!

One of us feels with the finger an empty crater in the mouth. Zoid's last haven. Something sharp cuts an inclining twin bed. With its roots piercing the depths. No, Rotkod, no matter how much you kill, nothing disappears completely. From nonentity springs new life. Filled with universal wisdom!

Dutch wisdom in excess

Traces of the role obsess.

Pain in the tooth abscess

Abbess access assess

Following the future wisdom!

XII

Katy's promise to seek employment with the family of a high-ranking English officer was no laughing matter for Flycatcher. It alarmed him greatly, and he wished to prevent this by earning a few extra coins for her. He had in his acquaintance two Hottentots, who from time to time carried out some small tasks for settler families. The Hottentots were glad to accept into their company the white teenager, as his presence could ease their search for jobs, eliciting trust on the part of customers. Flycatcher's new companions were called Ziggi and Gnat. Each in his way was of quite remarkable appearance. The yellow skull of Ziggi, shining as if polished with wax, was enhanced by a few deep scars and small oases of sparse growth. Ziggi did not wear any shirt, but the object of his pride was a pair of dirty sailcloth trousers rolled up in a foppish manner to his knees. Gnat, for his part, had no problems with his head of hair. His skull was covered with an even, frizzy black rug. Nevertheless he had his bodily defect in the absence of front teeth in both upper and lower jaws. When Gnat laughed, as he constantly did, he bared his pink gums reminiscent of those of a newly born rhinoceros. Gnat wore no trousers, but his body was covered by a long canvas shirt reaching down to his knees. From the outside, it seemed that if somehow this pair could have been combined, one might obtain a single quite sufficient, complete with all necessities, Hottentot. Clearly they themselves felt this, because they were inseparable in the journey of life.

The Hottentots came to their appointed meeting with Flycatcher dragging behind them in turns a huge hessian bag. Their forthcoming task was not difficult. A lonely old lady, owner of a small farm, had asked for her pig to be slaughtered and cut up. However, Flycatcher was excited by the impending action, and bombarded the Hottentots with questions. In the first place, he wanted to know exactly how this pig was to be killed. Ziggi replied that the best way would be to shoot it with a rifle, but the old lady had no weapon. To ask someone else for a gun would mean sharing their profit with that person, and payment for the job was small even without this. Gnat said they had a very good knife, but to stab such a big animal as the pig was a risky thing to do. And therefore they brought with them something more powerful. Gnat extracted from the bag a huge metal hammer with a long wooden handle. With a dreadful toothless grimace, he began a jig-like dance, swinging the hammer above his head. But quickly exhausting himself, he hid his treasure back in the bag, and in its place produced a calabash, plugged with a dirty rag.

The appearance of this new object cheered both Hottentots immeasurably, and taking turns they embraced the vessel with their lips, sucking out its contents. Flycatcher refused to participate in this ritual. He knew that in the calabash there was some putrid and very intoxicating home-made beer. In the company of Flycatcher, the tipsy Hottentots lurched to the doorstep of the small cottage, where the old Dutch lady gave them all instructions necessary to the task. Having seen the workers to the cattle-shed the woman retreated quickly, as she could not bear the sight of her favourite pig falling under the blows of the hirelings. The Hottentots set about their work. The cattle-shed consisted of an open pen where the pig usually lay in a deep pool of mud, and a small enclosure where the animal could shelter from bad weather. A man could enter this enclosure only by bending in two.

Although the weather was magnificent, the pig, as if sensing something untoward, concealed itself under the cover. To hammer the animal in that tight space was not possible, and the Hottentots began their work by seating themselves near the pen while finishing the remains of their beer in the calabash. Frustrated at the delay, Flycatcher demanded from Ziggi and Gnat some action. Swaying from side to side, Ziggi raised himself onto unsteady feet. He took the hammer in his hands and sent Gnat into the pigsty. Gnat's mission was to push the pig outside, through the little door where Ziggi stood with the hammer aloft, awaiting the head of the animal. He did not wait for long. From the doors of the shelter appeared something, slowly growing in size. At this moment with the cry of a warrior, Ziggi swung his weapon down with all his strength. His cry was overshadowed by an even more ghastly howl from Gnat.

When Gnat had found himself inside the pigsty, he realised that to push out the distrustful pig would not be an easy task. So he had decided to entice it out by pinching his fingers together as if offering the pig something dainty. Bending himself in half, smacking his lips, he had begun to retreat, moving backwards and inviting the pig after him. The object that appeared from the little door, and onto which Ziggi had brought down his hammer, was no less than the buttocks of the poor, backward-stepping Gnat.

Flycatcher's rage was indescribable. He paid little heed to the screams of the suffering Gnat. All that he could think of was the money slipping away, and Katy getting a new position at the English home. Flycatcher shouted at Ziggi, ordering him to collect Gnat and the pair of them go to hell. In the meantime he armed himself with the knife taken from the bag of the Hottentots, and stepped into the darkness of the pigsty. The small Flycatcher shivered with excitement. His great determination shrank under the wicked gaze of the little red eyes of the huge beast.

Meanwhile, the world was swirling on its own course. Ziggi carried on his back the howling Gnat to a sangoma - the local medicine man. Johannes put aside his mouth organ and began to fill his short pipe with tobacco. The workers in the vineyards, to whom Johannes had promised to play later on his mouth organ, killed a large yellow cobra. Johannes' hosts went to pay the neighbours a visit in order to share their happiness on account of the victory at Spioenkop. Their two grown daughters chatted about their suitors, laughing and trying on new dresses. The teenage son organised a Spioenkop war game. The eldest son died from his wound not far from the place where Private Tommy Holly lay. The Malay barbers, cackling in their quaint dialect, bustled about their client, whose wart had been cut by the careless Ali. Cornelia saddled her horse. Herman attempted reconciliation with Cornelia by offering to help her, and was rejected. Katy smacked the hands of the importuning flirt Andries-the-chicken. The two English officers who witnessed the tussle between Johannes and Andries, departed for the front with a column of marching infantry. Terence O'Hara put aside the scalpel after making an incision on the abdomen of his patient. Flycatcher, jumping onto the back of the pig, plunged his knife into the animal's side.

The heaving bulk of the beast pushed Flycatcher to the ground. Its sharp teeth pierced the boy's shoulder. The jolt, the weight, and the pain lasted an eternity, but Flycatcher did not let go the jumping handle of the knife, understanding that in this lay his only hope of survival. The battle could be resolved only through the death of one of the combatants. Fortunately for Flycatcher it ended with the demise of the pig, as the boy's thrust found a vital organ of the animal.

In the evening of that same day, Katy could not withhold her scream of horror when, on the threshold in front of her, appeared the dirty bloodied Flycatcher, who stretched out to her in his small palm a few glittering coins.

Nothing passes Pin King by. Not even those who leave no shadows, nor even those who leave no trace. The untraceable sisters Waxy and Cherry could not pass by him. On the flight of stairs, they managed quite successfully to sneak by the rooineks, but Pin King's door, or should I say, my door, was impossible to pass. The pass became un-trespassable. The untraceable sisters hit an un-trespassable pass. Actually they were taking their cat for a walk to the courtyard. But Pin King took the cat away from them. He put it in the middle of his room under the shadow of a towering joist. And there it was. What a cat! With flaky flecked paint. At once it began to play with the squeezed-out tube of a white remedy for haemorrhoids. A pass to the left. A pass to the right. Left-right! Right-left! Silly, silly cat!

Meanwhile, not-allowed-inside Waxy and Cherry were breathing under the door... squawking- squeaking-screeching-squealing:

"Give it back to us! Give it back!"

Ever since their release from that hospitable hospital, they've not been the same. They were perpetually looking for something, looking round, looking about. Were they looking for each other? For themselves...? Left-right, right-left (like the cat). Were they looking for the cat? Left-right, right-left. However because of their silliness, they were not looking in the middle. Silly, silly inseparable sisters! Silly, silly separated siamese cats.

Pin King paid no attention to that nonsense, to neither of them. Neither did I to them, nor they to Pin King. No on no, it all came to zero! All attention in our room went to the cat, at least on the part of Pin King. Did he want to offer me a present? To reintroduce a stuffed animal to the room. A cat in place of the lost flaky fleck squirrel-rabbit. Spiky-spooky swap. But I will not allow a cat-sacrifice! Every sacrifice is senseless.

Cat-sacrifice - in the shadow of a tower.

The cherished singing - under waxing cherry powder.

How can you take away from moralist

Our kitty-cat the medallist?

Give it back, give it back!

With its whiskers coloured black!

I order Pin King not to shed blood. Suffered enough has our ever-tormented land the echoed cries of runaway Riverine Rabbits... River Run Rabbits. Genuine fury on the part of Pin King was the result.

This conversation is about sessions of hypnosis. The cat is used for illustration.

Although I think it's all for nothing! Waxy and Cherry have already had a couple of sessions like that. And what has been heard from them now?

"Give it back!"

Zero attention.

For some peculiar reason Pin King begins to remove his boot. А-а! Perhaps he wants to lace up the cat inside out. Meanwhile the kitty remains stubbornly ignorant of this scientific mission. It plays with the laces. From inside the boot. One paw sticks out, another is within. Left-right, right-left...

Finally, now when only its head sticks out of the boot, the patient-kitty is ready for the task. If you press the head - it sounds. So bloody clever is the manufacturer of those Cheshire cats! Only one thing - how on earth will he force the cat to smile? Hypnosis? Well, he's managed to do so even without hypnosis. He's grasped the cat's whiskers with both hands and pulled them outward, stretched so wide that the cat's mouth formed a grin. Where did you learn to torture like that? Surely not by serving Zoid? No, here, I think, I sense the touch of Rotkod!

Now we shall open the door and the girls will see the picture from "Alice".

Clever, clever Pin King! Obviously this hypnosis experiment is not only about the cat.

"Give it back!"

"Take it back!"

The whirlwind has passed through the room, swirling away the cherry-waxing voices, the cat and Pin King. All have disappeared. Whew! A day in the city of twelve minarets! What are you filled with? It's not in vain that the locust of your seconds and minutes tears apart my infinite, heartless, white, white day. Will there ever be an end to those kingpin tortures? Like a magician, you materialise matter from nothing. If you should want to escape from the square of your room. Let's say, to take a walk. Where would you get your boots? From the Cheshire cat? From Puss-in-Boots...? That's it. Like a fish in an aquarium! It's possible to approach the glass, possible to smudge that glass, pressing the nose against it. It's possible to look outside! However there is no way outside! Not without boots. Nee, nee! Oh, you ingenious locust! Oh, you vampire night following it! Why do you inflict this torment...?

Where can I find my boots,

So I can get away from here?

Into the scorching day of lonely solar roofs?

Heated tin is under soles everywhere

Down at the end you'll find no door, my child!

And anyway, who told you that behind that door there IS something? Who told you that there were wars? Who told you that History does exist, and in which, of course, you were not a participant? So, everything and everyone around me, without exception, has been persistently telling lies for my own good, starting with the first fairytales span by our parents. So, maybe World History is also a collection of instructive fables for the good for all of us? Vanity of vanities...

XIII

The Saturday morning was exceptionally fine.

"What a beautiful day!" thought Johannes, walking slowly along the path which led around the estate vineyards. "As if silver has been poured into the air and into my soul."

Johannes spent the whole day on the farm reading and strolling about. And when in the evening an errand-boy came to accompany him to the house of Doctor O'Hara, he noticed that the strange joy did not evaporate but still filled the air of the coastal town with the same intensity.

A large crowd had already gathered at the doctor's house. The guests represented different camps, as most of them were patients of O'Hara, and he did not classify his clients by their national or political symptoms. In spite of the diversity of this motley company, an atmosphere of peace and quiet reigned amidst the guests. The silvery day wrapped itself around everything and everyone.

After the process of formal greetings, Johannes turned to Cornelia and Herman, who were of course already reconciled with each other, and under the influence of the radiant aura of the day, received him into their conversation in a friendly manner.

"Please forgive me," began Johannes with an apology, "for the awkwardness of my arguments in the park which caused unintended disagreement amongst us."

"Don't bother yourself," answered Cornelia with a short laugh, "when you clashed with us one after the other, you bounced us back together, creating of yourself our common opponent against whom we united our forces, forgetting our mutual offences. Of course, we dissected you amongst ourselves, and concluded in the end that you are at odds with religion. It must have bedevilled your life rather badly. Not to mention confound your social interactions."

Johannes took no offence, it being such an unusual, silvery day.

"Yes, I am in a difficult relationship with religion," he admitted.

At that moment, Terence O'Hara approached the group. He was burdened with a slight cold, and held in his hand a huge checked handkerchief, which now and again he clasped to his nose.

"I can see that you have already made peace," he said, producing with his nose a satisfied whistle. "I'm very happy. Partly for this reason I have gathered this soirИe. Glad to see its early success!"

"Strictly speaking," Herman put in, "we did not quarrel at all. Simply, like Cornelia who disagrees a little with Johannes in the field of religion, for my part, I think that we two view the question of military success in different ways. For me, success in the war is not a matter of accident, but the rewards of courage and patriotism."

"As strange as it may sound," responded Johannes, "specifically in the past, when I was an ardent follower of our religious traditions, in my soul grew a materialistic cynicism. But now, I see the New Testament in a new light, and from there comes my understanding of the unpredictability of success in war."

"So how is it shaping out for you?" enquired O'Hara, struggling against an insuperable desire to sneeze.

"It's very simple," explained Johannes. "For example, in my childhood I read the parable of the Feeding of the Five Thousand with loaves and fishes. My primitive, worldly pragmatism suggested the following version of events: Jesus broke the loaf and sent it to the multitude to show them that now, with his blessings, people could take out their own supplies, which they had brought with them. Because if someone blesses you with a loaf, you may start eating openly what you yourself have brought, not needing to share it with those around you. Meaning that Jesus helped people to overcome their selfishness with the simple gesture of offering a little. So, why wonder that there was enough food for everyone, and afterwards some basketfuls remained, if everyone carried with him concealed supplies of food?" Johannes paused.

Herman looked attentively at Johannes, and slowly drifted into a hypnotic daze. His eyes glazed, his lower jaw sagged, and his mouth opened into a broad yawn. This process ended with the snapping of his teeth when a loud sneeze burst from the direction of O'Hara, which woke him, bringing his eyes back into focus.

" Now I see this story in a different light," continued Johannes. "Stepping back from the formal side of the matter - what kind of loaf and what kind of fish were offered - I understood the meaning of the limitlessness of the offer. Jesus began to allot to people but he could not give with exact measure. He just opened an ecumenical horn of plenty and couldn't close it at once. No one can, until the Godsend ceases. This is where the remaining baskets of food come from, about which, why should there be mention in the Holy Scriptures! But if blessings start to flow in, they flow boundlessly. In my opinion, the Boer commandos in Natal are experiencing the same phenomenon. This is my understanding of success in war, if it suits you, Herman, in such terms."

The touchy Herman did not blaze up on this occasion, it being such an unusual, silvery day.

"Here we are now," responded the doctor instead of Herman, "all chatting together, not feeling any animosity towards each other. I am convinced that most of us are deeply religious creatures. So how do you think Creation judges us on the field of battle? How does it choose to be a benefactor to one, and turn away from another?" He rolled up his eyes, preparing for a new charge by a phalanx of sneezes.

"Judgement comes from the fact that we fight for our Beliefs and our Land!" Herman answered, ignoring the shell-burst in the background, coming from O'Hara. "But Britain fights for the gold of the Transvaal. And turning again to the New Testament, we remember that it says: 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of God.'"

"But if we're to believe in the new social theories," grinned Johannes, "which grow in our times like mushrooms after the rain, then we are all exploiters of the darker races. Both the Afrikaners and the English. And we are fighting in the colonies to carve up the world into spheres of economic influence. The rich battle for gold, and this means that nobody will enter into the Kingdom of God."

"Afrikaners are not rich enough," Herman remarked sarcastically, "to qualify as exploiters. Allow me in my turn to expand on the Holy Scriptures. At first Jesus says: 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!', and then, taking pity on the inflexibility of people, he lowers his demands saying: 'How hard it is for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of God!' Do you grasp the difference? The English possess riches and trust in riches, but Afrikaners receive from your horn of plenty because they trust in sacred things!" Never before had Herman spoken so long and so eloquently. "Oh-oh," he thought, "this drivel is contagious!"

During this long religio-historical lecture, Cornelia juggled in her mind the different proverbs and fables which might suit the conversation:

Better the devil you know.

Before excellence the gods have set sweat.

It's hard to find a black cat in a dark room, particularly if it's not there.

But not finding anything suitable, she intervened coolly:

"Both of you interpret evangelical symbolism so freely. And for your own purposes. But you deal here only with symbols behind which are concealed the real things. People are simply not fit to be shown reality as it is, because out of that they will make a wrangle."

"Oh yes, yes," reacted Johannes, "I remember 'Reality is as much beautiful as it is horrible! Both these extremes would deprive us of our sanity, if we could comprehend them as they are.'"

Cornelia did not take offence at the quotation from her earlier conversation with Johannes, it being such an unusual, silvery day. In return, she herself cited:

"'Life is a complicated system of traps - a labyrinth or whatever you call it. At home we discussed your speech in the park thoroughly, and do you know to whom the final conclusion belongs? To Flycatcher! He tried persistently to divert Katy away from our conversation about you, and to send her back to her household duties, where she belonged. I was curious at such insistence in his part, and asked him what he had against Katy chatting with us for a few minutes. Flycatcher answered it was no good listening to such outrageous nonsense. Then I asked him why the comparison of life with a labyrinth was, in his opinion, nonsense. 'See,' answered Flycatcher, 'my father had a drinking crony, a Buddhist. So, that religious man not only betrayed his faith by drinking, but constantly justified that betrayal with the help of the same religion. His babble was very similar to what I have heard just now. In my opinion, even if life is a labyrinth, it is impossible to position yourself in this labyrinth in two places at once. The maze may be crossed step by step, both in time and in space. Only God knows what happens behind the wall next to you, and you have to follow your straight line ahead. That is, of course, if you want to find an exit from the labyrinth and not poke your nose everywhere.' What a tricky little devil, don't you think? Sometimes he rolls out such speeches that it seems he graduated from a scholastic faculty. Perhaps he's a wunderkind? I've heard that there are some children who mature much faster than their peers. But then, where is his wisdom? He bares the truth as a ploughman the soil."

Everybody laughed in a friendly manner, including Johannes, who again was not offended. He even commended Flycatcher for his straightforwardness. For Flycatcher, there were no symbols in the Holy Scriptures. There were five loaves and two fishes and twelve baskets of food remained.

The evening streamed along with unconstrained free flow of conversation on religious and secular topics. The atmosphere in the house warmed so, that at the end of the evening, at the request of Doctor O'Hara, Johannes played a few melodies on his mouth organ.

When late at night Johannes returned to the farm, he found the Jouberts still up. The eyes of the woman were red from weeping and the shoulders of her husband collapsed as if a huge weight had fallen on them. Johannes understood immediately.

"Again you are right, my friend Flycatcher," he thought. "From the horn of plenty were measured only twelve baskets. Not a bit more."

But what if it's not an invisible cap that makes the half-ones half-visible, and if the doubles are restricted to time limits? Like elephants, sleeping on the move with one half of the brain. When one of them is asleep and the other is awake, that's called reality. But when the first one is awake and the other asleep, they name it a dream... Each of them is oblivious to the other half, seeing himself either "here" or "there", and considers in his heart he is a one coherent person.

"Listen, Shiva - think, but only at night, when I'm asleep."

Although, most probably, you do exactly that because, for you, I disappear "suddenly" during the day. But, Shiva, what if I should slip my sleep into your reality? What if I break into your so-called Private Reserve? Maybe then, in my world, you would emerge and speak.

So, dream it is: a consultation of experts in a room of minarets. The visit of a doctor confirmed by witnesses. All eyes are cheerful and encouraging. Cheerfully-charging. Chagrin of changing skin. Taking off our skin. Present are Cornelia van der Perdekrag, Boer by the strange name of Mampoer or Foeir, these, those and that, and Rotkod, of course!

The doctor all dressed in white! Just look - such opposition to your black dream. Guests, non-guests, gusting, guessing, guiding, giving gifts. Sweet glances, faces of truffles, smiles of toffees. Taffy, Toughie, Tuff. Wider-wider-wide. Pulled out from different directions to a different direction. Sugary friends turning to syrupy fiends. Cool hats - cruel hearts. Somehow my heart melts when Rotkod speaks softly.

Let's summarise:

The brakes of my train are made of truffles,

The marzipan boom is never lowered.

Passengers, please gum together!

Those who are bold enough, jump in!

Sugary rails stick carriages firmly

You, Shiva, read in the train carriage. Night reading on many things. The night bonds us together now. Ties us with one rope, one line. Still, it is not yet proven. The most important thing has not yet been proven. What is the caretaker carrying on his tray? Is he distributing bread? Pills?

Why to me only?

Well, the rest have already taken their medicine, have recovered and gone home... Only Vanessa is left. She could not be found in her normal spot, as she ran away into Shiva's night. And in that night she was caught.

At night they all look like shadows throwing other shadows. The shadows of the night shadows are quarters of shadows. And I'm so scared in your dreams.

Rotkod whispers:

"We are here now, talking together, not feeling any animosity towards each other."

The shadows meanwhile draw, flock together. One is supposed to fly in dreams. Not so, Shiva? Foeir takes charge of the flight. He inspects all his fleet, hops, twitches his heavy behind. Pulls in his longish legs, one after the other. Checks the readiness of the chassis.

Rotkod is always a gentle force behind us. I can see Foeir obeys his signals.

Do you think I can see Rotkod with eyes behind my head, just because in dream-world that would be normal? No, no. Not so. In any case - in dream-world there is also some kind of order within disorder. In my case, the half-shadows of Rotkod's so-called hands, even though they are just quarters of the whole, are visible to our four eyes in a super-stereoscopic effect, with two of the four slightly turned back.

The shadows draw near. They understand sign language.

Convoluted shadows of street signs.

The sharp brutes all upholstered with leather.

A common subject the same on all minds

The only difference in suits and in gender.

The face is the same for all. It will change only when they fly away into reality on waking up. And their hands become handles behind their backs. And the handles are all twisted with surgical gestures. And the seaweeds of the Dead Sea grow. The twelve minarets, and for the thirteenth one, my lookout tower . Shall I squeeze it out myself, spell it out rapidly, before it's too late? Already I feel how Shiva squeezes me out of her dream.

The Dead Sea is actually alive! I was there. And Pin King was there, and Meisie "I". The wind has disarranged Pin King's hair. It looks awfully alive.

Overseas gestures, overseas fringes.

It's scary to look into a gap of darkness.

Along the dead valley rumours linger.

Without any words you told me ample.

And chucked out from dream into the reality behind me fly the words:

"Go off to your dreary Spy-hill to gather warms, you grey reality mole, you!"

Red Ink

Well, well! It goes without saying that in the early stages of the therapy, the medication did indeed work for Rat King.

Now we know for a fact: Stitcher thought that time becomes a person. Shiva was the embodiment of Night, and Vanessa the embodiment of Day. Similarly on a larger scale - Shiva represented the nineteenth century, and Vanessa the twenty-first. However, the question remains a riddle: why did Rat King so single-mindedly eschew all references to the twentieth century?

Symbols of the twentieth century, nevertheless, crept into the diary, such as the landing-gear of an aircraft, for example. This probably occurred under the influence of the medication.

It is a great pity that it was not possible to extract this diary from Stitcher while he was still alive. At least one of the two heads was awake at all times. The patient held himself so well under control at that time, that any change in his condition went unnoticed.

XIV

On Sunday, Flycatcher did not arrive in the morning to feed the chameleon. Nor was he seen in church, a fact which began to worry Johannes. After the service Katy approached him and handed him a small box of flies sent by Flycatcher. Johannes asked her what had happened to the boy, and Katy told him the story of the pig. This adventure called a smile to the face of Johannes, and he offered to see Katy home, in order to visit the injured boy.

"So how serious are his wounds?" asked Johannes.

"Not too much. It's only bruises," answered Katy. "The pig attacked the boy and is biting his flesh in shoulder, but didn't touched the bones inside. I think boy spent some too much energy. He need some rest."

The house where Katy lived with Flycatcher was a small run-down cottage, which stood at the edge of the de Villiers estate. Johannes bent down at the front door, and stepped into the darkness of the little house. Inside the dwelling were only two beds, with a folding screen between. The lowly possessions of the occupants were evidently all housed in a small chest, which served also as a table. There were no chairs in the room so Johannes seated himself on the edge of the sickbed where the wounded Flycatcher lay.

"So why couldn't you ask for my rifle?" enquired Johannes. "Show me the weapon you used to kill the pig?"

Flycatcher extracted from under the bed a handmade knife of medium size. For handle, the weapon had a cloth wrapped straight round the metal blade. Now the material was a dirty brown, soaked with the blood of the two combatants.

Johannes shook his head.

"You were very lucky," he said. "Not even a professional would have been able to slaughter a pig with this kind of thing."

Flycatcher's eyes lit up with excitement, but he did not wish to discuss the matter of luck, for his mind was occupied with another idea.

"Is it true?" he asked. "I can sometimes shoot with your rifle?"

"Absolute truth," confirmed Johannes. "I hope you know how to use it!"

An embarrassed look came over the face of Flycatcher.

"Don't you worry," laughed Johannes, "I will teach you that very quickly."

As a bullet, the boy fired himself out of the bed, opened the table-chest, and began to pull on the trousers he had snatched out.

"Where on earth are you going?" asked Johannes.

"To learn how to shoot!"

"No, no, no, my friend," Johannes stopped him, "that is not how things are done. Today and tomorrow you will lie in bed. Only on this condition will I give you shooting lessons."

With a great sigh, realising that it was useless to argue, Flycatcher returned to his bed. Johannes exchanged mirthful glances with Katy, put his hand into the pocket of his Sundaybest, and extracted from it his mouth organ. For the next half-hour, beautiful sounds of unusual melodies filled the cottage, to the great delight of the listeners.

When he had finished playing, Johannes asked Flycatcher gaily:

"So I hear that you criticise my labyrinths in public? You have, one could say, a permanent job with me, and should defend my interests."

"I'm in charge of the chameleon," responded Flycatcher. "That's all I have to do. I never climb into someone else's conversation. It was Cornelia. She kept on bullying me. How's my lizard, anyway?"

"It's fine!"

"You must give it some sun," recommended Flycatcher. "Lizards like to be warm. You know why black people don't like chameleons? I can tell you the real story!."

"If you please."

"A long, long time ago, all people on earth were black," began Flycatcher, his eyes lighting up. "They were divided into different tribes and spoke different languages. You remember the Tower of Babel, and all that stuff?"

Johannes and Katy nodded their heads.

"God wanted to change the way the people looked," continued Flycatcher, "and He decided to make them white. So He created a big lake out of water could change black skin into white. God didn't want to talk to the ungrateful people himself, so He sent a message by different animals to the different tribes. It was called the Ablution. All the people got invited. The animals went off in different directions and soon crowds of people began to arrive at the lake. Most of them washed themselves and became white. But then the water in the lake got shallower and shallower. Unfortunately, the messenger sent to our black people was a slow, slow chameleon. At last the African tribes arrived at the magic lake. But by then all the water was used up by the people who came with faster messengers. Only a small puddle was left. They could wash only their hands and under their feet. So those people stayed black. Only their palms and soles became white. And all of them since then hate the chameleon for being so slow. Because he caused their bad luck."

"Oh Flycatcher," laughed Johannes again, "you have queer beliefs. A good half of them are pagan! In your opinion, Adam and Eve gave birth to black tribes which subsequently were cleansed. So you mean that Eve was black?"

"Goes without saying, black she was!" answered Flycatcher. "Otherwise she wouldn't have stolen apples which were not intended for her. And after the act of Ablution, it doesn't matter what you were before. After baptism, everyone becomes a changed person."

"So tell me," enquired Johannes, "if all whites went through the Ablution, then why are they still fighting each other? How is it they did not become changed persons?"

"They did change," explained Flycatcher. "But they didn't understand it. Only since then, little by little. They are beginning to understand what they've got. And all in their own time. Everyone has his own time. One day it will come to you also."

"No Flycatcher," objected Johannes, "here I can't agree with you. Nothing has changed. As it was before, so it is now - Man is wolf to Man."

"Johannes!" Katy interjected. "You must be shamed to teach the small child such doubtful things!"

"Child!" exclaimed Johannes. "Nice child indeed! Killed the pig with this knife! Believe me Katy, we ourselves have many things to learn from him. But I'm sure that our Flycatcher would also be curious to learn a few things from us. You, my friend, mentioned the Tower of Babel, but do you know that in Africa there is a place where you can find real towers?"

Johannes proceeded to tell Flycatcher the story of the building of the Egyptian pyramids. He began with what was familiar to the boy - biblical Egyptians - and completed his narration, which lasted for quite a while, with the words:

"And no one knows how those hundreds of thousands of huge blocks of stone were hewn out and moved, in building those majestic pyramids."

Flycatcher gave Johannes a sarcastic stare.

"What do you think," he asked. "If every single Boer had to cut out one block. All his lifetime just one block? Of course on condition he would be made free from the English. I think an Afrikaner would cut a block quite easily. Maybe he wouldn't even need his whole lifetime. One year would be enough. And if he needed to do the same for his son, he would do it. To free him also. Just count how many blocks of stone could be made in the whole country!

"So it was the same in Egypt. Probably the inhabitants of the country were buying themselves freedom from the pharaoh."

"And what about delivery?" enquired Johannes. "The lifting of such monstrous objects? How do you explain that?"

Now came Flycatcher's turn to laugh.

"Talking with you, I'm sure you've never in your life seen forty oxen dragging a wagon over Cradock's Pass!"

How long can I wait for that contrary Pin King? Eternity? Maybe I should not wait at all? He doesn't bring me food any more. Now they feed me only pills. So, there is nothing for him to do here. THEY have taken his place! Ahead of everyone is Meisie "I", behind her Pin King. After these, they lead van der Perdekrag's dog on a leash under her ineluctable instructions.

They've brought the dog into my room for a walk! So stupid! This is a hunting hound, so it hunts for a hoender or a hind... food, so to speak. It's always hungry like Pin King. The only difference is in the tail, and in the fancy to walk on all fours.

"To what do I owe this honour? Such an early, but, I must say, long-awaited visit?"

Apparently, according to the scientific research of some young Dutch people, dogs can speak... Well, they want to teach this particular hound to speak. To speak without words. They have brought a professor in this field to give lessons. Hi doggie! The most important thing is that literature should not be allowed to escape from our lives. Although, I certainly have to admit, literary heroes, in their majority, end up quite badly. Your predecessor in this room, the kitty cat, played the role of a pussy's head in the spirit of Lewis Carroll's Cheshire cat. It was so convincing that since then Cherry has been all dressed up in the black petals of mourning flowers, and Waxy is all white in the shops, even after cleaning black boots.

Has literature not yet escaped?

The hound wagged his tail as a sign of approval. His belly has muttered a word. Ventriloquous tummy! Speaks Caphrogenius. The Dutch have not understood anything. But I have!

"Eradicate the doggie-cat racial discrimination, WOOF!"

Those who did not understand, reacted violently. Pin King kicked the dog's ventriloquous stomach with his sharp-toed boot! Yogh, from underneath!

"Greetings from Peking! Why, bitch, are you silent?"

Aha! The bitch is a hound! The murmur from the ventriloquous stomach is not considered to be a phrase.

"Gluh-gluh!" doesn't count -

We are science-hounds!

The cherries reap blackness in spring

Such a scary amount

Please learn how to bind

The days, or you'll be first to leave.

Another dextrous kick! Dirty hair hung to the ground! It hides away dirty legs, it hides away pain. Pain and dirt are ugly twins? Not at all! Applauds! Gestures and grimaces. A poodle flies through a hoop, powder flies from the cuffs. Neon zigzags on brocade clothes. The zigzags were probably sent by fish-scientists, from their aquarium, in order to pay off those tedious tamers.

The strength of science is in experiment. The strength of bitches is in excrement. Is that disgusting? Well, scientists like it. I myself have heard doctors say on TV:

"A fine tumour!"

"A surprising episteme!"

"Not often you see such remarkable wound!!!"

"What a delightfully ugly creature!"

Could it really be that all medical discoveries are beautiful?

Inflamed plague lumps under the armpits, covered with the fine coloured spots of ulcers; toes cut off with bright streams of red neon blood gushing down.

"Can you see the beauty of it, Shiva?"

And what about the pain? What can we say of the pain? Is that beautiful too? Well, the doctor is not the one who hurts. Not everyone has a talent for understanding soreness. The patient can sit in full ignorance of the beauty of pain; he can go to hell with his deliberate failure to understand the grandeur of pain.

Yes, Shiva, you can do with me what you want. You may well become my shadow tomorrow. You can break my fingers, rip off my skin. We should part, but we are so alike. There is not only fear in your pupils, but also someone else's pain. My pain. You torment me, but you hurt yourself! So remember that. Pick up the leaves of my feelings and store them away as a herbarium. We, like that speechless dog, have told each other all, without any words.

As a memento of our conversations, I give you my haemorrhoids! But please, do not die, or I'll have to do the same. You will certainly go straight to Paradise... but I do not think that I can follow.

Hey you, young Dutch scientists! Don't you think that the growth on one side of my polished black body - African Shiva, is quite outstanding? Don't you agree that the cancerous tumour on my other side, white from the leprosy of time, European Vanessa, is quite striking?

Meanwhile, around us, the African fauna is so rich! Sometimes Pin King brings kitty, sometimes Meisie "I" carries in her little dog. Nowadays, no one can be definite about the increasing number of discoveries! They even found horned dogs. It appears that in dogs this occurs as often as Japanese shoe-horns. The Dutch discovered the Japanese for Europe. Then the Dutch went to discover America. After that they returned from America and the Japanese were blown up!

But our African Dutch are good, they look after black legs as well as they look after white ones. On our black fingers they apply a white bandage! Treatment of the past using scientific methods.

Hey, you young scientists, look - the bitch wants to go out! Do you know the road? Well then, advance your knowledge. Knowledge is power! Pity that the empty ventriloquous stomach mutters... wants to communicate so badly... Wouldn't it be nice to throw up after them a mass of half digested beauty?

Red Ink

Well, well here we go again - in the diary, the twentieth century has bared its teeth. The Japanese blown to smithereens. Hiroshima and Nagasaki - dead twins... the twentieth century as a source of a pain and fear?

It looks as if I have hit the nail on the head with my diagnosis.

That merry conversation between Johannes and Flycatcher was interrupted by Katy, who apologised, saying that she had to carry out some small task in the main building. Johannes got up to leave with her, wishing the boy a speedy recovery.

When they left the cottage, Katy made her way towards her task, but Johannes stopped her.

"Katy," he said, narrowing his eyes so as not to show the swirl of orange sparks that danced in them. "Yesterday, during the party at the doctor's, I asked Cornelia whether I could borrow you for one day. My house needs a little cleaning, but my hosts are in deep mourning, and I don't want to bother them with petty reminders of myself."

Katy looked at Johannes much surprised, and after a short pause, asked:

"But why you saying that now? You have so much time to say me about it before."

"I didn't want to agitate Flycatcher," answered Johannes. "He is so possessive of you, and wants to keep you away from the whole world."

Without questioning further, Katy followed Johannes. When at last they arrived at the house, Johannes first of all offered her a seat at the table.

"Where you want me to start tidy?" asked Katy.

"Don't you hurry," answered Johannes, "first take a good rest. Because also, I intended asking you a couple of things. Should we have a little wine?"

With these words, he opened a large Dutch armoire, and produced from it a bottle and two ample glasses. Katy's back, straight as a taut string, became even straighter.

"No thank you," she responded. "Let me to start cleaning. I'm in great hurry, and also, I have to feed boy as well."

Johannes seated himself at the table next to Katy.

"Better that you agree," said Johannes with an unpleasant smile, "to join in this little get-together with me. Otherwise I will start asking why a woman, Swedish by birth, could not recognize one single Swedish melody that I played on the mouth organ today?"

Katy laughed. A strange vulgarity sounded in her laughter.

"All right! Why not have a drink, if invited by such gentleman like you?" she agreed.

Having drained the first glass, the table-companions charged a second. The conversation assumed a tipsy familiarity.

"It's very strange what you spend your time with me," Katy declared coquettishly. "I can see that you will be more willing spend time with Cornelia. But it's very pleasant to know you can notice another womans as well."

At first Johannes pretended indignation at this charge, but after a while, he admitted:

"Oh yes, I don't mind courting Cornelia, but it would have been a mistake to pin my hopes on one woman only. The most important thing, when one has a relationship with a woman, is not to forget that there are many other beautiful women around."

With these words, Johannes gently clasped Katy round the waist. Katy laughed buoyantly and her face flushed. By contrast, her eyes were more sober and intent than ever.

"No, but you just tell me," asked Johannes, looking into those eyes, "of which nationality do the women drink without getting drunk?"

"Swedes," Katy burst out laughing.

"What?" rejoined Johannes. "Do you want me to set another musical test?"

"No, I not very good judge at music. Let's better dance."

Katy grabbed Johannes by the hand and dragged him to the middle of the room. There she began to whirl and spin with him in a dance, singing for accompaniment. She peered frivolously into her partner's eyes, and pressed him to her breast more firmly than allowed by the rules of propriety.

Johannes whispered into Katy's ear:

"So what was your vocation in Sweden?"

"Oh, the same, the same!" Katy sang back. "I been servant as well."

"So tell me," persisted Johannes, "are all Swedish servants acquainted with Latin? Today I told Flycatcher in Latin: 'Homo Homini lupus est - Man is wolf to Man'. Flycatcher did not understand me. But you ... you reacted to that phrase."

Katy froze, and tore herself from Johannes' arms.

"I go home now," she said sternly. "I can see you don't need from woman nothing besides nationality and education."

"All right, go ahead!" retorted Johannes. "Only when, in the end, you find a position with the family of an English officer, I will reveal all that I know about you, to the members of that family."

Katy lowered herself back onto a chair, and was silent for a long time, looking at Johannes. On her angry pale face, there was no trace of intoxication.

At last she asked rather coldly:

"You been laughing in church because you recognized Herman is member of Boer commandos. Isn't it? And now you will give him up, in order to take his place near Cornelia."

"Lucky guess," admitted Johannes. "Apparently so. I will sell him out for exactly that reason. But you should not worry. I will not harm you. Although I think you have come to spy for the Transvaal. Russian by nationality, as your drinking skills are well developed. And then, in the church, I noticed you crossed yourself with pinched fingers, in the Orthodox manner. Anyway it matters nothing to me."

"Of course you will not hurt me," mocked Katy. "Just you will ask me to perform some kind of favours. Isn't it?"

"Oh yes," replied Johannes, "but not that kind which you were prepared to offer me just now, in order to tame me."

"Oh," sighed Katy, "I will prefer that kind of favours to what you will ask me."

"You may find consolation in this," said Johannes. "All my claims are of a purely personal nature, and you will not have to compromise your duties by helping me."

"All recruiting agents are speaking like this. I'm sure you're familiar with that, aren't you?"

"Well," replied Johannes, "let me gain your trust by exposing something of my own circumstances, and arming you against myself. I recognized Herman in the church because I myself was a member of the group that fought not far from his commando. He did not identify me in turn, because then I wore a beard and went by a different name. My military past is over now. And neither am I your comrade in profession. So what you know about me now is enough to keep me in your power."

"Everything can be lie," said Katy. "From first word to the last. I am exposed. So now to use me more you create a past which compromise you - too much compromise, in my opinion - in order to win my trust. Better arrest me now, before I kill you!"

"Oh, what a suspicious mind," exclaimed Johannes. "Amazing, considering your profession. Why do you want to kill your friend? Although I stand a little aside now, I sympathise deeply with the Republic. With my growing connections among the locals, I will try to recommend you for service wherever you wish. Will that convince you?"

"I don't have a choice. I have to co-exist with you," answered Katy. "Not trust you, notice it. But just co-exist. And don't confuse yourself by your non-existing neutrality. From this moment you again took our side, and you must understand well what happens with traitors."

"That is very well," rejoined Johannes, "that at last we've found common ground. By the way, let me ask you, why did you shelter Flycatcher - to make yourself more credible?"

"I'm come here not for sake of money," returned Katy. "I came to Africa in order to help such boys like Flycatcher. Or maybe you deny fact of existence of heart in my breast?"

"No," replied Johannes. "I ask simply because your heart must have been burdened with some unhappy experience in life, judging from your prematurely grey hair. People of your qualities don't usually rely on emotions, and I'm glad that in this case it's not so. Otherwise you could not have fooled Flycatcher. Go home now. The boy really needs your attention."

When Katy had gone, Johannes was left alone with his thoughts:

"The probability of my guess-work being right was so small... And I hit one hundred out of a hundred. But what if Katy herself hits the mark as well as I have done?"

Johannes did not spend more time on his thoughts. His plans for the day were far from over. Changing clothes and shouldering his rifle, he hurried in the direction of the mountain slope on his familiar path.

***

Not even on Sundays did Cornelia make an exception for taking her daily ride. Moving along her customary route this Sunday, she came alongside the suicide cliff. Suddenly, above the cliff appeared the figure of a tall man. The man raised a long rifle above his head, and fired a shot into the air. Then he began to descend the rock.

"How dare you make such a malicious joke?" shouted Cornelia, immediately recognizing this tall figure to be Johannes.

"That was not a joke!" responded Johannes as he approached her. "With this gesture, and with the choice of this place, I have shown you the seriousness of my intentions. Tell me, Cornelia, if anything should happen relating to Herman, could I ever count on taking his place near you?"

The young lady, having earlier noticed the interest Johannes took in herself, was not taken aback by this question. She was surprised only by the speed with which events were developing. The acquisition of such a persistent suitor was not in her plans for the present.

"How can you even think about such things," exclaimed Cornelia, "when it is just two weeks to my wedding with Herman? And what on earth do you mean by happen to him? How can I discuss a supposition of such an absurd kind? I love my fiancИ, and to lose him would be for me a tragedy of such scale that I would not then give the slightest thought to your existence."

"I would never have begun to play with your feelings on the memory of the unfortunate wretch Marius, if there had been more time between his death and your engagement to Herman. But it was such a pitiable span of time! This is what my appearance here symbolises, on Marius' cliff."

"Why do you frighten me?" enquired Cornelia. "What is threatening Herman?"

"Nothing for now," replied Johannes. "I simply came here to tell you that if, for any reason, your wedding does not take place through the fault of Herman, do not lose your head, and know that you have a real friend in me."

"I trust in the strength of Herman's feelings, as I believe in the strength of these rocks," declared Cornelia. "As for your part, your words seem to me not words that come from a friend, but rather from a wooer, who in addition is not over-scrupulous in his means. So, please take note that after today's scurvy trick I have lost all interest in you. So try not to appear accidentally in my path again."

Cornelia slapped her horse and moved forward. But behind her still rang the voice of Johannes:

"Remember, I am always ready to give you a hand, if such a need arises."

This short exchange occurred between the inner worlds of Cornelia and Johannes, though the manner of speech belonged more to the outer personality of each. The entire encounter could well have enjoyed for its caption the proverb that once flashed through the mind of Cornelia: It's hard to find a black cat in a dark room, particularly if it's not there.

Well, Shiva, shall we play? Here is a child's poem:

"One, two, three, four, five, I will take a giant dive"... Wait a minute! How can it be five? If there's only two of us... Oh, well, doesn't really matter! We can go even further:

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, all good children go to Heaven... And do not blame me, if they will get you!"

Haven't you got it yet - war has been declared on all of us? And in wartime, even more amazing things happen, with even greater increases in numbers. Before we (the African Caphrogenius) broke away from Europe, we were one continent - Gondwanaland. First we were divided into two, then into six parts. When first war began, there were only two belligerent parties: European Rome and African Caphro-gene. Back then, the world looked like two of us - you, Shiva, and me. Two coloured fighters with one pair of legs. One leg stood in Europe, the other in Africa. Well, Shiva, shall we fight just to give an illustration?

- It's too late and too sad to be with you. Please don't stop my breath!

- I shall discolour your eyes, I shall strip your identity!

- I do hate you! I will be the whole, and you will be my stitched half, and we shall be friends! Just like that.

And when our last war erupted, the one at the end of the nineteenth century, one could see by then already ninety countries ready to be counted. Half of them, please note forty five of them, in Europe.

And what now? Behind the window of this room lie two hundred and seventy countries!!! However, Europe still comprises forty five of them. Outside Europe everything has doubled, like double you and me, but in Rome all stands in the same place. Though, affairs there are going pretty briskly, judging from the tales told on TV. Affairs with explosions!

In all probability, the world is pretty similar to us. It has a multiplying essence - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven... And that essence stands on two stable and firm European legs, which (of course, if one believes in television tales), friend trips up friend: Russia and Germany. And in the educated upper Anglo-Dutch European society, it's totally improper to talk about these brawny black calloused legs. Although the whole world waits in horror - what would happen if that one leg should hook the other?

Yes, Shiva, just as you and I clasp and trip one another. Everyone has this same image - Colossus on clay legs. So, let us too act as if everything beneath us is all right. What's the point of screaming and shouting about one little cut-off toe? Nothing to worry about if a pair of legs spreads that European dirt and blood all around the floor! As far as the actual parquet blocks are concerned, they were not upset... as there were forty five of them at the beginning, so they remained forty five till the end! The blocks withstood the pressure of the blood! It's only you, Shiva, and me, that began to multiply overboard! Probably it was Rotkod who sprinkled us with a special fertilizer from Europe. We - Africans - were to be treated, sorted out, dealt with in that fashion. Shiva, we'll never give in! We'll continue to count: one, two, one, two... And these clay legs must also obey us: one, two, one, two! Hey, legs, you have to learn how to obey! If you haven't managed to grow your own heads and go to war with each other, using muscles for brains, then you're obliged to listen. I will not wait till you come upstairs to us, I command you with my spiritual parting words:

One, two! One, two! Off you go... on campaign!

We, properly educated Dutch and Englishmen, properly grafted to the African tree of life, do not need to get ourselves dirty with this Russian-German lame walk of becoming victims. Quite the opposite - when we are on a break from the war, we play cricket rather than smoke people in ovens. Even if there is nothing, absolutely nothing in a room that could be used to keep the fire going.

"Tell me, Shiva, in which hand do you hold a cricket ball?"

If our opposition knows which one of our two heads holds the ball, it would be easy for them to guess in which of our four hands it actually is.

You've convinced me. Let us dress ourselves with something from the wardrobe of the latest international history. I'll adorn myself in a suit of a Chinese name. Here in our room Meisie "I" has decided to clean up. Without a doubt, she is Rotkod's spy. What else could she be?

Hey you, do not touch the crushed packaging for pills that lies on the floor! I'm the one who tells you not to! The Great Vanessa Fumanchu, future Empress of the Celestial Trading Empire. Because, in our Celestial, there are too many tablets now... and not enough of the packaging!

Well, that was obviously was said by my ventriloquous stomach. In any case, why should we start offending hired spies? Do you really think it's from leading a good life they resorted to spying? But I must say, I have a soft spot for them in my heart, maybe because just like me, they lead a double life. Such accomplished, complete figures!

Unfortunately, not all spies understand ventriloquism, but only double agents. Most ordinary agents would regard my gift as a simple signal of physiological hunger. "It would be impossible to take notice of all that mumble-burble of the black-and-white Chinese woman's guts!"

The moral of the story is, never confuse noises in your stomach with the noises in the stomach of history. Of course there would be a message. However, it is not addressed to you. To whom would it be addressed? Well, to no one!

The double-headed Russian eagle has fought with the single-headed German eagle. Clearly, the double-headed one has triumphed. However, the two heads of the Russian bird did not stop there, but turned against one another. They fought between themselves over where to fly - to China or to Holland? So, they broke themselves into two halves. Obviously, not completely! One cannot break twins! Right, Shiva? So the eagle's heads recovered a little, and began to fight again in the same fashion with their single-headed neighbour. The most usual routine! Cannot call it a war, though a dirty enough business with plenty of noise and bird crap! The double headed bird messed the whole of Europe with its clay chicken legs. What a fancy way! Russians even have a fairy tale - in their dreamland there is a hut on chicken legs. One would think it would be better to have these legs attached to a normal body with a head! Well what can you do with a dream? It would be like Shiva and I reconciling our heads through creating some sort of rules in an eternal food challenge. Well, we have not yet found a solution for that, so it's not surprising that Shiva and I pay no attention to your affairs. A message from a stomach we can read quite easily. Oh, Rotkod, you have very talkative tablets! I declare my war on England, Holland, China and on Caphrogenius in person! The message from the stomach is read and understood! That is why we will not fight with each other. Instead, with one head we shall admire the narrow depths of the East, and with other, the petty broadness of the West.

Red Ink

Back to square one... It was not the wars - those twentieth century monsters - that put Rat King off. No, there was something else.

Though for the first time I can see a common topic for Shiva and Vanessa: Russia. However, the weight of this new factor is not worth mentioning. In the Anglo-Boer war Russia played an insignificant role. The intelligent Shiva would have known that.

Vanessa, on the other hand... she simply relegated wars and revolutions to the actions of a skunk in a henhouse - a lot of dust and bluster, but the chickens are still the chickens. Well, maybe forty three instead of forty four. In any case, Vanessa couldn't be bothered less. No one ever fed her poultry.

No, Stitcher spurned the twentieth century for other reasons!

Part Two

Intrigue

"Bushfire, and a miraculous escape."

The story of Dr O'Hara in the Northern Transvaal, as told to Flycatcher.

"I see, young lad, that you follow the bleak example of the majority of grown-ups, and speak ill of your black brethren. Perhaps an ugly street-life, samples of which you have before your eyes every day, is the origin of your opinion about the indigenous peoples of the continent. So, do you mind if I tell you about an incident which happened to me a couple of years back, in the African bushveld? Perhaps it will help you to look on things from a different perspective.

"Once, I accompanied, as the doctor, a cartographic expedition in the north of the Transvaal. On one of our regular stops, I went out on horseback to do some hunting. We had encamped on the banks of a small stream. Setting out alone through not very dense bush, I did not worry about not finding my way back. The wind was blowing from behind me, and I knew when I turned against it, sooner or later I would come across our stream again and would find the camp. Moving slowly through the bushveld, I saw plenty of antelope spoor. I was looking out for fresh tracks, and was so engaged in this activity that I did not notice the agitated behaviour of birds which occupied the bushes in great numbers. And by St. Patrick, I should have done so!"

Flycatcher nodded. While the tale of Dr O'Hara droned on in the background, he was more occupied with topping up his supply of flies intended for the chameleon. Ignoring the pain in his body, and unheedful of Dr O'Hara's reproachful glances, he hunted. The flies had to be delivered alive, intact, in good physical condition. This required a certain skill in the capturing.

"Only when my horse began to snort, raise his head, and cock his ears in alarm, only then did I stop and open my eyes to something other than spoor. I made an unpleasant discovery. The side of the horizon where I'd come from was curling with grey smoke, which could indicate nothing else but the start of a bushfire. I turned my horse and urged it back at the greatest possible speed, guessing that the fire had sprung up from behind our camp, on the other side of the stream. To my horror, I soon discovered that I could move no further, as the smoke thickened with every pace, and most likely the flames had cut off my path to the camp. And moreover, the fire was moving towards me with incredible speed. Again I turned my horse, and rushed it more to the left, surmising that I could round the front of the fire, and then return to the stream.

"I did not gallop for long. Herds of panic-stricken impala dashed towards me, indicating that the left side was already in the possession of the inferno. At this point I began to panic myself. Instead of keeping to the direction in which I started out in tracking game, now I darted back, parallel to the front of the fire. The idea that possessed me now was to attempt to skirt the fire, this time on the right. Clearly my horse did not share with me the hope of rounding this scorching fire, because with a wheeze, it began to jib, and would not submit to my blows and shouts. Maddened by the thick smoke and my attempts to urge it on, my horse began to spin around and to rear up. Of course, this led to me completely losing my bearings, and not knowing in which direction lay safety."

Flycatcher stole up to a fat fly, which sat on the wall just above his bed. He placed his open palm gently against the wall, and stealthily drew it closer and closer to the insect. When the fly sat up to eye the approaching danger, already it was too late - the hand flew deftly over the trajectory of escape, imprisoning the fly in a closed fist.

"The animal under me used my disarray to its advantage, and threw me to the ground. I was stunned by the jolt, and did not even note which way the horse galloped off. And this could have been so helpful at that moment! Just imagine my feeling then. Lungs chock full, from the poisonous clouds of smoke.

"Then came the soot, which in its devil's whirl folded into lacey patterns against a white, smoky infinity. As if an evil magician was painting on a canvas primed with smoke, by scattering in black ink a multitude of tiny stars swirling in eddies. Oh, how at that moment I hated that vile creature, the magician artist.

"I was still alive when my fading consciousness began to form out of the burnt bushes surrounding me, figures of ghostly monsters, who stretched their hands towards me. One of them was particularly hideous. This monster was completely charred, and robed in an eyeless hood, like those of the mediaeval Grim Reaper - the corpse-gatherers in towns affected by the plague. This ghost caught hold of my legs and arms. His touches burnt and suffocated me. He dragged me to the unknown, and growled some obscure incantation. My consciousness was dim, but to my surprise did not leave me entirely. Moreover, after a short while, I could breathe more easily, and the bewitching mumble of the phantom began to take the shape of words: 'Wait a little, Baas. Just a little more. Be patient, Baas.'"

Catching flies presented no difficulties to Flycatcher. The real challenge lay in not letting the prey escape while the chameleon was feeding. The easiest way of course, was to separate the victim from its wings. But exactly this, for some strange reason, he could not bring himself to do.

"I found myself dangling from the shoulder of a man who was wrapped in almost burnt, empty bags. This improvised protection covered his face and arms, and was fastened on top by untidy loops of string. Only by the familiar clothing underneath did I recognize this man as the Bushman who was our ox-driver. His nickname was Charcoal.

"When I recovered my ability to think straight, I freed Charcoal, exhausted under me, and began to pace next to him without assistance. I don't know how long our run lasted, but in the end, when we reached the camp, I learned what had happened there during my absence.

"The fire was caused through the carelessness of our servants. The camp was out of danger, as a strong wind turned the flames away from the river. All the expedition were alarmed about my situation, but after a while conjectured that, because I was on a horse I could escape the flames, and would return safely. Of course it was another story when they saw my foamy horse gallop into the camp. My friends and comrades concluded that for sure I had perished.

"All my friends, but not the Bushman Charcoal. He tore down five empty bags from the side of an ox-wagon, and covered himself in these. Then he demanded a few buckets of river water to be showered over him, and rushed into the burning bushveld, following the tracks of my horse. This undertaking was real suicide on his part. How could this Bushman make out the tracks in this mass of writhing ash? How did he not die crossing the barrier of flames? How could it happen that my horse threw me off exactly on the spot where my tracks crossed? I don't know. I know only one thing. This Bushman ran to save me because a while ago as a doctor I rendered a little service to him: amputated his badly injured little toe. This was the only thing connecting me with him."

Meanwhile Flycatcher had caught another fly. By means of a small lump of damp bread, he glued the wings of this newly caught fly to those of the other, already awaiting its destiny, attached to the wall by similar means. So in this way the insects formed a dainty pair of actively moving, but not mobile, creatures. In their dance, these Siamese twins were reminiscent of the two-sided Johannes.

Flycatcher accomplished his task, and grunted with satisfaction on inspecting the well-matched brace. Then he placed the fruits of his work into a box specially prepared for the purpose.

"When half dead we finally reached the camp, one of the sergeants of the expedition came close to my rescuer Bushman and said: 'You received your nickname Charcoal not for nothing. Look at you now, dirty Kaffir. You crawl through the fire so deftly. You probably wouldn't burn, not even in hell!'

"Although I was in pretty bad shape at that moment, I had enough strength to strike that bloody sergeant in the face with my fist.

"Now you judge for yourself, son, how many in our white midst would have accomplished such a feat of recklessness, bravery and selflessness, dashing through the middle of burning hell.

"Unfortunately it's too late for me to educate grown-ups, but you are still a little boy, and when you grow up, you will inherit the land. Try to see in all people around you your neighbour that thou shalt love as thyself, regardless of the colour of his skin and the language he speaks."

During this long monologue, Dr O'Hara sneezed incessantly and blew his nose, in the grip of a cold. When he had finished his story, Flycatcher looked at him attentively.

"You have come to a sick-bed," he concluded, "but I can see you yourself are not well. Thank you so much. Today I've gained a lot of useful things," he said, peeking inside the precious box.

Semi-combustion of Peking.

A truthful story of semi-Chinese origin.

Well, children, it just so happens that the majority of data in the world around us is received from within our bowels. Listen carefully. Perhaps it can help you observe things from a different angle. Let me recall what we read with Shiva about wars. To prepare ourselves theoretically. Obviously, Shiva has read more than I have. Particularly literature based on real events. I've read a little too, but that was more of the fairytale kind. That's why there was such confusion in our combined army.

Hey, Pin King, can you see the difference between an invented story and the stuff based on real sources? I cannot!

Before us there are two documents:

The first one is the history of our illness, surely an example of a well-documented story. It had been forgotten in our room by the poor bungler Doctor Rotkod. The second is the Arabian fairytale book of the Thousand-and-One Nights - clearly a literary work of fiction.

When Shiva had read the history of our illness, she laughed so loud that I was afraid that her half would come loose from our common body. I would think the African presidents would laugh like that, when they read their own autobiographies written by their literary subordinates and assistants. And that is the most readable and truthful kind of literature found amongst people!

In the book of the Thousand-and-One Nights, one tale describes the fifth travel of Sinbad the Sailor. Here is what I read:

"I came upon an old man who appeared very weak and infirm. He was sitting on the bank of a stream, and at first I took him to be one who had been shipwrecked like myself. I went toward him and saluted him, but he only slightly bowed his head. I asked him why he sat so still, but instead of answering me, he made a sign for me to take him upon my back, and carry him over the brook. I believed him really to be in need of my assistance. So I took him upon my back and having carried him over, bade him get down, and for that end stooped, that he might get off with ease. But instead of doing so the old man, who appeared quite decrepit, clasped his legs firmly around my neck, so tightly that I swooned. I looked at his legs and saw that they were black and rigid, like a buffalo's skin. And I was frightened and wanted to get rid of the old man, but he began to oppress me so the world turned black before my eyes, and I lost consciousness and fell to the ground as dead. And the old man thrust one of his feet against my stomach, and struck me so rudely on the side with the other, that he forced me to rise up against my will. Having arisen, he made me walk, continuing to strike me. He never left me all day, and when I lay down to rest at night, laid himself down with me, holding always fast about my neck. Every morning he pushed me to make me wake up, and afterward obliged me to get up and walk, and pressed me with his feet. You may judge, then, what trouble I was in, to be loaded with such a burden of which I could not rid myself. And I lived thus, feeling tired and weary, saying to myself: "I've done a good deed for this fellow and my good turned on me with evil. I swear, never again in my life will I do a good deed for anyone!"

Well, well, well, Shiva, why don't you laugh at this ridiculous fiction? Or do you feel a morbid breath of truth in this lovely fairytale? What can we do? We are planning to fight a war, yet we cannot tell apart a literary fable and valid counsel. Sure, let us rely on luck! Rely on the opinion of a stranger. Rely on the rascal stranger Pin King who passes through our room!

Let's say we agree that it's silly to analyze the first Afro-European war. Without a doubt, everything there is a lie. A trumped-up story in both senses - in its historical sources and as a historical novella of recent literature. A kid's bedtime story about Hannibal and his favourite elephant.

But, about the last war, Shiva knows everything. I read her Flycatcher with huge interest. However, there were other Afro-European wars with their own chronicles. For example: the conquest of Spanish Andalusia by the deputy of the African Maghreb, emir Musoi ibn Nosier. That was not so long ago - 705 to 715 AD - at Caliph Al-Walid ibn Abd al-Malik in the time of Umayyad Dynasty.

Nevertheless, first we shall check up on Pin King's instincts. We shall hand him two documents: one historical, the other fabricated by us. Interesting. What will he find out? Is simplicity a mark of wisdom or of idiocy?

Please, Pin King, stop chasing flies and read these two pieces of paper!

Document N 1.

"After the Creation of the Word: You, who have reached these lands! Learn to see the falseness of time and the impact of accidental occurrences! Do not allow yourself to be fooled by life with its futile pleasures, sweet lies, captivating scandals, enthralling treachery, charming accessories and other garnishments. Life is flattering, artful, and deceptive and all that it has is ephemeral. Life confiscates from the borrower that which is borrowed. Life is like the beam of visions in a sleeping man, and like the rainbow of dreams in a dreaming man. It is like a mirage in the desert, which a thirsty man takes for water. It is all an adornment, till death puts an end to the person's existence.

"So, such are the properties of terrestrial life; do not trust it and do not depend on it: life deceives those who lean on it, and crashes those who arrange their affairs relying on it. Do not be caught by its trap and do not snag on its fringes. I had four thousand warm-blooded chestnut horses and lived in a palace. I married one thousand maidens of royal blood, full-chested beauties with the comely paleness of the moon, and I had one thousand sons who looked like fearless lions. And I have lived one thousand years, luxuriating my mind and my heart. I have gathered money, more than all kings, tsars and emperors could ever accumulate, and I thought my happiness would last forever. But hardly had I time to enjoy the gain, before Lady Separation and Lady Eradication of Assemblies descended upon us. They devastated homes and destroyed inhabited places, shattering large and small, children, sons and mothers. We lived in the palace peacefully, until the verdict of the Lord of the Worlds, Sir of Heavens and Master of the Grounds reached us, and a cry of undeniable truth smote us. And then we began to die. Two of us each day, until a great number were lost. And when I'd seen that death had entered our houses and lodged itself, sweeping us in a wave of destruction, I called a writer and ordered him to write after me these lines of reproach and exhortation. I inscribed those lines into a circle and engraved them on gates, boards and tombs...

"Also, I said - bring me money! They obeyed. And when this was done, I asked them whether they could save me with all this money and buy for me just one day, which I could live through. And they could not do it, so they surrendered to fate and to providence, and I accepted this verdict and test, until the Master of my soul took me and lodged me in this room!"

Document N 2.

"Once upon a time I accompanied a group of tourists to an African village. We were invited to a Zulu feast. The Zulus drank a Zulu-beer, and seized the tables in large numbers. Cleaned up the tables in their numbers!

"I made a surprising discovery. That part of the roasted pferde (a camel in Caphrogenius) which I chose, appeared slightly burnt. So, I turned and began to make my way towards the pferde's unspoiled parts. Its flesh shook under the force of the Zulus' clutches. Then suddenly the belly opened and spouted steam. Through the haze one could distinctly read the letters "E U R E K A". I almost choked from the overcooked pferde. An idea began to burn within me. My ventriloquous gut cried and shouted. From black eggs hatch black children! Through the clouds of Eureka I saw what the pferde was stuffed with. Inside of it was a ram. Hidden in the ram, a turkey. In the turkey there was a turtle, black with soot. And on that turtle the Earth stood! Inside of it black eggs from which hatch black children. All the white flesh of the pferde-incubator had been eaten up, gobbled up. We were not getting any of that, for sure. I was in rather disgusting shape at that moment. Just as well that a Chinese tourist happened to be nearby. He shoved his fist into a hole in the pferde, sealing it up. He said that in this way they used to close up the holes in the Great Wall, after letting in the enemy. Those who found themselves locked inside China, soon enough realised their position. With no place to go, they would not last for long. First they disarmed themselves, then, while intoxicated, they would lose all their army equipment, and finally they would turn into Chinese. How can anyone stand against locusts? Either you die, or you start singing like a grasshopper!"

Conclusion.

If someone next to you is suffering, do not deny the use of a fist! You will be rewarded handsomely.

"Well, what do you say, Pin King, which story is "truth" and which is "fiction"? Where is the lie?"

"Hmmm, Fumanchu... Everything is fine with the stories... These stories both seem authentic. However, you yourself, you are a complete lie! Look at yourself with both your heads, and then use them to judge for yourself. You really think people such as you exist? You look like an half-baked African dancing ritual, and not a person:

LEARN TO SING AND DANCE

AT AGENTAT POMERANCE.

Red Ink

I have to fire that bloody nurse! It looks like she left my history of the patient in his room... and not just once but many times! He read my notes but I didn't read his.

No! I can rely on no-one in my work! People offer more harm than help!

Instead of keeping their hands off my diary, they should rather have got their hands on Stitcher's diary. It would have been so useful to me! To page through these notes and try to pinpoint that imaginary mediator Pin King, that bridging link between Vanessa and Shiva...

I should consider hiring staff from a jail! There the talent is to acquire, not lose...

Two weeks passed after the memorable meeting between Johannes and Cornelia near the cliff of the suicide. In Cornelia's house all this time, active preparations for the wedding went ahead at full speed. Johannes did not seek any more encounters with the prospective bride. He kept his word and began to teach Flycatcher to shoot with his old rifle. Their mutual activities were enhanced by continuous discussions.

"You, Flycatcher, need to grow a little more," said Johannes after one of the lessons, "so you can handle this huge Dutch musket better."

"Don't worry," responded Flycatcher, "Somehow I will get it right. It's obvious people in the olden days were much taller than now. Even taller than you, Johannes."

"So when was that?" enquired Johannes. "Are you talking about Biblical times again?"

"No. Don't you remember, you told me about the mediaeval knights? So that must have been the time of the giants."

"Oh, no," rejoined Johannes, "quite the opposite. People were much smaller before. You can see that from the size of the knights' armour. They are of such small dimensions that nowadays they can accommodate only very little men."

"And those knights fought on horseback, not so?" asked Flycatcher. "And the horses were also covered with armour?"

"Absolutely correct," answered Johannes.

"So that means," replied Flycatcher excitedly, "it was too hard for a horse to carry all that weight. And the smaller knights had a better chance to win their fights. The horse didn't get so tired, you understand? Compare the size of the olden-days armour with our jockeys' clothes nowadays. And by the way, we have to watch out! Otherwise in future people will think Afrikaners were very small men. They will judge from the size of the ponies which our Boers use in battle. Mind your head, Johannes. Don't break the ceiling!"

Beside the shooting lessons, Johannes occupied himself with reports from the battlefields. The fears of the burghers were confirmed, and the new chief commander of the British army, Field Marshall Roberts, launched a number of quite successful operations on the front. The field forces of twenty-five thousand infantry, eight thousand cavalry and over a hundred guns, were moved by him deep into the heart of the country, along the Western railway.

On the thirteenth of February, the day preceding the wedding of Cornelia and Herman, the British army broke through the Boer defensive flank under General Cronje. Roberts' intention was clear - raise the siege of Kimberly and attack the capital of the Orange Republic, Bloemfontein.

In the morning of the same day, Johannes located the glassy-eyed Andries-the-chicken at the familiar tavern, Victoria & Kruger. Andries was angry and taciturn. But Johannes wormed his way into conversation nevertheless.

"Tell me, old chap, why are you so sorrowful, the day before your sister's wedding?" asked Johannes. "And where's your usual retinue of drinking cronies?"

"Yes, sure," responded Andries. "Who wants to go on a bloody wild goose chase, looking for them? My money has burnt like tinder and my damned friends followed. Evaporated like the smoke."

"So how come your parents refuse you money?" Johannes pressed on. "Did they go overboard spending on the wedding? I really don't believe it. Your family's not poor. Oh, wait a minute, now I begin to understand. They don't want to see you drunk before the wedding day!" Johannes burst out laughing.

"So what are you?" asked Andries, "some kind of sympathizer? Blow your sympathy, and lend me some money! For sure, it's not for nothing you trouble yourself with damn chatter."

"No," said Johannes, "On principle, no. I can't give you money. I don't want to encourage idleness and resignation to one's fate. But I'm sure we can make some money together, for a drinking-bout. How about it?"

"Why not listen?" said Andries, cocking his ears. "I've got plenty of time."

"Then tell me, Andries," asked Johannes, "do you by chance know any smugglers, who trade stolen diamonds in town?"

A sour smile spread over Andries' face.

"What a bloody nice opinion you have of me! Well, let's suppose I do."

"Right," continued Johannes, "you have to introduce me. Today we'll both make some money."

"You won't make any profit, dealing with people like that," sighed Andries. "Those bastards are tricky, and extremely dangerous!"

"That's my problem, " replied Johannes. "Your task is simply to introduce me to the trader.

Andries could do little other than agree, and the new companions set out for the harbour. In the port, Andries dived into one of the dirty pubs, and after a while returned, accompanied by a filthy-looking vagabond, covered with scars. It was almost impossible to determine the race and nationality of the new acquaintance, and in his mind Johannes nicknamed him Spotty.

Spotty registered Johannes' request to buy a diamond with great distrust, but Andries, standing nearby, nodded his head and in the end the rogue consented.

"I've got a stone," he said. "Three carats. Hard cash only. No haggling. Take it or leave it! We swap eye-to-eye. Lots of people around."

Johannes agreed, saying that he had the money in a bank in town, so they could make the swap there. Spotty named his price but said that the diamond would not be with him, as he feared the police. He wanted first to see the money, and only then could he get the stone from a safe place. Thus it was decided. Exchanging a few words alone with Andries, Johannes set out for the town in the company of Spotty.

When Johannes emerged with the money from a large well-guarded bank, he stopped near the window and resumed the conversation with Spotty.

"Here is the money," he said. "Now go and get the stone."

"No," grinned the rogue, "it's here. In a safe place."

With these words he thrust his finger full length into the nostril of his ugly nose, and pulled out from there the diamond. Johannes stood wonder-struck. Meanwhile Spotty wiped off the treasure with the flap of his jacket, and showed it to the buyer.

"So, we swap, or what?" demanded Spotty.

"Wait a second," replied Johannes, "the town is flooded with fakes. I must be certain this is the real thing. Give it to me a moment, I have to check if it scratches the glass of the window. If everything is in order you'll get your money, and we sail in different directions."

Spotty's eyes flashed with the fire. He stretched out the stone, clutched in his fist, at the same time wagging a knife clenched in the other hand.

"Don't try any tricks," he hissed.

With a smile on his face, Johannes took the diamond from the wretch's hand, and scraped it in a wide curve across the glass of the window of the bank. The heavy glass cracked along the line of the cut, and with a thundering sound crashed down. Spotty, dumbfounded from such an unexpected cataclysm stood open-mouthed.

The well-trained guards of the bank wasted no time in contemplation of the events, but dashed to the scene. Johannes hid the diamond in his pocket, and put an indifferent and vacant look which did not raise the suspicions of the staff. The guards fell upon Spotty, who was still standing with his knife drawn. The vagabond tried to shout something, pointing all the while at Johannes, but so many blows rained down on his head that he soon fell silent.

Passers-by also participated in the action of catching the criminal. One of them, Andries-the-chicken, delivered a particularly powerful and treacherous blow, after which the head of the poor rogue hung lifelessly down, and a stream of black blood ran from his mouth onto his chest.

When the bustle had died down, Johannes and Andries were no longer among the crowd. They made their way towards the nearest jeweller's shop, from where they emerged after a while, with a nice profit, and then crowned their adventure with a celebration in the familiar tavern, Victoria & Kruger.

Sitting at the table, the partners spent money generously on drinks.

"Why on earth did you hit that unlucky wretch so hard?" the tipsy Johannes asked Andries.

"Had to," Andries answered readily, "to make sure that son of a bitch wouldn't blab out anything about us right there. Afterwards let him talk. Nobody will believe him anyway. If of course he comes back to his senses after my flick."

Meanwhile Johannes was dissolving rapidly in front of Andries' eyes. He grew excessively sentimental, hugged Andries round the shoulders, and whispered into his ear some innermost secrets.

"My dear Andries, I know for certain from one of my clients, an English officer, that Herman arrived at a gallop for his engagement to your sister, straight from the Boer forces in the field. Can you believe it, tomorrow, just before the wedding, he will be arrested as a Republican belligerent? It's good that you have no special liking for your sister. Just imagine what a surprise it's going to be for her! Ha-ha-ha!"

After this revelation Andries became quite troubled, and began to wriggle on the chair. Johannes was completely drunk, and dropped his head onto his arms. Speedily Andries paid for the drinks, and swaying back and forth, made his escape from the tavern. He was in such a hurry that he even left his hat next to the sleeping Johannes.

Johannes raised his head and looked around. He noticed the forgotten object, took it in his hands, and said aloud, quite soberly:

"He left the hat, look at this! Such a lovely new hat! Let me give it to Flycatcher, as now the boy wears such rubbish on his head. I will even write his name inside it. Hey, barman, do you by any chance have a pot of ink?"

Time, time... passes, leaves, flies away! And they leave, woven from time! They get ready for something and then they disappear for good! Every day I measure Pin King accurately with the shadow of the watch-tower. I am afraid that he too disappears. Nevertheless, with him it's just the opposite. I cannot quite understand whether the watch-tower decreases or whether Pin King grows. He inflates, puffs up, swells treacherously, perfidiously. I think he eats up our food before he enters our room. Even those bits for our medication, he handles like a knight. He goes to the table first, and leaves the table last. Like the captain of a sinking ship. All his conduct is so knightly! And once satisfied he sings a song:

"It was in Babylon. On the Hanging Bridge bent. They soaked bread in cologne... to honour Great Lent......"

Aye, Captain, at least you have the right to sink with your ship. But what about us?

Where can I find my boots,

So I can get away from here?

Shall I refuse to eat? - I think it will not help because they'll start to feed my guts through a tube...

Shall I hang myself? - Cannot even imagine a system of ropes and blocks complex enough to hold up two heads simultaneously...

Shall I poison myself? - That will not work. I'm already full of Rotkod's poison... up to both my gills, and nothing happens...

Shall I throw myself out of the window? - I'm afraid that the bulk of my double body will not fit through the narrow frame...

Shall I drown myself? - What if I drag a small washing basin up to the aquarium and steep both heads in these vessels? - Most probably I'll just lose consciousness and fall to the floor, then soon enough regain my senses and breathe again. Besides, it would be a crime to endanger the neon fish.

Shall I cut my veins? - Not clear how it would turn out... When one of my toes was cut off, the bleeding stopped very quickly. In our double body, the blood stream goes in strange loops and circles. At the moment of injury, the system immediately finds other routes for blood to flow, not allowing it to run out.

Shall I try simultaneously to cut both our throats? - But what if the blood should find a way to circulate in the body excluding the heads? The headless body will live by itself... let's say like headless Europe! Then I'll have to pace mindlessly up and down the room. Perhaps they'll even compel my bodies to sew again, appreciating my unbelievably resilient muscular memory.

Shall I burn myself to death? Arrange a fire in the room? - Well to destroy the neighbours is not such an honourable act. The twins know about that possibility only from the TV screen: to murder somebody! How repulsive!

By the way, now I cannot even use the TV set to electrocute myself. It's too late! On Rotkod's orders they removed the television set from the room. I've altogether missed the opportune moment to shock myself to death - the only remaining electrical appliance is the bulb in the ceiling, which I cannot reach. In any case, I should not regret not doing that - in Rotkod's diary he's scheduled an electroshock for us. Well, if we do not manage, I hope he can succeed. The scientific doctor will help the twins who have exhausted their own ideas. Sure, I know that in the aquarium there's a bulb and an electronic pump. Still, all in all, I pity the fish! We shall wait till Rotkod falls upon us like a Meteorite from the Country of Double Fools in the Night Sky of Lonely Wise Men. Suicide is what's ordered for us twins. Another question is, what is prescribed for us? Waiting on an island? Water is all around... around water!? We do not have friends, seafarers like Sinbad, to save us, and without them we cannot walk on water. Well, at least we can read our fortunes in the shadows: when will Sinbad-Rotkod arrive for us? Here he is, the neon fortune teller, the Great Shindra. Stuck and trapped in the "Angular CafИ". We'll go, we'll creep and crawl to him, on all fours, by neon pools of either blood or urine.

What a stare! He doesn't rise when he sees me, because should he rise, he'd break open the ceiling with that gape of his. Neon glitter on the black cloak, covered with mouldy stars.

He's stretched his hand: "Tell me, Fumanchu, why is everything so sad?

With her nose she has met the nose of his shoe. Those new neon jack boots, padded with shoe-wax of florets-carnations-flowers. Grey flowers with a pink field for background. With the tip of her nose she has met the tip of the flower. Carefully he has taken her under the arm-pits and has lifted her up.

- Are you here to participate or to sympathize?

- I ask you for protection, Great and Mighty Shindra! This is my request and plea!

Like waves, the cloak enfolds sadness ... Sadness of the cloak waves folds. Shindra is not the same anymore. The folds of the cloak have lost their former sharpness. No one can cut himself anymore against Shindra. Shindra cannot help, but he knows someone who can. Can help? No, only predict destiny.

However, even without predictions I know that all our affairs are over! Checkmate! But Shindra pushes, Shiva eggs on:

- Lets go, lets go! It's not going to be any worse for you, but it is beneficial for magic. You'll help Science to move forward. From a lousy lassie at least one piece of wool!

They walked a long time. Corridors, amphilades, rotundas, alcoves, courts, pontoons and pantheons, brothels. He is a know-it-all oracle. Hospital! That magician is so terrible! Oh, it would have been nice to get a shooter from the "Angular CafИ". No! Here we have neither bar nor wine. The Magician greets me gloomily, wants to discuss payment. He said that he will not charge a lot. Only one soul... and in our case, we have a spare, so why should we be stingy? The prognosis turned out quite short.

Prognosis.

The wooden minarets of Jerusalem are riddled with cracks. The glass in the Palace windows has been scratched by the diamond buttons of the servants. The fireplaces face mouth-out onto the street. It's cold in the rooms. In the garden, a sculpture of the King holds a sword by the blade, handle toward the viewers. The King whispers - push, push the sword forward. Do not try to cheat me. In any case, it's over! Hey kid, at the end of the corridor there is no door!

All right, we shall pay for Shindra's visit, he having organized the prediction of the Magician. Though all this is in the near future, known to us from the "case record". Even though time passes, but the door at the end of the corridor is open for now, unlike in the future hospital. Otherwise how could time leave? When all leaves, then the little door of the Magic Hospital will be shut after us. But for now we shall write down something in neon ink. With what, with what? Obviously with a finger on the wall:

HERE LIVED VANESSA AND SHIVA.

Will no one thrust the handle of the sword forward!

-- III

On Sunday morning, news spread about the town that the wedding set for the previous day had not taken place. Herman had left town as suddenly as he had arrived.

Regardless, Cornelia arrived for the Sunday service as usual in the morning, together with the whole family. Nothing in their manner betrayed their catastrophic circumstances. The young lady managed to keep herself together, as well as keep control of all other members of the family. The only difference was that the father had a look more gloomy than ever, and the mother's eyes were tear-stained. Neither did the other churchgoers appear to have any obvious curiosity about events. However amongst themselves a rumour began to spread that Cornelia's father had condemned Herman and broken off all friendship with his parents.

On her return from the church, Cornelia said not a word to anyone, but saddled her horse and set off on her lonely ride. If the outer layer of Cornelia's world passed according to established rules, the inner world, with its thoughts and feelings, was far out of its usual rhythm.

"First it was Marius who was taken from my life," she mused. "Perished in such a horrible way. It's awful to think that somehow I was even flattered, that I was of such worth someone could kill himself for my sake. Then, it did not burden my heart so much, for I knew that I had Herman in prospect. I thought more of my forthcoming marriage than the fate of that poor man. So here is my retribution. Herman has deserted me. Andries said that my fiancИ left town for important reasons, reasons that cannot be revealed without putting my family in jeopardy.

"So, before his departure, Herman managed to see my brother, explaining everything to him but not to me. He did not even say goodbye. Everyone, including my fugitive fiancИ, considers me a hard-hearted Amazon. It's ridiculous! If one suitor vanishes, then another comes to light almost instantly. This educated savage Johannes began to prepare a place for himself well in advance. Although it is strange, how could he have known anything, before anything happened? Stupid question! He simply understood that no one could hold their ground near me for long. Amazing, he senses the danger but still inclines towards the fire. Yet for me it's not a game. I was abandoned and betrayed. It is so painful. Painful and sad! I'm in agony and torment, as any girl would be, in my position. And the thing is worse, because the thought of Marius tortures me as never before. I begin to understand what he had to go through, before he took such a fatal step."

Cornelia's thoughts took a different turn when suddenly she saw a family of klipspringers, which had established themselves on top of a large rock. Cornelia had never hunted before, regarding with distaste the idea of shooting such wonderful creatures of nature. That was before, but today was different.

Cornelia dismounted, tethered the horse to a bush, and began to climb up the rock on the downwind side. The ascent continued until the young lady found herself within range of the animals. Holding the breath in her lungs, Cornelia took careful aim at a female chosen on purpose, and smoothly pulled the trigger of her carbine. When the smoke had dispersed, she saw the animals still standing on the rock, all but one, which crashed to the base of the cliff. Cornelia descended quickly to the place where it had fallen.

When she approached the antelope, she saw that it was still alive. The wounded creature raised its head and looked at its offender. In its huge mirror-like eye Cornelia discerned the reflection of high skies with black eagles in their soaring flight, the milkwood bushes with sugar birds flitting their way from branch to branch, and the image of a beautiful lady, with her graceful antelope line and sorrowful air.

Cornelia worked the bolt of her carbine back and forth several times, extracting with this action all bullets but the last.

"Farewell, beautiful creature. Farewell the wonderful world of my happiness. I hope it will be the last bullet that comes out of my gun."

With these words, Cornelia fired straight into the eye of the antelope, destroying the fathomless world reflected in it.

"Animals were created by God so that they can be sacrificed, rather than people," resounded a voice behind Cornelia.

She spun around and recognized Johannes as he approached.

"In childhood, during formation of the character, every man goes through a period of cruelty. In order not to become a man-killer, he kills and tortures animals. Grown-ups use hunting for the same purpose. God gives into our hands the life of sacrificial creatures. But if a man cannot satisfy himself with that, and takes the life of another human being, God turns away from that man."

Cornelia, her eyes filled with tears, did not grasp his words.

"How did you find me here?" she asked absent-mindedly. "Oh, yes, the shots. You offered me your friendship before. I accept your offer. Know you what a challenge you take upon yourself!"

Johannes took up in his hands the dead klipspringer, its head dangling lifelessly down.

"Yes I know," he said. "Now I see it with my own eyes."

"Latest news from the Atlantic: yellow, black and red will be blanched. To commemorate the founding of Cathrogenius. The continent is scheduled to be partitioned on... crackle...crackle...!"... The end of the report was lost to history. We woke! And, all of a sudden there was no TV in the room, no Pin King. It was hard to say, either Pin King nicked the TV, or the TV snatched Pin King. In any case, no matter how you look at that - it was an obvious case of common theft.

So, what else could we do but content ourselves with the thrills of birds' gossip?... Sure, Shiva, I understand, you are not a bit concerned. You sleep, while it's dark. In your melancholic state of mind you believe that morning will come. And I, sitting next to the opened window of your dreams, I can hear how animals and birds sleep. Day-birds don't sleep. They tittle-tattle. And tittle-tattle is green like snot. The new day shines with the emerald gossip of birds. People love them. And because of the tittle-tattle, they love animals too. Cock-a-doodle-doo! The aim is to hunt a lyre-bird. The hunt is on, full speed. It's best to approach a lyre-bird-blackcock while it is cockatoo-ing. The singer's ear turns deaf... only the trees shower down a down. How fine they are, animals and birds!

Proud lions are magnificent. Cats fluffy and soft. Peacocks majestic and vivid. Teddy bears warm and lovely. Wooden horses familiar and nostalgic.

The zoo is a shrine to which they bring children. My room too is called a zoo. I know. However they do not bring children to us. For some reason, we've not even been elevated to the level of amusing animals. We asked, asked so frequently: bring living people to us, even the blind, or blindfolded. With our rare qualities, we could be quite entertaining.

One of the Eastern parables provides an example. Three wise men were blindfolded and requested to touch an elephant, a creature of which they had no experience and were asked to describe the animal. One wise man touched the tail and said that the elephant was like a cord. The second touched the trunk, and said that the elephant was a snake. The third blindfolded man embraced a leg of the elephant, and said that the elephant was a living tree.

For sure, Shiva and I could produce a far more magical effect. Anyone hearing us talk would understand that we are magnificent. Anyone touching Vanessa's hair would understand we are smooth and soft. Anyone falling into our four-armed embrace would submit to the trance of Shiva-dance. And when released from the embrace, he would understand that we are compassionate. And it goes without saying that any person, even like us, must be more appealing than a piece of wood. So how can we complain?

How often do we visit a world where better qualities prevail?

Listen Shiva, let us, like those three blind men, stroke Our World and try to guess what the Universe is?

You, Shiva are the night of Life - black and warm. You are a Manichean, you praise and honour darkness.

I, Vanessa, am of the light. I am Zoroastrian, a sun-worshiper.

We are different. We cannot encroach on each other's space... never! Nevertheless, being in different universes - the Light and the Dark. Still, we are aware of each other's presence. So it appears that everything around us is made of us, and we two are one solipsist. But a solipsist has to be by himself, alone, because he is solo. But then how do you explain that there are two of us?

To protect the purity of the picture of our Universe, of course, it I who must leave the picture. But where should I go? I like to be where you are. All that was possible to wish, all came true a long time ago. If not for you, I would already have gone, ages ago. You are afraid of Fire, and I am afraid of Walls. Who has named these terrible four walls a house? Listen, do you remember why you are here? Who are you waiting for here? We know a new dance, but we do not have legs to dance. We wanted to watch a movie, but someone took away our TV set. Nobody comes to visit us. Not even those less fortunate than we are. Is that what you expected? Even tell lies to the ones living outside! They are quite naОve and so easily taken in by deceit. You can say that I'm a new kind of ugly beast. You can call me a special kind of bear. You can call me anything. Just so that I can see them here...

I've already stopped speaking to you in your human language. I do not talk any more. The only thing I do now is growl! On all fours! Four hands to the floor! And round and round in circles! It's so lovely to run like this! Little berry-bushes brush against the face, colouring it in the forbidden hues: yellow, red, black! There seems no end to this bear-like running of the she-bear Vanessa-Shiva.

And in that circling, round and round, suddenly one can find the sought-after balance... which our deceased mum and dad tried to achieve for us, using a rocking horse.

How can Shiva and I, through touching the World from different angles, how can we describe it? Well...

The Picture of the World:

We are standing on a plane of variable angle of reflection, and our observing each other causes movement. If someone treats you unfairly, that doesn't mean he exists. And even were this someone kind to you, neither does that serve as proof of his being.

-- IV

On the following day, Johannes asked the host for his horse to be brought from the stables, and rode on horseback to a rendezvous with Cornelia. They met in the pre-appointed place, and continued down the path side by side, at first silent, and then slowly winding up their conversation.

"Why do things always coincide with each other in such a terrible way?" began Cornelia. "Just on the day of my miscarried wedding, the English broke through the front to Kimberly. First, a treachery of the worst kind is perpetrated before my eyes. The act committed by a man who, in my opinion, should have been a bulwark of the whole nation - the rock-solid Herman. Then on the battlefield our forces, which consist of men like him, suffer their first serious defeat!"

"Remember my `horn of plenty'?" responded Johannes. "And please don't generalise! Didn't I warn you that the winds of fortune could change direction, and begin to blow into the enemy's sails?"

"On your interpretation, these God-sent bounties do not cease at once," commented Cornelia. "So how long do you think our misfortune on the front will continue?"

"Who knows?" Johannes replied. "The only thing I can say is that the worst is still ahead. And that is very near."

"I'm sure there's a way to solicit the fortune of Providence!" exclaimed Cornelia.

"Do you think I did not ask Him to protect my son before the battle?" cried the inner Johannes. "All our commando prayed for favour. Basically we won. Of all of us, only he was killed. We won, but I lost, and I suppose my son also. The ways of God are inscrutable. Every person carries individual responsibility before Him. Me, you, my son, my brother. And everyone will be judged by his deeds. I came not to send peace, but a sword."

"Exactly, a sword," responded Cornelia. "Why are you not fighting, together with our nation? I know that somewhere in these parts a rebel movement is being assembled. Maybe it's time for us to join them, and come out in a united front against the enemy. This would ease the burden of war on the forces of the Orange Republic and the Transvaal."

"First of all," replied Johannes, smiling inwardly, "this is a bad idea because here in the Colony we have numerous British forces. They have very large garrisons specially kept for fear of a rebellion. If we advance now they will kill us all, and will move their freed forces to the north.

"Secondly, the sword was sent, but not to thrash your neighbour with it. Another text says: `For all they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.' We can't win or lose together with our nation. There's no more together. We all will be appraised one by one, according to our deeds, with the help of the sword which will perform that task, and not our cracker-mausers."

"What do you suggest we do?" asked Cornelia.

"Nothing," said Johannes. "Sit and wait for a change in the winds. Maybe for a long time."

"Is that the psychology of the labyrinth-builder, or of a spider that spreads its nets for a fly?" retorted Cornelia.

"Ha-ha-ha. How did you put it? The spider which spreads its nets for a fly! But if you remember, we are called exactly that by the English - rock-spiders! Boers always were famous for their patience and cunning. Do you know, nowadays those qualities have somehow deserted us?

"This whole war is a mistake. Instead of taking a sword, we should have corrupted the British regime from within. We began to fight openly, dragging behind us, like gypsies, wagons and women and children. It is impossible to lead a peaceful family life and to fight, both at the same time. We are trying to use our experience of war with the Zulus, which is not applicable in war between Europeans. Soon our fighting families will begin to be annihilated by the British regular army. There's nothing more for me to do there. I have nothing more to sacrifice. I've already contributed my alms into the coffers, and lost my family."

"Just now you mentioned a brother," remarked Cornelia. "Before, you told me that you had had relatives, but preferred not to enlarge on them. Perhaps now, as a friend, I might hope for more candour..."

"Yes, I had a brother," affirmed Johannes. "I said had, because he went to serve the English, and I denounced him too severely, crossing him out of my life. Today I look upon his actions in quite a different way, and my brother has, in my eyes, regained the right to be a member of my almost extinct family. I cannot, in the manner of Don Quixote, fight against the spectre of war, which devoured my son. But if any misfortune should befall my brother, not through the Universe, but through the fault of lesser circumstances, then will I bring down my vengeance on those very circumstances, and continue to do so until I destroy the demon. I have ceased to be a champion of great battles, and have begun to advocate individual vendettas."

"So what about your not peace, but a sword, which appraises people as individuals?" asked Cornelia. "Or do you consider the vendetta as an individual's path to salvation?"

"No," answered Johannes. "This is the individual's path to perdition. And if you want, this is not even a sacrifice, but a challenge to the Supreme Judge. The repudiation of His verdict condemning to death a man of the same blood as mine."

"Johannes, please come to your senses!" cried Cornelia. "The Almighty sacrificed His son for the sake of our salvation. You know yourself that salvation is a personal matter for each individual. And who knows why and for what reason your son was called? You lost your own way in the labyrinths which you built for others!"

"Personal must be personal for all," said Johannes. "The individual may sacrifice his son. I'm against Him sacrificing someone else's. Mine, for example."

"I wouldn't want to find myself amongst those against whom you are organizing your universal vendetta," declared Cornelia.

"Oh, if only our wishes could have been taken into consideration!" sighed Johannes. "Anyway, I'm not trying to break the wall of the labyrinth and thereby find an exit. And Flycatcher also firmly asserts that it is impossible. I simply permit others to wander in the labyrinth instead of me."

"My head spins with all your hyperbole!" laughed Cornelia. "Better, tell me how your lessons with Flycatcher are progressing?"

"Maybe you yourself would like to see this home-bred Spinoza?" suggested Johannes.

Their conversation took the riders to Cornelia's estate, and Johannes proposed they drop in at Katy's cottage, where he was supposed to give his regular lesson to Flycatcher. Cornelia expressed little enthusiasm, saying she was not really fond of Katy.

"You're avoiding Katy!" said Johannes in amazement. "Since when?"

"Oh, from the very moment she began to work at your house!" retorted Cornelia.

"So, where lies her fault, in your eyes?" enquired Johannes. "That she helped me just once, to put my place in order?"

"I don't know," replied Cornelia. "I don't like her either because of that short grey hair of hers. Also her reticence plays some role. But particularly the strange hair."

"What odd kinds of prejudice people have!" smiled Johannes. "I knew a man who, unlike you, tried to avoid any relationship with long-haired women. He told me that he had an aversion to long threads, as if they'd been squeezed out of a human head. The more there was outside the head, the less there would be inside the head."

Cornelia laughed:

"Perhaps your friend is right, and the hair indeed represents an important part of our brain. Peculiar sensors, almost like the whiskers of a cat. Just remember Samson, whose strength lay in his hair. On the other hand, bald patches stir in us a suspicion of stupidity in their owners."

"Look!" Johannes interrupted. "Katy is leaving her cottage, and going up to the main building. The coast is clear for you. I suggest again you come and listen to Flycatcher. Believe me, it's very entertaining. He's able to turn everything back to front."

"Oh really, everything?"

"Absolutely everything!" said Johannes. "You can choose any subject you like."

"All right, let it be chemistry," elected Cornelia. "You can't extract any philosophy from it."

"Who knows?" replied Johannes.

The riders dismounted next to Katy's abode, and entered the cottage. Flycatcher made no objection to the presence of Cornelia during the lesson. Johannes delivered a short lecture on chemical elements. He completed this with the introduction of two natural substances: animate and inanimate. He told Flycatcher from which elements living creatures are made, and how they differ from lifeless things.

At this point Flycatcher shook his head in disbelief. Then his face lit up.

"The problem is," he began, "human beings are living creatures. And they think only about themselves. So they divide nature into two kinds. Animate, which is us, and inanimate, which is the rest. If a thing is made of Carbon and Hydrogen, this means living. And if it's made of Iron and Phosphorus, that means lifeless. And this is the opinion of thinking Hydrogen, which doesn't want to believe there can be a thought in Oxygen. Doesn't want to believe, even if it joins with that Oxygen and turns into living water.

"But of course, if the proud Hydrogen mixes with proud Carbon and turns into a man, then its pride swells so much it will say that water has no life. Even though the man himself is almost completely made of water: nine tenths! You said so yourself, Johannes. As for me, I reckon everything is alive: sky and fire, water and stones."

Johannes turned to Cornelia, who was bursting with laughter.

"And you tried to convince me," he said, " that chemistry is a subject too lifeless for Flycatcher!"

All through this merry chat, they were not aware that at that very moment, in another part of the country, near to the Modder River, the dark prediction of Johannes was being realized. There, at a place called Paardeberg, the Boer Army fought, completely encircled by the enemy and foredoomed to utter defeat. That Army included a number of families - dozens of wagons with men, and women, and children of different ages.

But in this life anything might have happened, it could have been different: on top of the perd, stirring the stirrup... aiming and maiming. Saal op, ou maat! Side by side, we two could have sat on the horse! And we would not have vied for leadership between us. We're both equal, you and I! Our thoughts and ideas have developed a similarity and are intertwined. The switching of minds between us grew heavy, like cast bronze. And under its own weight it slipped down, switching on the TV of our general memory, the only thing left to us, in place of the one stolen from our room.

The birth of a child. Our birth. First they pulled out Shiva, and she did not want to come. She clung to Vanessa so as to be equal, declining her rights as firstborn. They grappled her with midwife's tongs, so she became black. A birthmark through the whole body. Then it was my turn, which turned out to be even worse. When they pulled me out, I was born in a shirt as white as snow - covered with the placenta. By our Caphrogenius omens it was a good sign. I would grow up the lucky one... if you're white, you're considered blessed!

Remember, Shiva, how angry you were? You said: "What is the use of firstborn status if all happiness goes to you, who arrived later?" You calmed down only when reality painted us both in the same neon colour. So it seems that we can never leave our habitual common placenta, the room where we were born into the Universe surrounding us. Neither you nor I can escape!

What does it matter that no one can break the placenta which joins us, and makes us equal in our firstborn-ness? We pace the room, we wait. Here is Shiva and here are her books, those are clear to me. Someone outside may hear our voices, but we sing to the wind. And all we know is that we are here! We know that we are travelling in the dark, and from that knowledge things look pretty bright! Diamond windows serve as traffic signals, invisible to eyes, but hard as steel. But for the diamond windows, I would have fallen and been broken to pieces. Is this really night-time? Tell me, where am I in it? Shiva, have you ever heard of people that manage to sleep at night? I know why I haven't slept today. You are always somewhere near, but my eyes are blind. For us, the way out from this placenta-room is forbidden. At the same time, visitors born into the external world are welcome here!

Although, those who appeared in our placenta-room from the earliest days seem to be quite impolite. The new-born child, that is to say, us, had no discernable genitalia. The doctor, visitor number one, was annoyed. It was not a case of separating Siamese cats - cut half-from-half and the deed is done. Actum est! But here was neither meat nor fish! Neither Waxy nor Cherry. Neither bitch nor dog. Visitor number two was a Rabbi. He became very angry, though did not lose his sense of judgement. He pointed out that the hooves were double, and the skin peeled in the shape of scales, which meant it was kosher!

However they both flatly refused to perform the incision. Neither to divide us, nor to circumcise our unclear sexual formations.

The evening of memories is now over! The bronze switch has stirred all thoughts and ideas, and flown up, upwards with the ease of an ascending crane. Shall we analyse the situation? Into our life entered midwife Rotkod, who promised to pull us out from the placenta and make us part of his life. For the first time, we had the chance to escape from our room-vessel into another vessel, the hospital. Visitors could no longer take the dazzling blackness of our room-bulb where their mood would go rotten. So, we were temporarily removed from our dark vessel, for purposes of "enlightenment" in hospital... then we'll return to our deserted World, our room. When we've been treated and are free, we shall illuminate our Universe with our presence. Perhaps we'll be able to distinguish more details of the wall-paper! It would be pleasant for everybody to come and visit us. Our sewing-machine will work...clack again! And we'll take the measurements of living people... well, we shall probably start with the blind. Those are the most choosey clients. They check scrupulously all suits by touch! You cannot fool a blind "sensor"!

"Hey you, Pin King, Shiva and I, we can see in the dark with four hands. By feel, by touch, we know. But that silly rogue Rotkod wants to trick us!"

The most and the most important is the road ahead to the hospital! The most and the most important, on the way from one room into another room, is to miss nothing! To discern all the universe in a narrow crack of time. And just as on the television screen, to see "THE END" of the movie!

Red Ink

Well, well, well... Rat King, so you did not regard me a serious threat!

We'll see how you sound on these pages, after my revised chemical intervention. Pretty soon I should sense the apprehension in your diary... perhaps no more than a few pages from here!

Each day for the following week Johannes and Cornelia went on rides together. Their conversation became less and less constrained as they progressed in their mutual understanding, which promised to develop into something deeper.

However, the strange thing was that the closer Johannes grew to Cornelia, the gloomier he became after those rides. On his return home, he would stare for a long time at the chameleon, usually in silence, but once the words "You think you are clever!" escaped his lips. "You so easily change your colour and adjust yourself to any setting. But do you know what will happen to you if your surrounds should be black? No, you don't know! I shall tell you. You will try to generate a large quantity of dark pigment, in order to become black yourself. In the end you will produce so much of it that the sheer excess of it will kill you. But you are not alone there. My designs too, are black as night, and already I can feel that they poison me with a slow venom."

Even his lessons with Flycatcher no longer amused Johannes. Moreover, there was always a slight tension felt between himself and Katy at each unavoidable crossing of their paths, and the astute Flycatcher began to notice there was something wrong. Therefore Johannes discontinued those lessons, asking the boy to feed the chameleon while he was out riding. Seizing the moment when once they were alone, Johannes turned to Katy.

"Time is approaching," Johannes warned her, "when I shall ask you to fulfil your part of our deal. Oh please, don't worry yourself, it will be a complete trifle. It's such a banal matter that even you will not grasp how you will have served me."

One evening when Johannes had returned home from his usual rendezvous with Cornelia, he took out a sheaf of letters and picked from them those dated the latest. Then he began to read the second last one. He seemed uncertain about something. The shadows of the strenuous working of his mind quivered on his face now more than ever. Nevertheless the expression changed as he read on. The letter appeared to give him a much-needed burst of determination, and help him to recover his equilibrium. The letter read:

God will protect you, Piet. You and my nephew. You are both now on a difficult path, and do need His protection.

Do you remember how in our childhood, when we played with other boys at war-games, and were divided into opposing groups, we two always turned out to be on opposite sides? It did not become brothers to behave like that, but in spite of the love that we shared, the spirit of rivalry always pulled us apart.

Also remember how in our youth, in university days, we fought one another over the same girl who caught the fancy of both of us. As a token of those times, I still have the scar from your sabre on my chin.

So many years have passed since those reckless days, but now that familiar feeling is coming to me again. First of all, I'm once more in love. In love like a youngster. And again I have a rival, only this time it is an invisible competitor. The lady who has caught my eye is unfortunately betrothed by her parents to someone else.

In the second place, I'm again fighting in the opposing camp to yours. This is more difficult to explain. I can just imagine the indignation and rage raised in you after reading these lines. But believe me, behind this action lies something more significant than appears at first sight. My choice was made on serious grounds, and it is still too early to say anything about it. I beg you to curb your anger, and please mention nothing of this to my nephew. Wait a while, and perhaps one day my actions will be justified in your eyes. At present it is more than enough for me that in the eyes of the local community I am a traitor. You cannot imagine how hard it is for me to love a woman who is totally imbued with patriotism, and flatly rejects any compromise. But I should not explain anything more, as I know that after these revelations you will read my letter no further. So in short I must tell you that I depart soon for my new duties, under the command of General Gatacre. It's obvious that by the will of Providence we will once again find ourselves on different banks of the river.

Goodbye Piet. I beseech your understanding and forgiveness. Your brother, Marius.

At that moment Cornelia burst into the room without knocking, all agitated and alarmed. Johannes quickly bundled the letters from the table into his arms, and hurled them into the corner.

"Do you know what has happened?" cried Cornelia. "Four thousand Boers and General Cronje have been taken prisoner at Paardeberg! All last week we enjoyed ourselves serenely unaware that our countrymen with their families were under siege, under the merciless fire of the enemy. Now they have surrendered. Tell me, what is happening?"

"Calm down, Cornelia. Have a seat," said Johannes. "Bad news from the front is not limited to Kimberly and Paardeberg. Our forces have suffered defeat in Natal also, and Buller's army is already in Ladysmith."

Cornelia sank feebly into the chair. Her disbelieving eyes gazed in a trance at Johannes as he spoke. He took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. The crushed Cornelia reached out with her whole body towards Johannes, and he took her into his arms, embracing her as if she were a child.

"It's a good thing you came straight to me," he whispered into her ear, stroking her hair. "We must be together in the difficult moments of our lives. Through that we will find again the necessary strength and rise from the ashes."

Johannes' lips breathed out a sweet and intoxicating balm, caressing the ear, while his eyes expressed only cold indifference, then flashed again to the sheaf of letters lying in the corner.

People are afraid of feelings. They think their feelings could develop into something deeper. Therefore people are afraid to love, yet they want to be loved. That is why people establish relationships in which they feel they can control the course of events. Letters, emails, mobile phones, computer communication. Acquaintances in electronic virtual space. Acquaintances with people who were invented. Anonymity of the correspondent is an essential pre-condition. An affectionate-frank-soul-heart conversation between no-one and no-one. Having the status of no-one, for some unknown reason we acquired neither phone nor computer. Therefore we cannot answer anyone's questions. We cannot answer Rotkod's questions. Shiva does not answer my questions. Shiva writes letters to no-one. The stamps on those letters are foreign. Dutch Kenya.

Let us take a guess - who is that no-one? Shall we smell the letter first?. Cherry, Waxy, cigarettes, coffee. Freshly-brewed Kenya! Before Pin King's times. He bought it with his kleingeld, if he didn't steal it. A letter from Shiva's brother is quite a real answer to a letter sent in imagination.

My sister, Hi, sister! We do not have much time left to live here together. We are not supposed to hold two passports. They will take a valid passport and tear out a photo from it, making it invalid. Then they will paste the photo into another passport from which the photo is missing. So, in the end we'll get two worthless documents! One with no photo, the other with a re-pasted photo of no-one. For sure, they will confiscate such documents, and after that they'll also confiscate the protocol of confiscation itself. There will be nothing left but desire for everything! We will turn into a treasury of desires. Hey, sister, there is no such a thing as an un-plundered treasury! We'll be robbed, with satisfied desires! Love is the main thief. Love is investment in robbery, in a scam!

Shiva, give in to love! You do not want to be loved! I have nothing to extort from you. And I shall not kiss you because only maniacs kiss their own bodies. We will be inflated by desires, and we shall go above a precipice without hand-rails, curious to know who will be the first to fall from the cloud. Who will be the first caught by the tomb-robber Rotkod? Will he understand love before the plunge, before the plunder? Will he give us a World between this room and a room hidden in a tunnel? Oh, I cannot wait to leave for the hospital! Though I feel quite sad about my old world. You see, all the terrestrial treasures which we'd been refused, we managed indeed to gather in our room.

Cornelia was amazed at the accuracy of all Johannes' predictions. What she had considered light-hearted nonsense now materialized before her eyes, becoming a reality. Cornelia found herself under the total dominion of Johannes. His word had indisputable power over her. She would have been horrified to learn that this was exactly as Johannes planned. Himself partly believing in the theory which he had created about the Horn of Plenty, he speculated on the course of events at the front, and moulded them to his own private affairs. He acted decisively on days of depression, driving the clairvoyants out of business. But in days of general triumph he spun new webs, for future exploitation in times of sorrow. Laughing within, Johannes mocked his outer self:

"So how's your nation of Afrikaners? Still standing remarkably firm in the outer, so-to-say material world. We'll see how they defend themselves on the spiritual level. The cases of suicide amongst the Boers occur more and more frequently. Poor Marius."

How could Cornelia have known that the war could be not only the source of suffering, but also the field for psychological poker? Oh cruel times! The World, the Flesh, and the Devil!

Coming back to Cornelia, the young lady could not imagine that Paardeberg, where her relatives had a farm, should have become the very soil where now unfolded a disaster for her people. In the past Cornelia's family had visited those parts for months on end. As children, Andries and Cornelia loved to play in the shade of the tall acacia trees which grew not far from the Modder River. One of those trees was imprinted with particular clarity in her memory.

That was a tree which Afrikaners usually call a Kameeldoring, or a Camel Thorn. This one was as tall as a three-storey house. The tree had a wide spreading crown which projected its shadow over a huge area of ground. Cornelia remembered its blackish-brown, deeply furrowed bark. She knew that under this bark hid some red, very strong wood, which was used by Afrikaners to build wagons and support mineshafts. Red logs of camel thorn burned in the campfires of all who travelled in the land. Whenever she or Andries suffered from a headache, their mother would always give them a little ground charcoal made from the bark, and their pain would pass. Cornelia admired the tree because, like her nation in this land, it had very long and deep roots, and to transplant it from one place to another was unthinkable.

If those camel thorns could have talked, they would have told many interesting stories. Two of them remembered well the year Eighteen fifty four when, at the place of Potgietersrus, a party of thirty three Voortrekkers were treacherously murdered by cruel Makapan, the fearless leader of the Ndebele tribe. All captured men, women and children were dashed to death against the trunks of these two acacias.

The camel thorn which Cornelia nurtured in her memory, could also have unveiled a few tales. That tree might recount that February was the month in which she bore her fruit, and then the cattle belonging to the besieged Boers would feed on those creamy-grey velvety pods. She felt a sympathy with the Boers, and was now happy to know that her fruits were an excellent fodder for cattle. It increased the yield of milk in the cows, and that gave succour to the encircled warriors in their suffering and need. The acacia was bent on giving all the assistance she was able, to the Boer defenders.

She believed that her thorns were to be taken seriously. Her branches were arrayed with such long and sharp weapons. She remembered the horrible event when once a lion was hunting a giraffe. The predator attempted to bring down the great beast, then suddenly lost its hold and fell back onto her neighbour, straight into the centre of a dense mass of those same thorns. Long needles pierced the body of the lion. That majestic animal, pinned to the tree, was unable to free itself and was thus doomed to a slow, agonizing death.

But the British Lion was cleverer. Its bullets and shells ripped, tore and shredded the bark and wood of the camel thorn from a long distance. The tree swung her arm-branches helplessly, unable to get a grasp on the adversary that caused excruciating pain to her, and to the warriors taking cover in her compass. One well-aimed blow from the enemy inflicted a particularly deep wound on her, cutting off the flow of vital sap to the crown. Nevertheless, the tree continued to live, even after this mortal blow. In spite of the fact that her trunk was torn apart violently and resembled a huge tangle of coir, the crown still stood upright as if the tree had been unhurt. As if some invisible force stretched its hands from the skies and held the creature which had lost her support from the ground.

The camel thorn suffered not as much from physical pain, but from the pain of seeing how the group of Boers surrendered to the enemy. What has become of this race of giants? Where to has their former valour disappeared? Men sat in the dust with their heads hung down, blankets thrown over their shoulders. Women wandered round holding in their hands dirty umbrellas, remnants of a fallen past. They were searching for food, followed by numbers of haggard children of which many had lost their parents. Perhaps it would have been more merciful to those people, if the victorious army belonged instead to Makapan, who would not have let his captives live. Then there would not have been such scenes of humiliation. However, the victorious party, to the great sorrow of the camel thorn, belonged to a humane European nation. And the English soldiers threw biscuits onto the ground, which were instantly picked up by the famished children.

But the camel thorn was silent, as she could not speak. First of all because she did not know how. Secondly, she was dying. Dying far away from Cornelia who late that night, unaware of all of that, was lying in the arms of Johannes. It was only the mighty crown of the acacia that revolved in the mind of the young woman. And also there seemed some hope that the small Paradise Flycatcher, which from nowhere appeared on a branch of the tree, would become a witness to the events unfolding, and some prospect that one day it would recount the sad story of the Kameeldoring.

Behind doors, all the time, we seem to hear the sound of weaving looms. There they weave threads and produce fabric from which they ask us to sew suits. The sound is like a never-ending string. With words like sound loops, they trick us into sewing unpaired suits for unpaired silkworms. But here, we organized a strike - the dual union for the protection of the rights of "paired" silkworms.

For your lack of sensitivity, you'll have to wear old rags just as we do. Let us look at the rags: "On closer examination, the dress has numerous tears. In one outfit, a variety of fabrics of different colour and texture are used... This is my gift, a new style - trash retro - interwoven rags. Meteorite from the Country of Double Fools in the Night Sky of Lonely Wise Men. The forthcoming country Retro. Human bodies covered with animal skins; hats and umbrellas torn and dirty. This is the work of a Meteorite. The remains of the fallen past, of what used to be luxury.

A lonely planet will certainly remain up in orbit, will withstand our meteoric attack. Dromedary... Camelus dromedarius - single-humped camel, which endures much more than the two-humped one.

"Here mate, give us a hug!"

"Sure!"

Oh, yes! Somehow we are two-humpjtie! I don't remember what our breed of camels is called. In their orbits there is no such a thing as lousy lassie! We've probably got ourselves deep into kak! The sun is dimming in our retro room... dies away, so there's nothing to dry the rising swamp. Where does the swamp come from? From tears! Shiva, you weep at night! I can't stop it rolling on, because when the sun is gone it's not the day that comes, but a new night...

Well, well, don't you worry, it's really nothing! I once heard on the TV that the inhabitants of earth will soon start moving to specially created orbital stations. For a long time now, scientists have been living and working in orbit. Engineers and doctors... too!

Look, Rotkod has flown up above Spy-hill. Single-humped centrifugal camel. Our two-humped camel cannot reach him from here with its spit...

But what if, instead of hospital, he takes us straight away into orbit? An explosion of rocket engines... Breaking News on TV:

"The latest reports! A boot has been found on the launch-pad! It's believed that the owner of the boot is Shiva! In order to prevent further similar occurrences, raids are planned for the country of minaret hallucinations."

Aha! Hallucinations! The sound of weaving looms comes from behind the door: the orbit is obits. And there is not a single lousy individual in orbit! No, no, there is no way that the doctor takes us away from our retro. No lousy people are allowed. And it's definitely him who delivers to us hallucinogens in pills. While those outside, their sounds are scratching at the door. Their standing ovations in the country of interplanetary stations would invade our room...

Let's slam the diamond window pane so silence will reign again!

Well, well, Shiva, what's next?

VII

On Sunday - the third of March - the congregation gathered at the church for a service. Their prayers that day had a special significance. In Natal, Paul Kruger himself tried to stop the stampede of the Boer forces from around Ladysmith. A Boer council of war was called for the fifth of March, to take place in Bloemfontein. The President intended to consolidate defensive forces, to oppose the army of Roberts which was advancing on the capital of the Orange Republic.

Under the vaults of the church the congregation prayed for the success of their leader and their nation. Everyone felt that a decisive moment for the country had arrived, and now Afrikaners joined their voices in sacred hymns, calling for God to take their side. The prayers echoed under the vaults, soared up to the skies, blended with other prayers which rose from many other churches big and small, from Boer military camps and from distant farm households. The nation sang their hope and faith in divine justice. The aura emanating from all the prayers was so vast that if it were filled with colour, it would resemble Aurora Borealis embracing all South Africa.

Standing next to Cornelia's family, Johannes also added his small spark to the majestic glow, his voice to the general choir. Cornelia's parents accepted his presence, as in practice she reigned over all members of the family. Andries-the-chicken, usually bored during the service, this time sang louder than the others. Flycatcher, true to character, addressed himself to the singing with ceaseless and remarkable enthusiasm. Katy too joined her voice to the hymns of the congregation. Although her Afrikaans was yet imperfect, she knew this could not be discerned in the larger blend. Her exaltation seemed sincere and unpretentious. The family of Johannes' hosts sang not only the pain of their dead son, but also the hope of certain victory. They knew that in their house there grew up another son who must take the place of his brother, fallen for the country. Now this teenager stood beside them and, like Flycatcher, with the same kind of unconscious passion, gave himself entirely over to the hymns.

All the air proclaimed that nothing would withstand this huge wave of religious patriotism of the South African Boers.

Cornelia's fugitive fiancИ Herman took off his hat, and prayed among a group of armed Boers. He would not risk a long journey to the front, as he feared capture. While in hiding on the outskirts of the town, he had met a local man, who put him in touch with members of the rebel movement. These now lodged on surrounding farms, awaiting the signal to unleash a guerrilla war.

At the same time, the land of South Africa carried many other children of God. The workers, or vine-growers as Johannes had called them when he first arrived in town, also went to church for the Sunday service. They had only recently been baptised, and were not yet able to understand the whole meaning of worship. For them, the procession to church was a merry, pagan celebration. The members of this group were dressed in an unusually fancy fashion. The leader of this party, with a little toe missing from his foot, hopped forward with a dancing gait. He was dressed up in a torn and buttonless frock-coat which he had put straight on to his naked body. Next to him walked a fat, tipsy matron. Over her shoulders she wore an old mantlet of ostrich-feathers, dyed pink. One of the teenagers had adorned his head with a high silk hat. It was crushed and the wrong size, too big for the wearer and so covered the whole upper part of his head. The youngster had constantly to lift its rim in order to see all unevennesses in the ground beneath his dirty bare feet. One member of the procession, unable to show off any foppish garment, dragged behind him at the end of a rope, an emaciated and vicious dog. Another two youngsters, who had absolutely nothing except ricketty bodies which were covered with bruises, plotted to attack the lucky owner of the silk hat and snatch this treasure from him. Their only obstacle was a disagreement about who would first have the honour that day, of putting on the hat.

In another part of town, the Malay barbers were saying their daily prayers, under the dome of their Muslim mosque. Heeding the chant of the muezzin, time after time they dropped their hands and heads to the ground, directing their bows towards distant Mecca. Their aspirations were far from practical. They asked nothing from God, declaring only: "There is no other God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet."

The members of the English community wiped away their tears with handkerchiefs after listening to a sermon under the vaults of their churches. They clasped each other's hands and each expressed the wish to his neighbour that the course of the war, already favourable, should improve even more.

The two English officers, who witnessed the tussle between Johannes and Andries in the Victoria and Kruger tavern, advanced with the marching column of infantry to join with the main force of Field Marshal Roberts. Their Sunday service was restricted to the sermon of an army chaplain. At present, their concerns were not with the long-term prosecution of the war, but rather with the forthcoming offensive against Bloemfontein.

Flycatcher's old companion in the "pig" affair, Ziggi, did not himself pray, but counted on extracting some profit from religion. Not far from the church he laid out his modest wares, mainly vegetables, and expected to sell these to worshippers returning from the service.

Church business too, was on the mind of another member of the pig trio, the ill-fated Gnat. As an outcome of Ziggi's hammer-blow, he had lost the ability to walk. His aim now was to learn how to crawl on his hands, holding a hat in his mouth, in order to collect alms near churches.

There was another person who thought little about the religious essence of a Sunday. The old vagrant madman sloped about the town searching for Piet-Johannes, and that was the only important matter on his mind, casting out all other purposes in life.

Also having little in common with religion, was the death of the Camel Thorn wounded one week earlier by the shell-burst at Paardeberg. That Sunday, the acacia dropped all its dry leaves from the parched crown. Nevertheless, the fact that tree still stood upright in spite of the apparent absence of support from the ground, was quite miraculous, and undoubtedly they were more than earthly forces that sustained it, standing as it did, like a guard of honour.

The Irishman, Catholic Terence O'Hara, did not go to Mass that morning. He was engaged in the examination of a party of prisoners transported from Paardeberg. That was the first large family batch of Boers. The doctor's task in quarantine was to separate the healthy from the sick. It was with great amazement that O'Hara scrutinized these unusual prisoners-of-war: emaciated Afrikaner families with many children, sitting in isolated groups in the dust of the large prison yard.

And then that dull silence of those doomed families was suddenly exploded. It was as if that elusive aura reached and wrapped itself round all, and the people, without a word, as one rose to their feet. The sound of a hymn burst into the prison air. The prisoners joined their voices with President Kruger, with Flycatcher and Johannes, with Cornelia and Andries-the-chicken, with Herman and thousands of other Afrikaners all around the country. Aurora Borealis glowed and swelled.

But whether or not at that moment sang Private Tommy Holly, was known only to the Paradise Flycatcher flying swiftly over the African land which absorbed the prayer.

Prayer is the human heart exposed, turned inside out... The heart is double, and consists of quarter-chambers, just like the costumes that we used to stitch. So that's how in prayer we exposed the twins who pretended to be halves. You cannot hide, behind a screen of words, a double heart turned inside out for all to see!

It seems that they're preparing to induct us into some sort of sect. They've shaved our heads. The orbit - obits! There is no such a thing as a lousy lassie in orbit. In our city we have many beliefs, but no hopes. There is only one kind of love, which is a lousy investment anyway!

The Sky must be cracked open in order to divide its bounty.

Animals travel abroad, yet Shiva and I cannot! People revere animals. The two-legged worship the four-legged. They feed canned tuna to their cats. Sacrificial kittens they suffocate with bows. Dogs for them are matter of faith... I mean fidelity. There are even tombstones, monuments to these creatures, erected by the devoted ones. The monument, like a golden idol, shines from the touch of a million mad pilgrims. They beat their foreheads in bowing to all sorts of things . Negroes bow to Negus. Malayans worship Malaga. Hollanders kneel to Holder...Chinese prostrate themselves to chai. Hold with the hare and run with the hounds. Praise be the animals! Perde and pferke, flies and flycatchers, chameleons and camels... The trophies go from one place of worship to another, reclaimed by a succession of churches. Ink comes from the Incas. Nil is from the Nile. Voodoo - wooing to doing... Very obvious obliquity of dirty obligatory orgies. Rastafarian slave with the exotic name Naira Fatsar... read inside-out and back-to-front. This Naira Fatsar is a worker noted in connection with tobacco... and for her songs.

Even rabbis do not allow me to attend their services. Although I was declared kosher, which means it's very possible to gobble me up, they do not let me into their temples! They don't know where to put me, into the men's or women's section. If I were they, for sure I would have let myself in, since we are all there on the same business, appealing to the same One. They say: only One thing is required of you! But I have two hearts, and when they turn inside out through a prayer: "two-plus- two-plus-two-plus-two equals eight" screams out. However, they do not hear the scream!

Well, with Shiva's head I'll read books and poetry amidst double loneliness. And their cuisine, specially "consecrated", I will try mentally. Here is a slice of Israeli matzos. Here is a slice of dry Roman biscuit. And I'll wash it down with a glass of chicken blood from the wooden Voodoo sculpture of a hen. Like a cannibal, I will bite off an agnail from Shiva's hand. And I'll beg Pin King to snatch something to smoke from Naira Fatsar's pocket.

It's silly, of course, to go through the sacrament alone together, but then again there is no chance of mass hallucination. Those that are stuffed with pills reflect in one another so feebly that they cannot be considered a Great Sign.

He-one, She-one, where are you, seamstresses Eva and Shiva? The dream of Rotkod. They are hidden somewhere inside a corporeal Temple.

Take a guess, Rotkod, which way you should turn the wheel, to the right or to the left? But could it be that you just have to pray? With an open heart? Or to open your heart? An opening of open hearts. You've eaten and you've opened with your scalpel so many other people's hearts, yet you've understood nothing... because you should have begun with your own heart, through the ritual of prayer.

Red Ink

Now finally I can understand what was happening with the patient... why the depressants had no effect. Rat King managed to isolate his suppressed emotions in one of his two heads, alternating from one to the other. While sacrificing completely one half, Stitcher was totally controlled by the other... the depressants were prescribed for just one brain, not two!

Now let me see what happened after I attacked Stitcher's common organ - the pancreas - through a massive bombardment of insulin.

VIII

On the fifth of March, in Bloemfontein, Paul Kruger had convened a council of war. The council decided to send as many men as possible to defend the capital of the Orange Republic against Field Marshal Roberts. Defence was essential, the whole outcome of the war and the freedom of the Boer republic depended upon it.

In the morning of that day, Flycatcher came running to Johannes with the news that a big whale had beached itself on the sandy shore, not far from the harbour. Cornelia's family intended going to see the marvel and sent the boy to ask whether Johannes wished to join them. Indeed Johannes was interested in such an event, so he quickly readied himself and accompanied Flycatcher to the appointed place on the beach.

Already from a distance Johannes could see the black hulk which stood out against the vast calm surface of the ocean. Crowds of spectators had gathered to catch a glimpse of this amazing sight. They seemed like clumps of tiny bright insects crawling at the base of a huge dark mountain. Flycatcher could not contain his excitement, and ran forward shouting and swinging his arms.

When Johannes approached the focus of attention, he saw that all of Cornelia's family was already there. He greeted them one after the other, then caught Cornelia's hand, drew her aside, and these two then surrendered themselves wholly to contemplation of the dead beast.

The great leviathan, expelled from its usual habitat, presented a most unnatural and freakish sight. The huge tail and flippers seemed tiny in comparison with the immensity of the glossy carcass. It was hard to imagine that those small-size instruments could be responsible for all movement and conduct of such a large monster. Without much difficulty Johannes found the blowhole of the whale. Nevertheless, it took him some time to find an eye. Only when he and Cornelia had walked all round the giant did they discover the clouded and lustreless half-globe, which had so recently pierced the thick darkness of the ocean. Cornelia could not face that eye and turned away from its misty depths, for the memory of the klipspringer's farewell glance was still too vivid in her mind.

A group of motley children played a game next to the whale, throwing sticks and stones to try and strike the eye of the dead creature. Johannes dispersed the little hooligans, then turned to Cornelia.

"Do you know," he asked her, "why the whale ended up on the beach?"

"Perhaps lost its orientation," conjectured Cornelia. "Something must have confused it, and its senses somehow failed it."

Johannes shook his head doubtfully.

"That was a suicide," he said. "And very symbolic that it should happen exactly today, when the fate of the Boer republic is being decided up north."

"Where is this nonsense coming from?" demanded Cornelia. "What for, these hints about suicide which recall poor Marius? And what in your opinion awaits the Boer republics? Do you really think this kind of end? Answer me!"

"Whales do not simply lose their orientation in the ocean," replied Johannes. "For that they are too intelligent. Look at the enormous mass of this animal! Its organs were not created for toying with chance. If their natural compass really was subject to influences from outside, all of them, long ago already, would have crashed against underwater reefs, not to mention the fact that they would never have been able to feed themselves. No, no, this beast could find an individual shrimp in the vast space of the waters, and that would be the same for us as finding a needle in the haystack. And by the way, the parallel with Marius was drawn, Cornelia, by yourself. This, as we can see, is simply the most recent example of an act that can occur not only among people. Here in front of us lies a living ... I beg your pardon ... a dead illustration of the fact that animals feel and suffer no less than humans do. This whale, considering the size of its body and brain, grieved and was tormented perhaps much more than a man.

"And concerning the Boer republics, I don't have an answer for you! Probably the end of the war, no matter what kind of end, does not mean the end of the living cycle of the nation."

At that moment, the conversation between Cornelia and Johannes was interrupted by noises, amongst which could be distinguished the howls of Andries-the-chicken. A commotion had arisen on the other side of the carcass, and the couple could establish its cause only when they had rounded the head of the whale. Some joker had cut out with a knife on the skin of the animal, the bleeding inscription: Paul Kruger. Considering the diversity of political inclinations amongst the spectators, and the particular meaningfulness of the day, the joke provoked a wild reaction in the crowd.

An ex-Londoner, head of one of the English families standing nearby, pointed with his cane at the inscription, saying:

"In the same manner, very, very soon, that last Boer monster will bleed to death. Their odious president will be thrown out of the water like this whale."

Andries-the-chicken threw an angry glance at the speaker.

"You stupid old fart!" he shouted. "The fighting Boer will be the one to drag your bloody empire out of our rich domains. And then Britain will rot like this mound of meat!"

This dangerous polemic threatened to turn ugly, but luckily at that moment some new characters appeared on the scene. The Military Commandant of the town, fearing an epidemic from the enormous quantity of meat rotting in the sun, had sent a squad to cut and clean the whale's carcass. This was quite a timely measure, as dozens of stray dogs had already begun to scurry around the place, and hundreds of sea-birds whirled round and round, plunging down and trying to alight on the back of the dead beast.

The crowd fell silent when they saw the composition of the squad. The people sent to do this dirty job were prisoners. Because it was wartime, they were guarded not by the usual prison gendarmerie, but by regular troops armed with rifles, their bayonets fixed. The prisoners carried spades in their hands. Their faces were wrapped in rags in order to protect them from the horrible smell of the whale's entrails. But the crowd did not need to look at the features of the prisoners since, by their size and bearing, it was easy to discern which of them were Boers. The very first captured Boers transported from the battlefield.

The townsfolk in silence, as if under a hypnotic spell, observed how the squad got down to its work. Blackened blood oozed out of the whale, belts of thick skin hung down, and finally the mighty arches of the beast's ribs were bared. Neither the sight of blood nor the unbearable stench could bring the spectators out of the trance produced by the presence of the defeated Boers.

All of a sudden, one of the workers made an abrupt leap through the line of guards, and struck a violent backhand blow with his spade at Andries-the-chicken. Although Andries did not expect such an attack, he managed instinctively to dodge the blow. The spade missed his head and landed on his shoulder, inflicting a very deep wound. One of the guards quickly grasped what had happened, and delivered a retaliatory bayonet-thrust into the back of the offender. When the soldiers had turned over the body and removed the rags from his dead face, Johannes recognized Spotty, the man who had sold him the diamond.

"Poor devil," thought Johannes, "he must have seen Andries in the crowd and decided to settle accounts with him. However, this is the second suicide for today. First the whale, and now this poor wretch - bad omens, one after the other. This means that it is time to begin putting into motion the final part of my plan."

There's one thing I regret.

In order to resist the hallucinations imposed on me by Rotkod, I had to get rid of my favourites. Good and useful for my system, shadows of Meisie "I", Pin King, Shindra, all got themselves into bad company, which led them away from my world. That is what I call investment in a scam. Rotkod has developed a love for me. He wants to force me by any means to sew again, and through that, in his opinion, rescue me. If he fails with this method, he'll abandon it and undertake another. And so my favourite shadows will return to me! You see when my shadows are not with me, they cannot caution me, warn me that the white-coats have changed my tablets and swapped them for somniferous pills, enough to put both of us out. The journey through outside world that we'd hoped for so much, we just did not see. When we woke up, we were in a room again, only a different one. A hospital room!

Who knows, maybe while we were in our coma, they changed only the interior of our room and put bars on the windows. Although the windows' chequered panes are a little smaller now, the diamond glass still reflects the same minarets of the city.

Does that real World really exist? Maybe it's only an image projected onto the window panes, like onto the TV screen or a computer. People come and go, move around, take trips, but in the end always find themselves in the dark space between four walls.

I wonder, what kind of coffin will they prepare for me? Will it be four-walled or a forked double? Or maybe not any coffin at all! Perhaps they'll burn us in a crematorium, together with mutilated guinea pigs. Probably, they've already used spirits to wash clean all their hot laboratory equipment, because it has been fouled through contact with us. And why? In our turn, we've taken on trust the existence of the Real World, even though we've seen it only through reflection in the glass pane. We play by your rule - the believer regards as reality the things he wants to see, but the non-believer regards unwanted things as not existing!

Was it so difficult for you to show us the route through your ambulance window? Can't you understand that what for you is obvious and self-evident, for us is not clear or evident at all? Well...on the other hand... how can mere half-ones actually sense this?

However on reception, one goes through an Aesculapius council chamber! A medical launching!

"On the shores of ill-fated Caphrogenius they found the prehistoric fish Coelacanth... Sillykant, so to speak. The creature was most probably a bitch, since it resisted the fishermen for so long a time..."

Well, well, if they've switched my tablets to night pills, I shall call back my useful shadows. These real hippocrats are scarier by far than the hallucinations of my former tablets.

Pin King has penetrated the hospital precincts by paying a bribe... in the shape of an orange. Van der Perdekrags are invited to a showcase of Proctologists, and all other useful shadows sneaked in under guise of doctors-without-fear.

... From its bones, Afro-Canth has constructed crutches. And what kind of fins has that Silly-Canth?... They will gobble these up and not even take notice, those people of science, researching the appearance of the incarcerated bitch! Cornelia van der Perdekrag, employing scientific words, happened to kill some adorable birds, remarks that the eye of that dead cuckoo is an exact copy of this Coelacanthuku. Rotkod replies that the nose of the Coelacanth resembles that of Immanuel Kant. The creature has lost its orientation, having got itself into destructive prostration.

A common question:

What is the appearance of the Coelacanth?

Its gills are like the moon? Its tail like a month?

An ominous, silent answer in the air:

It looks like a rotten grinch,

But by gender it's a bitch!

The ominous silence is broken by Great Shindra. C-r-r-ack! The sound of splitting fabric, bursting of the Great Trousers - the price of a knee bent in amazement. New discoveries do not come cheap... sometimes they lead to other discoveries...

Well, well, what could be done now? How can one wander around the hospital in torn pants? Sometimes one can meet a lady here... or someone else. One of the young ladies has covered her face with a handkerchief, and closed her eyes. Then bah-bah!!! She fell upon our poor Coelacanth! I could not believe my eyes... I couldn't believe it was van der Perdekrag! Was she deeply moved? Where to? There! No way! Must be effect of cocaine! What other reason would she have for coming to the hospital?

Rotkod has stretched out his hands:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, that will be all for now! For those who have further interest, there will be an additional session later."

For Shiva and I attendance is obligatory. The doctor's face reads a phrase, which means that the time has come to set in motion the final part of my plan. And I'm not afraid, and Shiva is not afraid either! Just imagine the surrounding world that doesn't surround us but just pushes past us. Although our fabric was from there. The sun from there gave us warmth through the diamond glass. Over the bridge back and forth from head to head we ran.

I will try to reconstruct the reality of the bridge between one room and the other:

Sunny day. Across the narrow bridge walks a nun. The starched cassock of a giant lady! Majestic fabric! Blueness around the sun is the sky! White clothes meant happiness! Black birthmark of Venus on the Sun?

Are you from there, white-coated doctors? Why are you here, standing in a paling of dragon's spines? Not so rare are those Coelacanths in Caphrogenius, that they should be torn to pieces. You will scare off the others and they will never again put themselves into your hands. Because of your cruelty, we'll have to die of hunger. Dear fishermen, I've got myself into your silly, old, torn nets, all by myself! Guzzle all you would, but why should you torture your fish, before you eat them?

After giving the necessary attention to the injured Andries, the company, comprising Cornelia's family and some other acquainted families, set out towards a townhouse where a tea party was to take place. A terrace of the building faced straight onto a not too crowded street of the town. The guests settled themselves on this terrace, leading a lively conversation and observing with curiosity the street characters who arose before them, as if in some strange theatre.

The company was served by a troupe of maids among whom was Katy. Her unfailing helper Flycatcher scurried back and forth in the kitchen. A little while later Doctor O'Hara joined the party. He informed everyone that the life of Andries-the-chicken was out of danger, and that all necessary measures for the care of the patient had been applied. The nature of the wound would allow the injured to remain at home and the doctor would visit him from time to time, for examination and change of bandages. This good news was received as tidings that had already been expected. In general, the gatherers looked forward to only good news that day. Coming out of the Boer council of war could be expected nothing but a radical change for the better.

At that moment one of the guests, an elderly gentleman, with an expression of indignation on his face, flung aside a newspaper that had absorbed him totally for some time.

"How can anyone read this, gentlemen?" he shouted, "this stuff they write about President Kruger! It's all right if political commentators, who themselves are tied to the enemy camp, criticize the actions of the opposition. I understand. This would be the polemic of gentlemen. But newspapers! They are full of malicious attacks on the appearance of the president! Everything - from the ugly rhymes and cartoons to the battlefield reviews - is aimed at only one target: the beard of Paul Kruger!"

With a grin on his face, Johannes put aside his unfinished cup of tea onto a tray, and stretched out his hand ostentatiously.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, using this opportunity to seize the focus of attention, "please note that the more they sneer in their articles at the physical shortcomings of the president, the less credibility these authors have. A critic crawls over the body of Kruger with a magnifying glass, and the more petty details he finds on that body, the smaller he himself becomes. Just remember today's midget who carved out the name of the president on the whale's body. That concerns not only the criticism addressed to Kruger...

"Take any biography on great people. What is usually the basis of those works? I will tell you! It is mainly the parading of details little known and of little interest to the thinking reader. And the more those details are trivial and shallow, the more honoured a position they take in the work. Show me a biographer who will not peek into the early childhood of his subject! Without a doubt from there - from chamber-pots and piles of fouled napkins - he will lay a foundation for building his subject's future image. So what about the main events and achievements of the life recounted? Oh, why bother with that? We all know that Napoleon won the battle of Austerlitz. But did he perhaps suffer from tapeworms just before this battle? This is exactly the question which the biographer will always be ready to answer! And think about it, ladies and gentlemen, is this author - this miserable creature - really capable of giving us a description of the great battle? No! Of course not! He thinks that by loading onto the reader heaps of half-true particulars, he draws the image of Bonaparte. But in reality he draws himself! And this picture of himself is the more exact, the more dirty the colours he uses.

"It's as clear as daylight that those lampoonists are simply incapable of lifting their pens to the designs of great people! And honestly, not all readers are ready to apprehend global revelations. Partly, it is the lack of intelligence in the way people take things in, that gives birth to lampoon writers. However, in the present case, with Paul Kruger, those scoundrels have not even this justification.

"Today, we all expect from the president a decision which will be followed by sweat and blood. Note: not only Boer blood, but English blood as well. War purifies, and today the reader awaits with a sinking heart some compelling words. He searches for them in newspapers, but finds only the cartoon in which frightened Boers look out from the beard of Kruger, where they had found shelter. Amazing how that absurd piece of paper is out of tune with the greatness of the unfolding tragedy!

"War! Such a bloody war! Just look at that poor cripple crawling in the dust in front of our terrace! Here we have it! How the weapons of war can deform a man!"

Again Johannes stretched out his hand ostentatiously, pointing to an invalid who dragged himself along the street with his hands, his hat clenched in his teeth to receive alms. That was Gnat - such an unfortunate example - the soldier who suffered his injuries, not on the battlefield, but in combat with a pig.

At first, Cornelia listened to Johannes' words with great excitement. But after a short while her attention was drawn to another conversation which rustled quietly in the background. The more Cornelia became aware of the content the more it grew in her mind, capturing the centre of her interest. This was a conversation between two maids, one of whom was Katy.

"Can you imagine!" Katy was saying. "Yesterday Johannes come to me and ask where he can buy a bunch of flowers around. I mentioned very good shop. Little bit later he came with big bunch of flowers and present it to me. I'm well informed about close connection between Johannes and my mistress. I'm understand well what I have to deliver this flowers to Cornelia. But Johannes stopped me and said what this flowers been prepared not for Cornelia but for me! He said what he just want to know better place to buy flowers, but disguised from me to whom this flowers been bought for."

"What a gallant gesture!" exclaimed the other. "I've never seen him giving flowers, not even to Cornelia. Watch out, don't let happiness slip through your fingers!"

Cornelia stood thunderstruck, and missed the end of the polemic about the newspaper articles. The figures of the guests moved slowly around her, as if in a dense and viscous medium. She was shaken from her trance by the crash of breaking crockery. This was precipitated by Johannes who, swinging his hands in oratory ecstasy, had knocked a tray of empty teacups out of Katy's hands. He rushed to pick up the pieces, then handed over the tray of broken crockery to another maid who came to help, and grabbing Katy by her hands, began to apologize to her more profusely than was becoming for the case. Katy was saved from this uncomfortable situation by her unfailing Flycatcher, who steered her away to the kitchen. When the turmoil had subsided Johannes noticed that Cornelia was no longer to be seen in the rows of guests on the terrace.

Not a dram of nicotine for a whole half a century! Not a word inside the head, not even in a whisper. Not a bit of regret in the eyes. No one iota of tearful rain - total drought.

Pin King weasels in with an iron bowl. It tinkles. Should I push away the hospital attendant? What for? SillyKant is expelled from the category of bitch, and is not included in any other group. In the entire world, there are only two in that non-group - SillyKant and I. The experiment is necessary. My case will help all those who've suffered on the battlefield. Well, such as Napoleon, Hannibal, his favourite Elephant, Boer by the strange name of either Mampoer or Foeir, lyre-birds Waxy and Cherry. Just before the injection they showed me a disgusting photo. Another experiment on the separation of the Siamese twins Waxy and Cherry. Successful! Although, ever since then, Waxy has been all wrapped up in bandages. Well, they've tied me up with belts also, that I should not be bashful.

Wishful thinking, to lie on a sickbed! When the pain came, engulfed me, I was ready to climb under the table. We creep under zinc tables, like the mummies of former Siamese cats, or as the Siamese twins Waxy and Cherry did before us. All grey with dust. Floor brooms without handles. Something has been broken, so a wet tail is trailing after us... It's okay... we'll get used to everyday hospital life and it will get used to us.

But can anyone get used to Pain?

The most painful thing in this World is for your parents tell you every day: "It would have been better if you'd been born dead." Your own mother! Believe me it is much worse than winter frost without a blanket, or a little toe cut off with scissors. Thanks, Rotkod, for reconstructing in my guts the sensation of pregnancy with a dead child. Now I know what our mum must have felt. The time comes and you want to give birth, which is a wonderful thing! On other hand, that is a moment of dread, because the child is dead! So, what to do? What is the solution? Because, what was not born cannot die! And what has died cannot be born! The answer is simple - live with the pain. Don't give birth. Neither the one, nor the other! Pain brings time to a halt. When something hurts, you watch the clock... and the speed of the hand is equal to zero. The hand doesn't move!

How often are patients, tormented by pain, concerned with the ugliness and deformities of their bodies? Well, for Shiva and I, it's too late to worry about that. We were from childhood so incredibly handsome that here they put us in chamber isolated from the others, not to traumatise the loonies in the hospital. They show us off to visiting ladies, since the ladies' nerves are much stronger than those of the mental patients. Now, while this horrible cocoon coils in convulsions giving birth to a dead body, they watch TV shows. I've been dragged as an artefact into this circular flower bed of women. And thus a model of human society begins to function! This is their perception of the near future, with a hint of mistrust and horror.

Please shout, shout all together: "It would've been better if you'd been born dead!" This is the biggest pain which you can inflict on me. But the secret has gone, together with my mum from whom it came.

Red Ink

In this atrocious hospital, they couldn't even find clothes for Stitcher. So they left him in his home stuff.

Out of pure fastidiousness, they left him to undress himself before his shower. So, he used that opportunity to hide his diary in the folds of his rags.

If only I could have got this into my hands back then! I would never have begun to try what I tried...

Without the insulin, I would have understood that Rat King had an increased resistance to pain, and no-one could ever have broken him through pain.

Neither would I have tried administering electroshock, to establish which of the two heads was the more stubborn. From the pages of this diary it would have become clear - the strategist Shiva commands unequivocally: do not sew. Vanessa is the one that equivocates: to sew or not to sew...

Even though the electroshock did not work, our intuition was right - we had to destroy the persona of Shiva!

Still, Stitcher's notes would have been so useful at that time...

-- X

To every cup of sorrow in life, Cornelia always responded in the same way: saddle her horse and ride off, away from the company of people. She did exactly this after stealing out from the ill-starred tea party.

As she came alongside the cliff of Marius-the-suicide Cornelia reined in the horse, and screwing up her eyes looked upon the burning disc of the sun. Around it, in the hazy air hung the huge ring of its halo. With her head tossed back, Cornelia took off her hat, allowing her curls to fall upon her shoulders. Then without changing her stance, she brought a water bottle up to her lips and took a few gulps.

The transparent rays of the star pierced through her. There were other rays too - the invisible but painful rays of love for Johannes, which blazed up in her heart. Cornelia felt that she was rising up to the sun. But the closer she approached the source of the light, the more unattainable seemed her goal. Then on either side of her appeared thin dark lines, which grew and transformed into long and infinite walls. These walls drew closer to each other and now Cornelia could see the sunlight only far ahead of her. She moved along this narrow corridor, which all of a sudden made a sharp turn. The light dimmed and the passage turned once more, merging with another narrow passage exactly the same as the one she had glided along.

"Labyrinth", she guessed.

Somewhere not far away Cornelia heard a voice. She drew her ear closer to the wall, and the words became clearer.

"'And from this time forward Pilate sought to release Him: but the Judeans cried out, saying, if thou let Him go, thou art not Caesar's friend: whosoever maketh himself a king, speaketh against Caesar.' This time has come not only for Pilate, but also for all of us. We will seek salvation on earth and will not find it. This time has been given to us not for salvation but for atonement. There's no way out of a labyrinth."

The light dimmed completely and the voice went with it. For a moment Cornelia lost consciousness but then shook herself out of the trance. Having come to her senses, she urged her horse back to the family estate.

***

Katy had already returned home, having tidied up the house after the tea party. When Cornelia rushed into the maid's cottage, Flycatcher was absent - he had gone to feed the chameleon. With a mighty swing, the Amazon slapped Katy across the cheek.

"How dare you, worthless creature, accept presents from the guest of your employers?!"

Katy's head rocked slightly from the powerful blow but at once recovered its former position, while the calm expression on her face changed not a bit. She began to speak. Her address compelled Cornelia to sink feebly onto the edge of Flycatcher's bed.

One hour later, Cornelia left Katy's cottage and directed her horse again along her usual path, this time towards Johannes' house.

***

Johannes stood on the threshold of his house as if expecting the arrival of the equestrienne.

"From this time forward," said Cornelia without dismounting, "you will not be able to release me, even if you should want to. Why on earth do you force that foolish Katy to play your absurd games? Why do you try to provoke my jealousy if I am already inside the labyrinth you created?"

Johannes made no haste to reply. First he helped the lady from her horse, then took her head in his hands.

"I do not intend to release you," he said, looking into her eyes. "In labyrinths there are many convolutions. Be prepared for that. And Katy ... Katy ... it's a trifle. A stupid joke that slipped out so suddenly it surprised even myself. Think no more of it. Rather, tell me if you are to become my wife."

"I am to become your wife?" asked Cornelia, her eyes widening. "I have already become her. Perhaps you are asking whether I am willing to stand at the altar with you? First I think you should ask yourself whether you are prepared to appear with me before the Creator."

"Yes, I am prepared. It's up to you now, Cornelia."

With his answer, Cornelia looked at Johannes in consternation, hesitating a moment.

"Well," she said, "then for my part I will not hamper matters. Nevertheless we will need to wait a while, at least till we obtain the blessing of my parents. You see, recently I almost got myself married to Herman. Or have you already forgotten that?"

***

Cornelia and Johannes had no idea that that they were being watched by a witness hidden not far from them. This was Flycatcher, who was observing the course of events. He could not overhear the conversation but was keenly interested in all that happened. Flycatcher had formed his own peculiar view of developments in the town. Anticipation of decisive actions on the front excited the boy's imagination, and he fancied that all Afrikaners who were capable of carrying weapons would instantly rise against the invaders.

In Flycatcher's eyes, the frequent meetings of belligerent patriot Cornelia with Johannes could be nothing else but a conspiracy to abscond for the active Boer army. The boy, with his straightforward approach to life, did not imagine that after her cancelled wedding to Herman, Cornelia could be guided by any other motives. Neither did Flycatcher imagine that the war could end in victory without his participation. He himself prepared to abscond for the front, and thought that the easiest way would be to join the rebellious Cornelia and Johannes. From the moment this idea possessed Flycatcher's mind, he tried his best not to let Johannes out of his sight, and if for some reason he could no longer keep watch, he always remained not far from the old Dutch musket. He knew for sure that Johannes would not depart to fight without it. Very often, after feeding the chameleon, the boy stroked the rifle lovingly, dreaming that it would stand in wonderful stead for himself and Johannes in the future battles.

There was another circumstance that might interfere with Flycatcher's designs: his lack of a horse. He could not overcome this problem without compromising the fundamental principles of his being. A plan of action had long ripened in the head of the enterprising Flycatcher, but in order to put this into practice the boy would have to violate the law Thou shalt not steal. The injury of Andries-the-chicken pressed him towards such an action. Being witness to the stormy discussion between Cornelia and Johannes, Flycatcher realized that he could wait no longer, and went ahead with his plan. He needed a bridle, and nothing short of theft could help him to obtain this.

"What bloody luck," thought Flycatcher, "to follow in my father's footsteps! Steal a horse's bridle! Damn it! Maybe it will be all right. But Andries is injured. He doesn't need it now. By the time he's better I'll definitely have got my own. Won on the battlefield. Then I'll return the borrowed bridle to Andries."

That evening the deed was done, and Flycatcher waited till the next morning to proceed with the second part of his plan.

As a result of pain I was neither dead nor alive. Though, also in the absence of pain we are neither dead nor alive. Like my neon fish that stayed behind, somewhere there, in our former room... without food, without light and without the electric air pump. After our parents' death Shiva and I have had our property in common. Although we've not married officially, we've made a contract between ourselves: divide nothing! Remember? Well... do not offend, do not attack, and so on... And now, in the case of "dead", instead of "living", others will do the dividing for us.

I can just imagine a document on inheritance after Shiva-Vanessa:

"During sport jumps the double-humped camel was negotiating an obstacle when it fell on its back, turning its fur inside out. Oh you, gynaecologic pose of the mythological crashed horsemen! For the first time, the hidden, invisible parts have seen the light. That is what will happen with the Flycatcher manuscript then-when-we-are-gone. The parts were surprised by the sun. And the sun was no less surprised by the invisible parts. The labyrinths of unexpectedness! Having consulted round the overturned perde, they decided to go and wash their hands".

So tell me, who in his right mind, instead of horseshoes, would use lyres to shoe the horse for the personal double happiness of an individual? The smith Pin King demands a reward for his services, which should be something out of the inheritance. He has his own views. But the view from the window in our former room is more pleasant to him. Well, sure, there are eaves and minarets... a view of all thirteen minarets. Although no matter how you look at them, only twelve are visible. A Zen rock garden! Immediately one can see in Pin King, the pseudo-Chinese philosopher.

What else is there of value? While double-humped was rolling on its back, the humps put down roots... Now a pferde grove grows out of the camel hooves. And in that forest are a multitude of dead fish, empty bottles and shells of depressed pills eaten by the camel. Also there were forged traces of camel hooves in the dust on the parquet. Their sun fills them with yellowness and they become heavy, golden. Furthermore it seems to me we had also a TV...? However, sometimes it seems that there was plenty around! And now... no matter where you look, everywhere there is only one thing - Pin King! Well, and friends of his, who came, who knows from where, on some civil business...

Hey people, who of you fancies my sewing machine? Is anyone interested? Well, after the shots and injections I'm neither dead nor alive. In such a condition there are no wishes, nor desires, nor ambitions... Did I really used to sew? What a lie! Time is pain. That is what you call before. And now nothing hurts me. That is why the wheels of your bloody time machines do not turn.

As any boy, Flycatcher had his own dream - the dream to fight in a real battle. Also, he had his own secret. The boy was in possession of a treasure, the existence of which he alone knew. Though he wished with his whole heart to help Katy, he could not separate himself from his prize. Now came the time to Open Sesame.

About a year earlier, a stormy sea had wrecked a wooden launch from an English troop carrier. All who sailed in it were rescued, but by all accounts the cargo was lost. Nevertheless the hull was washed up and found the next day by the lucky Flycatcher.

At the bottom of the vessel, half buried in sand and water, the boy had discovered a heavy oak barrel. Without waiting for witnesses to his good fortune, he rolled away his windfall as far as possible from the wreck, and hid it between the rocks, concealing it with great care. Returning a little later to his treasure, he opened the cask with a tool he had brought. From the rising fumes, Flycatcher knew it to contain whiskey. He launched a whistle of joy, imagining the profit he could extract for it from the drunkards in the port. Then he corked up the barrel and again took leave of his reserve capital, for the time being.

Now the time had arrived to put this reserve to use. Bringing with him the "borrowed" bridle and a large empty bottle, both packed into a bag, Flycatcher returned to the hiding-place of his riches and filled the bottle with whiskey from the barrel. Then he set out for the town slaughterhouse, where he knew one of his father's old drinking cronies worked as a knacker.

It was not difficult to find the place. When Flycatcher appeared in a little-known part of the town, he trusted his nose to lead him and was soon at the desired destination. Behind the cattle enclosures, some empty and some filled with restless animals, the boy found a dilapidated and gloomy building. Not wanting to enter, Flycatcher asked one of the workers outside whether his father's crony still worked there. The man nodded and agreed to call him.

Soon a tall, stooping man came out of the gloomy building and into the yard. He wore a dirty shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a rubber apron over it. This apron was covered in dark stains - the consequence of some horrible acts within the building, of which Flycatcher did not wish to be reminded. This was the first thing that arrested the boy's attention. Then forcing his eyes upward he saw a pockmarked face with its moustache twisted up, and recognized thereby his father's crony. The pockmarked face gazed through blurry eyes at the boy, clearly not understanding what sort of business could bring such a little milksop into his presence.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked rudely. "And what the hell do you want from me?"

Flycatcher took the hat off his head, and as politely as he could, began to explain pitifully:

"Sir, you were a friend of my dead papa. Today is the anniversary of his death, and I wanted to ask you to have a drink in his memory."

The knacker received this nonsense in puzzled silence, although the phrase "to have a drink" produced a good effect on him. Not overly concerned about which of his acquaintances might be sire to this sudden father-lover, the pockmarked face focussed his attention rather on the bottle that the boy produced from the bag.

"So... Well, to commemorate the deceased with a drink, surely that's a very Christian thing," muttered the drunkard, and uncorking the bottle took from it a huge gulp.

"Bloody good whiskey!" he admitted, and stretched out the bottle to Flycatcher, inviting him with a questioning glance, to join the imbibing.

Flycatcher took the bottle, wiped the neck thoroughly with his sleeve, re-corked it, and replaced it in the bag. The pockmarked face was unpleasantly surprised with the shortness of the commemoration, and asked the boy if he wanted to swap the whiskey for a piece of good beef. Flycatcher drew out the bottle again and gave it to the knacker, saying it would be nice if the man should have another drink to the honour of his deceased father. After a few good gulps, when the knacker's spirits had been uplifted, Flycatcher decided to proceed with his quest.

"I don't really want any beef," the boy said, "but it would be a pleasure to exchange my whiskey for a horse. One of those that go through your slaughterhouse."

"Do you understand what you're asking?" the knacker shouted angrily. "It's wartime! Can you just imagine what you get for the theft of government horses? A court-martial, that's what! If it were not for the memory of your dead father, I would give you a good hammering for such a request, right here and now!"

"I've got a whole barrel of whiskey stored," continued Flycatcher, paying little attention to the lecture. "I would gladly exchange it for a horse."

"As good as this, in this bottle?" enquired the pockmarked face.

"Exactly the same," said Flycatcher, "not a bit worse. Because this bottle comes from it."

"All right!" the drunkard surrendered. "I'll try to do you a favour. But only for the sake of your dead papa. We've just got in a batch of animals from the artillery transport. Where do you want me to bring the animal?"

Flycatcher named a well-known spot on the beach, situated not far from his hidden treasure. Then he handed the bridle to the knacker wrapped in the bag, knowing that nothing would happen to it, as the barrel of whiskey would be irresistible bait for a drunkard. They arranged to meet in one hour at the appointed place, and Flycatcher retreated extremely satisfied with the success of his diplomatic mission.

One hour of waiting was an eternity for the boy, who still could not believe he would soon become the proud owner of a horse. However, everything in this world has its an end, and at last, on the top of a sandy dune, he saw the figure of the knacker swaying on unsteady legs. Behind him he led a horse by the reins.

It was a once brown, but now almost grey, old mule. The poor creature had only one eye, the other covered with a huge white cataract. All his life the mule had served in an artillery harness, and his whole body was covered in large callouses. Any value he had, lay only in his horseshoes - nice horseshoes on huge cracked hooves. The drunken knacker, under the influence of the spirit, had forgotten to unshoe the mule, from which he might have gained a few extra coins. But Flycatcher paid no heed to such trifles. That was his steed, his future fighting comrade, who would share with him the burden and glory of war. The boy was not yet a skilled cavalryman, so the calmness of the mule suited him. He could easily manage this old and slow Rosinante. He directed the pockmarked face to the barrel of whiskey and left, not concerned to know how the latter would carry it away.

Flycatcher led his steed along the shore, from time to time stroking his new friend gently on the muzzle, covered though it was with bald patches, as if moth-eaten.

Later the same day the mule was entrusted to the care of Ziggi. Flycatcher promised him some small pay if the animal were maintained in good condition, and a dreadful vengeance if not.

All night the boy saw in his dreams how he would fly to confront the enemy on his valiant horse. On his right rode Cornelia, and on his left Johannes. The enemy, seeing them, dropped all their weapons and began to flee. And the steed under Flycatcher shook the air with its warlike neigh.

They gave me a break... I mean, us a break... a preparation for Coronation. To lay on our not-sacred, smooth-shaven heads, electric nimbuses. They have to decide who it is they officially proclaim a king, and to whom they give an iron mask, which will help to hide and deny any relationship to anybody. After the Coronation, our first law for sure will be: never go in a carriage, even if it's a medical one, next to working electromagnets. Otherwise the exiled one's iron mask may be pulled out from the carriage by the functioning magnets. His face would be attracted to the monster dragging behind Our Highest Majesty!

It's simple to be a king. What do kings do? Fight wars. I, as Rat King, understand that well. Now there is no time for sentiment! There would be no complaints, because, you see, in nature even rats feed their king for nothing. But you people - you refuse. Mind you, in nature rats feed their king not out of kindness and mercy, but because they are afraid of him! All these double claws, teeth and muscles are better left alone, and in peace.

Humans are not like that at all. Their kings fight wars on the move, littering their marches with piles of victims. Imagine how more dangerous is a human Rat King, compared to a king of the common rat? Judge for yourself: four hands, trained by precise, constant practice, double muscles of the torso, and three hundred and sixty degrees of view. So much for the physics. Now if one considers its metaphysical essence? One being, the demigod Minotaur, was the invincible owner of his World, the labyrinth, for a very long time! If each person embodies half a God, then count up how much of the Supreme Essence would be in a double person?

However, even our condition contains weakness. The data of our survey has not been verified. Are people genuine halves, or are they allied with an invisible double? Just for now I'm trying to deal with their invisible halves, shadow beings, the good halves of all these, these messengers from clients, nurses and doctors. Although I prefer to communicate with Pin King, Meisie "I", Rotkod, just in case they really do exist. With their malicious halves, I refuse to have any discussion whatsoever! One can break oneself against these vicious types! We oppose them with our own halves. Take a guess which halves? Which would win the battle?

A battle of guesses! How would such a battlefield look?

Let us present it in pictures: In solar dust, horseshoes were forged from Gold. The enemy crept along the road some long time, greedy and thirsting after blood, wanting the gold for himself. He was all smeared and dirty, and had lost his belief in the reality of this world. Leaving his footprints all confused behind him, he threw his pursuers off the track. Where before there was gold dust scattered by the galloping horses, now there is something reminiscent of smudged porridge with the scratch-marks of a rake. So, our enemy has thickened after the porridge, and misdoubted whether he be enemy or friend.

So sat he and contemplated... SOMETIMES IT IS USEFUL TO THINK!

Otherwise you'll never see the difference between where the Matrosies jas dries, and where Matrossieperde run...

XII

On the seventh of March, Field Marshal Roberts advanced his army towards Bloemfontein. He did not meet with any decisive counter-attack, for which the burghers had entreated the Skies. President Kruger, who tried to consolidate a defensive front, himself nearly perished under a fusillade from the advancing army. The president fled, so fled his army. An anticlimax of the war had arrived. Black Week for the Boers.

In the town, amongst Afrikaners, the wave of patriotism turned to bewilderment. The agonizing Cornelia sought some remaining fire in the souls of her compatriots, but could find only weary indifference. There were no more gatherings of locals from the surrounding farms, who before, with an air of consequence on their faces, had raised clouds of smoke from their short pipes and spent endless time in discussions.

Formerly boisterous frequenters of taverns also preferred, during this period, to open their bottles alone in their homes. The neighbours of Cornelia's parents no longer dropped in at the estate to chat about this and that. Even the servants in the house were dejected, as they had lost all hope of receiving any pat on the back from their employers.

The indefatigable Cornelia called on her injured brother Andries. The anxious urgings of his sister did not stir any enthusiasm in the invalid. He buried himself deep in pillows, groaned, and spoke more about the flies in his room than about the fate of his fatherland. Cornelia, furious at his indifference, grabbed her brother by the bandaged shoulder and shook him. Andries tore himself away from her, then hid himself head and all under the blankets, and began pitifully to call to his mother for help.

In her search for a companion in arms, Cornelia could in the end do nothing but turn to Johannes, sceptical though he was about the war. Nothing had yet changed in his attitude, the more so because the new turn of events had been foreseen by him in advance.

"Sometimes it seems to me your indifference serves as your knowledge," Cornelia reproached Johannes. "Whatever happens, you are always right just because nothing matters to you."

"So you must admit that this is exactly what attracts you to me," laughed Johannes. "All friends around you conducted themselves too impulsively. One committed suicide, another fled on the day before the wedding. Just recently all around you wanted to take up arms against the enemy. And now I'm afraid it will be difficult to gather them together, even for a Sunday service at church."

"But how on earth could all this have happened?" asked Cornelia. "Our nation cannot disappear. Cannot disperse instantly like the morning mist!"

Johannes asked whether Cornelia would go with him to the beach, to see a dead whale.

"Oh yes," answered Cornelia, understanding the hint. "You mean to say by this, that now it is impossible to find even the spot where the great leviathan had lain. And that is a natural fact of life. But what should I do? I, a separate bone of the skeleton of my nation. If all that I was part of has vanished, then my own existence is meaningless as well."

"Look round you," said Johannes, "and you will find support much closer than where you expect it. I propose to go through with our wedding right now. If everything around you slips away and falls to pieces, in such times you must surely notice the one thing that is unchanging: my feelings towards you."

"You're right," breathed Cornelia pensively. "I'm looking for constancy now. In this ocean of shifting sands I find myself next to you, not only because we are lovers, but mainly because you are the last hope which can keep me afloat. Even though you are not a patriot in the sense of the word which is most needed now from our compatriots...compatriots..." she sighed bitterly. "All right. I'm ready to go through with the wedding. Only one thing, let the announcement of our engagement take place neither in my house, nor in the house of any local Afrikaner. What do you think, perhaps Doctor O'Hara could help us, and gather all at his home? But I beg you, let us wait and see how the campaign for Bloemfontein ends. I want to save the sacred rite of the wedding from superfluous cynicism. A small swipe at public opinion will be more than enough."

There came a moment for Johannes to sigh.

"I'm afraid that the English campaign for Bloemfontein will end in such a way that our engagement party in the house of British O'Hara, will be regarded not as a small swipe at public opinion, but rather as a naked and most cynical betrayal. But all right. Whatever will be, will be. I myself will speak to the doctor. I don't think there will be any difficulty. And on your shoulders will lie your parents' blessings. Please don't forget that your servants must be prepared to assist at the celebration at O'Hara's house - he lives modestly, and will need their presence and help.

***

In the evening of the same day, a conversation took place between Katy and Flycatcher in their cottage, just before going to sleep.

"How you think," asked Katy, "why Creator turn off from Afrikaner nation?"

"It's not Him, Katy. It's us," replied Flycatcher. "We are turning away from Him. God made from His own flesh everything we see. Everything we feel. Everything that happens to us. He made the sky, and the stars, so we didn't have to be cramped up. He made time, so we could learn how to live in this world, and to stop making mistakes while we're learning. And learn how to make even more happiness in living. We must pay Him back with only one thing: we must love Him, because He's so lonely, and so much wants us to love Him."

Katy entered into deep thought, then, as if remembering something, said:

"Sound like been said by Johannes, about the room without space and time. Probably in this particular room of Labyrinth living creator of Labyrinth himself."

"Oh, Johannes!" exclaimed Flycatcher. "Sometimes I think Johannes loves himself more than God, when he fancies himself to be a labyrinth-builder. He forgets one thing: the room and the labyrinth are all part of God. Even when Johannes thinks about those things, that is part of God. This is the sin we all commit - we love ourselves more than we love the Almighty. We began to love the things that we've got on earth. So we turned away from other people. And those people also loved the things they've got. That is why hate was born - people fighting over things they want on earth. People started to enjoy hating, even started to hate themselves! Then came Judas. He was a suicide. He forgot he was part of what God made. That was a deed of the Devil. Judas tried to destroy God's flesh by killing himself. And didn't understand. God can't turn away from us, so we can't turn away from ourselves. We are all one thing!"

"In such case, tell me," persisted Katy, "why so many nice people have to drink cup of sorrow? Isn't it, their fate must be source of joy to Our Father? Why the highly religious nation of Afrikaners experience defeat in the war?"

"When people suffer they can learn something, Katy," replied Flycatcher. "The Creator pushes us to feel the pain which He feels inside Himself. This is to help us understand. I'm telling you for sure, Katy, the things around us, they don't exist. Not you, not me, not the earth, not the stars. Not even time. There's only one thing - the lonely Creator who's painfully waiting for our love, who wants to share with us all of Him, all His happiness and sadness. That is why, if we have to suffer with our nation, then we suffer not only with them, but together with the Creator of the Afrikaners. I hope God forgives those people who tempt us. They forget where they came from. They make other people into butchers. And suicides. They will end up much worse than the people who suffer, their victims. They will end up with something I'm scared to even think about. But maybe, they are also part of Creation, maybe nothing will happen to them. Maybe they will end up without ever going through great and purifying suffering. No matter what they do, they will always manage to escape scot-free. Like Andries-the-chicken. The spade was aimed at his head, but it only hit his shoulder."

And whether these words were actually spoken by Flycatcher, or whether they simply floated down into her imagination, Katy never really knew. The only thing she remembered for sure was the image of a small bird darting across the canvas of her mind.

Time is running out for us. Running out to Cornelia. She's decided to prepare us. To spill the beans. She's appeared on my threshold, not entirely as usual, but only as the shadow of a sister from a horror film.

"No matter what happens, you are right, because for you anything does not mean anything, and nothing means nothing for you, Fumanchu."

She's appeared so beautifully. Not for nothing did her former suitors end up as they did, one directly into a mental institution, the other to a tree.

"Do you remember, when the Silly Kant Coelacanth was examined, there were some questions? They want to engage you in some ceremonies. In one word, clearly, they want to engage you."

"Sure. It's not so difficult to figure out, but, my dear, you must tell me, where does all this dust in Rotkod's jacket come from? Behind that dust, is there flabby flesh with a drying skeleton falling apart? The skin on top is dries into flaky flecked paint. Inside is a swollen gut resting on a congestion beneath. The trouser legs prevent his knees from bending. His suit determines the shape of that jelly being. False teeth in the mug. Still, he presses others to recuperate! Dust jacket with a scientific degree."

"Hey, you, Fumanchu, that wasn't necessary... The fabric of the doctor's jacket is not able to contain him. It's all moth-eaten. People are carried away by the idea that the national protИgИ Rotkod knows no fear! And to tell you the truth, we haven't seen him inside our fabrics for a long time. In any case, how can we rely on these fabrics? Or should we just wait till they wrap us up in a straight jacket! I shall go myself willingly to that procedure. And the fabric you can send to solders at the front. Let them pacify themselves with it, each other and the foe. Adieu, Cornelia!"

Thanks to her, we now understand how to prepare ourselves for the procedure. Heads will not help us there - those are exactly what they're fighting there for... or against. We'll try to open our heart inside out and stay with it till the passing of a storm which will not spare any kind of cloudburst, downpour, or barrage of electric lightning.

Certainly, it is nice to have memories of the room, when it came to life in beams of simple human pleasures... with a shadow from the eaves and a view onto an invisible minaret. It was nice to have the red dress of Fumanchu and the white dress of Shiva. Only one aspect of this simple truth is sad - all these human pleasures will not mean anything over there.

All my hopes lie with the opened headless heart. It is from there, from the heart, over the bridge that the she-giant was walking in her starched gown. The veil fluttered in the wind. Gold gleamed on blue - the sun. White clothes means happiness! You are simultaneously on the Earth and in the Sky. You carry One name, which I cannot pronounce because there I do not have heads. Your footsteps are echoed by the beats of my heart... how else can it pound? You forgave the dampness and bloodiness of the narrow intimate heart-bridge, in the same way in the same way as I forgive the one who will decapitate me, spilling my blood, overflowing with it your path. And it is so sad for me to serve here as your bridge... For you I sacrifice my happiness... I ask only this:

Descend to the one who, like you, wears white clothes and calls himself by your name. Force him to stop my torture, because I would like to save him as well! I ask this because no matter where you go to from me now, I shall forever be your mirror, in the same way as you will forever be my reflection...

Red Ink

Electroshock. Shiva's head.

XIII

"The yellow fish of the Orange River, and the Red Veteran."

The story of Katy in Namaqualand, as remembered by Flycatcher, or as re-created by Flycatcher in his vivid imagination.

"Katy, why do you have such grey hair, even though you are still so young?" Flycatcher once asked her.

Katy gave a short sigh, as if to expel the thoughts that the question evoked.

"So, is this the moment for bed-time stories?" she asked. "Only I'm no master at telling them...I'd better tell you my true story. Some of it is real. Other parts seem almost as if I saw them in a dream." She mused a little. "Those were very hard times for me!" she said.

"Soon after my arrival in South Africa, I found myself tossed by fate amongst a small group of Boers in the north of the land, camped on the banks of a small winding river.

"The wagons with the migrant families were artistically scattered between the yellow trunks, in a grove of fever trees. However, despite the idyllic aspect of the settlement, a wicked star showered its unkind beams onto our little camp. Inside the community a horror spread its wings. Whole families were being cut down by a malady. Yellow Jack, with the face more yellow yet than the bark of the trees, daily reaped new victims, and new again. I myself had no wish to follow all the rest into death's lair. There was no chance for me to leave the place by ox-wagon, as the number of healthy people was declining dramatically, and there were too few to in-span a single wagon. One day, when I felt the first yellow coil about my being, I decided to make my escape alone, to wherever fate might take me.

"I equipped myself for the road as much as my feverish condition would allow me. I attached a hunting knife in its sheath to my belt, took a little flour, and finding a small, rudely made canoe, I untied it, giving myself over to the current, to face the unknown.

"How long I was carried by the waters of the river, I don't know. Yellow Jack embraced me vigorously in his arms. My body lay shaking on the waterlogged bottom of the little craft which floated past silent banks of the wild and magnificent countryside. All I remember was the sunsets and sunrises following each other, and the banks of the river, with rocks and bushes coloured in brilliant orange. Days and nights blended into a single stream of semi-consciousness - orange twilights of the illusory oily river.

"This way or that, everything has its end. One day, I remember the sun was inclining towards the horizon when I sat up for the first time in a long while. I began to comb my long chestnut hair with the brush I found in the pocket of my wet dress. I laughed to myself, seeing the absurdity of this action: having just escaped from death, my first priority should be my appearance! Meanwhile the familiar orange sunset lit the whole horizon with its fire. Against the background of this golden glow appeared the silhouette of a native, standing on a high rock on the bank. The man held a bow in his hand, and bent forward peering, as if trying to fathom some secret in the orange waves, as they writhed like a tangle of snakes. The native in his turn, having noticed my craft, lowered his bow, and in a few hops had descended to the water's edge, entered the stream, and caught hold of the barque, pulling me in to the bank.

"From his features, I recognized the stranger to be a Bushman, although the tall stature and strong build was unusual for his tribe. The covering of this savage consisted of a loincloth only. Apart from his bow and a small quiver full of arrows, the man had no other encumbrances. The one peculiarity I noticed, was that he was missing a little toe from one of his bare feet. I tried greeting him in the Afrikaans, and surprisingly he answered me in the same language. I explained in a few words the reasons for my presence in those parts, and at the same time observed my listener's reaction.

The bushman smiled, and from time to time clicked his tongue in wonder and astonishment. When I had finished my story, he stretched his hand timidly towards me, and touched a lock of my hair. With this, he clicked his tongue in wonderment again. I asked him whether it was far to the nearest white settlement. The bushman clicked his tongue twice, and rolled his eyes up under his lids, with this indicating that it was extremely distant, at the same time wafting his hand in the direction of the stream. At the question about where the rest of his people were, his eyes rolled again up towards the skies, to say they too were incredibly far. Then I asked him what he was doing here alone, in the middle of nowhere. My companion laughed merrily, and taking my hand led me up to the rock on which I had first caught sight of him. I was very weak, and my feet hardly obeyed me, but I followed. My dress was drying very quickly in the heat of the African desert. Reaching the appointed position, the native signalled me to sit down and keep quiet, and then putting an arrow into the string of the bow, he peered as before into the molten copper of the river.

"Soon the silence was ruptured by a sharp splash of water, and amongst the ripples I caught sight of something. A fish. But even before this thought flashed through my mind, the native had already loosed his arrow. The arrow and the shining back of the fish disappeared together below the surface of the water.

"'You missed,' I shouted. The bushman laughed quietly, and ran down along the bank of the river, signalling me to follow. I went behind him, but very shortly stopped thunderstruck by a new sight: a huge fish reflecting with its scales the whole spectrum of yellow, gold and orange, vaulted out of the water and landed on the rocky shore. It writhed in its death dance, leaving streaks of golden scales behind, trying to free itself from the arrow that transfixed its body. The bushman rushed to the fish and threw himself upon it, quickly bringing to an end the suffering of his wounded prey.

"When at last the orange ocean of sunset turned into a narrow red strip on the horizon, I was sitting opposite my new acquaintance, across a blazing fire, over which hung a huge yellow fish impaled upon a stick. The scales of the fish, reflecting the flames of the fire, spread a glow which mirrored the whole golden world of the majestic orange river flowing nearby. I was exhausted and could hardly keep my eyes open. My body, worn out by the illness, longed for rest, and I lapsed into drowsiness.

"My stupor was shortly broken by the sound of barking laughter. My eyes opened, and I was greeted by a most amazing sight. Out of the darkness and into the circle of our fire, stepped a strange figure of a man. The first thing to draw my attention was the red coat of rough fabric which enveloped his entire frame. The red colossus was adorned with a head mounted askew. His shaven and scarred face bore a peculiar, lip-less, oblique mouth. A monocle shone in the orbit of one eye. The stranger was accompanied by a small ugly dog which resembled a mangy hyena. This latter creature gave off an awful smell, which seemed to emanate from its bloated and sagging belly. As I stared at the barking, smelly hyena-dog, I noticed that the one leg of its owner, around which hovered this miserable mongrel, was of wood.

"The red giant bent over silently, as if folding in two, and opened a little door which had been skillfully built into the artificial limb. Inside was a small cabinet, from which he drew a bottle, as well as a thick glass tumbler. Paying no attention to the bushman, he filled the glass from the bottle, and stretched out his hand to offer this to me. As if under a hypnotic spell produced by the imposing figure of the man, I took the glass from his hand and swigged it back. The liquid turned out to be nothing less than strong vodka, which on swallowing produced a rising wave of warmth within me. The stranger took the glass from my hand, drank as well, and for his opening words pronounced in German: `RUM IST DIE MILCH FUR DER SOLDAT!'

"I understood him, as I could speak a little German, and warmed by the drink, boldly asked him what a German soldier was doing in such a deserted place.

`I'm not a soldier. I'm a veteran of the south-western campaign!' was his answer.

`So what is your name,' I asked him.

`I no longer have a name. Just call me Veteran. And what might I call you?'

'Katy,' I said, and only then noticed how huge this man was, with his red coat obscuring all the stars of the Milky Way.

`Oh Heavens!' I shouted.

`What? What are you screaming about? And what do you know about Heaven?' he thundered.

`Heaven has the stars, and the sun, and the galaxies. All sources of light...' like a child I began blotter.

`Sources of light!?' the Red Veteran asked, in mock fury. `Do you know that there, in the heavens, is more darkness than light? Just look up, and tell me, which is more, up there? Your tiny little glow-worms, or the black, invisible planets? Space is not a decorated Christmas Tree, but the theatre of war between light and darkness...! By the way, these days everybody's at war around here. Why are you not on the battlefield, but in the rear, away from the front?' The glass of his monocle flashed angrily, and stared straight at me.

`I do fight,' I said, `but at the moment I am recuperating from Yellow Fever.'

This answer satisfied the Veteran, and, with the sleeve of his coat, he wiped the tarnished medal pinned to his chest. In the light of the fire I saw engraved in the metal the little image of a flycatcher..."

"What flycatcher?" Katy's story was suddenly interrupted by the boy. He was so sensitive to inaccuracy that he once more tried to correct the story given by Katy, which he had already recounted in his mind. "Like the one that I am called?"

"Oh yes, yes," answered Katy. "That small beautiful bird with the long tail, about which I held a most interesting conversation with the Veteran. Listen, and don't interrupt again!

`What kind of medal is that?' I asked the Veteran.

`This is the Order of Victory against the enemy!' was the answer of this strange monster. `The image on it depicts my enemy.'

`A flycatcher!?' I asked in amazement.

`Oh, yes. That very Paradise Flycatcher,' nodded the Veteran. `Around us there's no paradise. Long ago, there was much of that sort. But now, nothing. Nothing is left of it. Or rather, HE, that Paradise Flycatcher, is the only one. But believe me, soon we'll get our hands on him as well. The war will be won, and the enemy crushed! Tell me, soldier Katy, why do you have such long hair?'

`Because I'm a woman,' I answered.

`In times of war, women must cut their hair for the needs of the front. For example, to make stuffing for hospital mattresses,' the Veteran lectured me.

`Never! I shall never cut my hair,' I declared angrily. `This is all I have left from my past, from that happy world.'

`No, you will cut it,' ordered the Veteran. `And will cut it tomorrow!'

"I turned round, to get support from my friend the bushman, but discovered that he had vanished. He's been scared off, I thought to myself, and decided I must oppose this impudent German alone.

`I shall never obey your orders,' I threw out at him. `Why must I deprive myself of my beautiful hair?'

`Oh, simply as the price for your life.' The giant figure of the Veteran rocked with laughter. In the gape of his wide-open mouth, flashed golden crowns. The hyena-dog echoed his laughter.

"Day was breaking. The Veteran moved slowly away from the fire, followed by his repulsive companion. In the grey twilight of the dawn, the red coat of the Veteran was no longer fiery. It had turned into a dirty yellow khaki. A chameleon, I thought to myself, and slipped into a deep pre-dawn sleep.

"When the sun had risen high above the rocky desert, I set out again downstream in my little vessel. The primitive oar still lay on the bottom of the boat, and I used it as best I could to direct my course, although the river itself knew very well its own business. The current became stronger and faster, and the boat floated on forward, almost without my contribution. Soon in the distance I heard a booming rumble. This increased in volume, more and more, louder and louder, growing into the horrible realization that it was the sound of a waterfall drawing near. When I understood my situation, I began in panic to row frantically towards the bank, but from excessive haste I lost the oar in the water. Instead of jumping out of the boat and swimming ashore, I began to cry, trying at the same time to paddle with my hands. Nothing helped. A cloud of spray rose ahead as I approached the brink. The edge behind which the water disappeared, came into view. Still hoping that the rapids of the river would turn out to be not too dangerous, I looked down from the precipice and my breath stopped. Below me the enormous cavity yawned open its hungry throat, revealing a boiling cauldron. My consciousness dimmed even before the rapids devoured me.

"When I regained consciousness, I sensed that I was lying on the bare rocks of the river bank. Streams of foamy water pushed past my feet. Tousled hair lay in disorder over my face and hands. It was no longer a chestnut colour, but shone with a deathlike greyness. Through my head flashed the Red Veteran's order - the price for your life. I pulled out my knife, which by some miracle remained yet in its sheath, and began to hack off the tangled grey strands.

"So, my dear boy, here is the story of my short hair. This was not very long ago, although it seems ages. Or was it really so? Did it really all happen? I can't be sure any more. Strange images from the past so often entwine themselves with strange events from the present. Sometimes Johannes seems to remind me of the Red Veteran. Sometimes it seems that Cornelia, and not me, falls into the abyss of water..."

"And the bird on the medal is certainly me," exclaimed Flycatcher, again interrupting Katy and himself.

"Of course it's you," agreed Katy, as did Flycatcher, tousling his unruly hair with her hand.

The name of the book which has got to us, or into which we have got, is "Doctor Mangle. Experiments with Twins."

We open the first page. Early grey hair of the heroes. Not easy times. The epigraph of the old axe-man reads: "A warrior becomes red when his enemy splits him with his sabre down to the saddle". The main enemy of the warrior is haemorrhoids. Shiva and I agree. Everyone in our quarter suffers from it... that explains the early grey hair. Warriors with yellow faces drink water from the Yangtze, scooping it up in crumpled helmets. Electric helmets.

Surrender! Caught by the Zulu leader Black Cloud. Interrogation.

"What are you reading?"

"Doctor Mangle. Experiments..."

"Shut up!... Speak!"

This kind of book does not help to while away the time, but rather prefigures horrors.

Interesting, what language do they use for interrogation? Dutch... Snoek... means a pike.

In any case, reading is a useful occupation. Takes your mind away from your own ideas and other people plans. Here the heroine is saved by a wonderful occurrence. So what kind of wonderful occurrences can save? From the book of Mangle: a veteran with shaven head, a skew, twisted neck, scars and toothless mouth. Don't you want to be saved? There is no choice! Choice is not on offer! In addition to that he has a wooden leg. He's suffered for the truth. Me too... I was delivered here with my own legs, he on wooden ones... to suffer...

A source of light again! A source of a pain!

Something from the past pushes forward:

Source of light sustains its colour.

Shiva fears to unravel by night.

Real literature is a book written as if about yourself. Our music of military years. The logic of military years. Shiva has flashed! She burns in crematoriums together with guinea pigs. Well, she herself is guilty. You are the one who thought of creating concentration camps at the end of the Anglo-Boer war. What else are the inventers of future concentration camps, like doctor Mangle, left to do? If they were dying of boredom, and there was a sword opposite the twins' heads with the blade already exposed... what do you expect? You are going to the furnace first and I'm going to join you pretty soon, even though we're no longer fastened, having been divided by the sword... All the same, I'll jump into the fire after you.

In your future concentration camps, there will be a hero by the name of Yanosh Korchak. In spite of all, he'll go with an echelon of Jewish children to the furnace, just for the sake of helping them survive the moment... to read them fairy tales along the road, to lull their fear. He just can't avoid lying, even though the fairy tales of his have a fiery ending. That is the future of grey everyday military life. Just after that is a flowing stream of peaceful life.

Is it really so, that war is a measured current, and the world is a waterfall?

To us, the former Dutch, all is one ... all is connected. What for snoek means war, for a pike could mean peace. It's all the same - whether one swims against the current above, or twirls in the rapids beneath the waterfall. It's not we who need to be saved but you, the veteran, who falls into the river and still clings to the wood of your orthopaedic leg, as if it were a raft.

Slash, slash Shiva with your electric current, but don't forget that your dynamo is driven by the waters of our native river! And you slash her with her own lightning.

Veteran, wake up! A literary hero cannot die, because he is never born. But he very much can lose all, and all in the burnt pages of a book. Like the reader of this diary, who is convinced that one day he'll lose all, and he thinks that this will take place simultaneously with death. Drop your fears! Certainly you'll lose everything! But you will not die! Just like Shiva burning in the electric fire. Some ancient fool once said that it is impossible to enter the same river twice...

However, in practice it is impossible to enter some other river. Somehow you always end up in the same one.

Red Ink

Well, I have grasped what in fact I always knew!

The electroshock had softened Shiva's mind. At last, I can see in his diary, the twentieth century creeps into his Flycatcher! This erudite century with its wars, its German veterans, its plagues and other splendours.

I had disrupted the line of Shiva's narrative - a narrative outside of which nothing else existed.

Even the haircut in Flycatcher reflects the ugliness of hospital existence... the signs of our ghastly today...

But Shiva, Shiva why have you not started talking? Why haven't you ordered Vanessa to sew? I'm sure you understood that your other half is the next to go... on her way to the crematorium.

Why did you put so much effort into hiding your diary?...

If only I had read your book back then! Not only would I have withdrawn my therapy, but I would also have embraced and adopted you!

All this series of research was simply based on the pitiful idea of saving a few coins from the state treasury, which in any case cares nothing...

I'm now so mesmerized by the serene beauty of your Flycatcher! And terrified by the thought of intruding into it the electrical charge of our current world.

What a disgrace! Instead of protecting in you the amazing teller of tales, your `little dew-drops of celestial melody', the very next day I snatched this gift from you... I sent you to the electric chair to find out which of your heads refused to sew!!!

Oh, Shiva! What did you so fear in the twentieth century for the sake of which you were willing to sacrifice your own sister?

My God! What have I done?

Why did I ask no-one's advice? I made this decision by myself... the decision I have to live with, for the rest of my life! I chose that fate for him!

But in the Ledger of Advice is written: `Or what king, going to make war against another king, sitteth not down first, and consulteth whether he be able with ten thousand to meet him that cometh against him with twenty thousand? Or else, while the other is yet a great way off, he sendeth an ambassage, and desireth conditions of peace.'

The further I read Rat King's diary, the graver the thoughts that creep into my mind. I have a horrible feeling that in the next few pages I will read something fatal for me...

I can't stop reading... but neither can I carry on.

How could I, headless as I am, dare to wage my pathetic war against the two-headed? `With ten thousands against twenty thousand'?

XIV

The gloomy prediction of Johannes was becoming reality in all aspects. The week had passed and Bloemfontein had fallen. Nonetheless, by agreement between Cornelia and Johannes, no matter how the campaign in the Orange Republic ended, their engagement had to take place as soon as it was over. On the thirteenth of March, one of the two free Boer republics ceased to exist. Neither could the independence of the Transvaal last much longer. That was the revelation of the day for the inhabitants of the town. The English community was ecstatic. The end of the war was a matter of a few countable weeks.

The Afrikaners were crushed by the reality of defeat. At such a time, there could be nothing more outrageous to them than an invitation to the engagement party of Cornelia and Johannes in the house of Doctor O'Hara. It was as if hideous theatre sets had been placed for some sort of appalling Follies. Through the absurdity of this choice of time and place, no one even remembered that only a month ago Cornelia was about to be married, but to another man. The invited guests gave their consent to come to the party, like soldiers of a defeated army who submit to bringing their lowered banners to the citadel of the victors.

Cornelia's parents were charged with preparations for the engagement, sending to O'Hara's house their servants, among whom was Katy with her page Flycatcher. The whole morning Cornelia tossed around like a beast in a trap. Till the last moment she thought that some miracle would happen, and Johannes' ecumenical horn of plenty would open again for the Boers. But the miracle did not materialise, and Cornelia began to lose all connection with the real world. Who knows what might have happened to her that day, if it had not been for Johannes and the forthcoming engagement which had a diverting effect on her. Cornelia's whole universe was concentrated on her fiancИ.

However, Johannes himself that morning looked no more excited than usual. On completing his morning toilet, he even undertook his daily walk, changing slightly his customary route. Johannes climbed the cliff of Marius-the-suicide, and standing on top, the outer self began to speak aloud to the silent, inner Johannes:

"So, today is the day. The long-awaited and prepared judgement will at last be passed. The guilty will be punished and I will fulfil my last duty towards my family. What am I going to do after that? Who knows? Again there will be a road, the same as millions of other entangled roads. The same as the one which skirts this cliff."

Looking into the distance along the pass, Johannes saw the small figure of an old man hobbling towards the cliff. Immediately he recognized the madman, and descended to meet him.

"Oh, it is you again, my old and kind servant. Even though you lost your wits a long time ago, you still remember my real name. But your crumbling brain cannot grasp the fact that it is extremely displeasing to me when someone recalls that name."

"They are calling for you, Piet!" said the simple man.

"But who, tell me, who calls me? Who, unless it be the past, in the person of this crazy servant of my family. The family which has long disappeared from the face of the earth."

"Marius calls you!" said the man, "Marius your brother."

Breathing heavily, the old man wiped big drops of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his worn jacket.

Johannes started.

"What a strange coincidence," he thought, "that he should hallucinate about Marius, just on this particular day!"

"Of course you nursed Marius and myself a long while ago," said Johannes aloud, "and I'm very grateful to that servant you used to be. However, that man does not exist any more. Now you are a crazy vagrant calling me to the other world."

"No, no," whimpered the old man. "Come with me. Marius is waiting for you."

"If Marius is waiting for anything from me, it would be revenge for his death. Go to him, to the other world, and pass this on to him, that I do not blame him any more for his service to the enemy. By his death he has atoned for his wrong choice."

Having spoken those words, Johannes tore off the hat from the old man's head and threw it onto the road in the direction of the town. The vagrant rushed to pick up his valued garment, and again returned to Johannes, pulling the hat back over his head. Johannes gave him no chance to speak, snatched the hat and flung it again, a little further than the first time. The poor man trudged to fetch it again. He was exhausted and could hardly bend to pick up his headdress. He was choking for air, and having returned to Johannes could no longer ask anything, only look with pleading eyes at his tormentor. Johannes snatched the dirty hat from the trembling hands of the old servant, and cast it once more. The old man began to drag himself slowly to the place where it had landed, but did not reach his destination, falling to the ground only halfway there.

"Well, here we are at last," said Johannes. "May you lie here, next to Marius to whom you insist I go!"

Johannes had still a great deal to do in the town, things which had to precede the engagement, so wasting no more time he set off to take care of them.

***

At the appointed time the guests began to fill the house of Doctor O'Hara. They moved like silent cardboard figures in a Chinese shadow-theatre. They drifted past each other, colliding from time to time. Sometimes they piled together forming small clusters, but hardly spoke. Interaction was confined to short greetings and moribund smiles. No one spoke of the reason for the present assembly, no one mentioned Bloemfontein. The guests circled like a pageant of elves round the languid, faded flower Cornelia. Her festive dress hung on her with the same unnaturalness as would a clown's garb on the body of a dead man. Her beautiful face was blemished with red spots caused by anxiety. The company was waiting for the fiancИ, and at long last he arrived.

Johannes flew into the house, beaming with a delighted smile, spruced up in a brand new suit. During that week so fateful for the Boer army, he had wasted no time and ordered his suit from a tailor. His shining boots reflected the upside down world of O'Hara's house, peopled with distorted faces. His necktie was pinned with a large false diamond, the angles of which captured myriads of worlds of O'Hara's house, filled with an infinity of convulsing faces.

The newcomer held in his hands a huge bouquet of white roses. Stretching it out before him, he rushed to his fiancИe. The smell of the roses intoxicated her and she all but fainted. Doubly so, because the fragrance of the flowers clashed with the odour of expensive whiskey and the cheap Eau-de-Cologne of the mole-nosed Malay barber.

They gave me a break. One day. A most serious day, is this day of respite. Vanessa, you must decide what you should not take with you to that "dangerous" room. Get rid of superfluous cargo which can destroy both of us. What awaits us back in the past? Who knows? My family has already been effaced from the Earth, a long time ago. Do they wait for me there?

Maybe just take the squirrel-rabbit on a shaft? No, into the rubbish with it!

Cornelia in a dress. A dress in red spots. The white one... The red dress belongs to me - Vanessa. The white belongs to... W-H-O? On the eve I bought... no, beg your pardon, I sewed the dress with an erased black face above it. Shall we leave it in the past?

And we shall throw out Shiva! So we won't meet in the past.

In my life I've known so many ancient fishes! Silly Kant Coelacanth, snoek folded like a book. Also the tuna fish that Pin King wolfed down from out of a can with that cat of his. Out you go from my memory...!

No! Let Pin King be!

But what shall I do with a word that throws twelve long shadows? Should I lie? Or replace it with another word, as Pin King does quite frequently?

For example:

Once upon a time, while eating grapes stolen from the hospital garden, Pin King said: "There would be no life on Earth if there was no greenhouse effect".

I carried an idea:

Where lies the truth, and where is true fiction?

By the time the imaginary thought was complete,

The truth has faltered and suffered defeat.

Down with the idea of Pantheism, a scheme in which the World consists of carved patterns on the artificial wooden limb of the veteran! So what if the druids could distinguish up to a thousand grades of tree? Out with Druids! Thousands, like a swarm of locusts! Are the doors of Paradise made of wood? You'll never learn what they taste like!

At least, should I take my clothes along? What else? Can't really go there naked... especially since it would be so petty to leave behind such a precious outfit! The dress hangs on me coquettishly! Embroidered on the right pocket is a lizard! I hope it's won't matter that the left sleeve has been soiled with some sort of bird droppings.

Then what about that one...? Lousy Shiva's brother, freshly brewed Kenya - is that useful at all? Hardly, I think! Reality is more necessary there than banality. What if time drags me back to "before my birth"? How then will I introduce to my future daddy this atrocious monster with an unrecognizable blue face and somebody else's coat? I should rather take my other sister there. The maiden - lovely vision - Cornelia van der Perdekrag! A sister - transistor from a commodity depot. One lantern is broken. Crude oil on wheels. Faded sides. Dirty marks on all surfaces. Passengers that have not paid for the journey and were left behind. Where are you, maidens?

Well, the main thing is that the poetry of one's past life should not be lost. It used to be salon literature, but now it's just cheap street fiction. But Pin King, as I said before, should just sit in the corners of the past. Let him sit and become dusty. In the following way:

But what if we delve even further into the past, and turn to something that existed before life arose? Stars! I fly like a Night Meteorite in the constellation of Meisie "I". And I do not look like a round ragged ball on crutches any more! I shall be a spherical congestion. A congestion of what? Congestion of Stars, brothers and sisters, a constellation, a cluster!

No, let me rather be a double star. Vanessa - yellow, Shiva - blue. And let Pin King orbit round me in the form of a small green planet. Let Pin King have in his possession splinters of the stone foundation of a City which has not yet arisen, stone by stone. There he'll be not a Chinese messenger, but a great builder of the Wall. I miss him so much! Let's hope that somehow he'll squeeze himself into there, even if it's to steal something. Although there's not much left after my last assessment! And the little that I want to take with me is too compromising. Let's cut it down even further! I, Vanessa, must shrink to the size of an invisible super-heavy neutron star in a double-star system, where Shiva is the blue giant. Because even our terrestrial sun, as in that hypothesis once shown on TV, has a companion, a super-heavy, midget neutron asterisk Nemesis. To find it is impossible, even though its influence is colossal.

Bah-bah! A hand goes against two foreheads, simultaneously!

We have finally resolved the problem of half-people!

How useful is the condition of despair! The double of every half-person is so small and so super-heavy, that in his system Time practically stands still...freezes! In our floating time, certainly, it's impossible to distinguish. But one can hear the sounds when the halves are slowing down. For example, while day-dreaming, or in a deep sleep!

Now I know how to fool the visible half of the doctor.

To slow down to the level of the doctor's invisible twin, and to persuade it to act as we ask it to. Forward, Fumanchu, back, Fumanchu! Long live electroshock! But to tell the truth, in the case of companion halves, a full slowdown would look like total disappearance. So-called death... And they are so afraid of this. Well it's okay, fear is a temporary occurrence and when death untimely comes, fear will disappear, and then their super-heavy halves will explain everything to them! Soon you'll stop being afraid, poor timid half-people.

Red Ink

Electroshock. Vanessa's head.

That day of March was assailed by an exhausting heat, unusual for autumn. Following behind Johannes poured a motley crowd of musicians, invading Doctor O'Hara's house. The members of the orchestra, dragging their musical instruments behind them, were red and sweaty, sizzling with heat. It seemed as if they had brought into the party the burning flames of the afternoon sun. The air quivered in the theatre of cardboard people, and began to distort the colours on the figures. Men loosened their ties, opening the gape of their shirt collars. Ladies felt little streams start under their chignons, trickling down their long necks to their backs. The orbits of the eyes of both men and women became moist and shiny, as tiny drops of perspiration formed in the small wrinkles around their eyes, like the morning dew on a spider web.

"What! There will be music?" rustled a whisper through the room. "Indeed! This is the limit! It's impossible!"

Nevertheless, music burst forth. Bows glided over strings and the melody of a light waltz filled the air of the hall. The assembly looked blankly at the musicians whose hands zigzagged in the trembling swelter. The air was rent, too, by scurrying servants who pestered the guests with drinks.

It was difficult to say who first gave the drinks their proper due, but very soon an epidemic flared up. The servants hardly had time to uncork the bottles. Most popular of the servants was Katy, who attended Johannes. She was completely run off her feet. Johannes not only himself devoured the molten metal of wine in great quantities, but poured it also into the mouth of every person who came his way.

Cornelia meanwhile had noticed a strangeness in Katy's attire. Instead of the usual much-worn and overwashed dress she wore a chic, expensive garment. So was her bearing quite majestic that day, as if she was no servant but rather the hostess of the gathering, inviting her guests to join her for drinks. Cornelia was particularly amazed that Katy burst with incessant laughter, although previously even a tiny smile was a rare guest on her face.

"The heat must have melted her brains, or mine!" concluded Cornelia.

"Ladies and gentlemen, dance!" shouted Johannes suddenly. "Dance, ladies and gentlemen!" With these words he seized his bride-to-be, who had been paralysed with horror at the growing absurdity, and began to spin her round him. The impossible happened. The guests began to dance.

The ghastly grins of drunken men, and the women's lips, hugely exaggerated by smudged rouge, came together and began to eddy in pairs, like the first bubbles on the bottom of a simmering pot. The trumpet-player repeatedly shook out his instrument to free it of the breath condensed inside.

"Announcement, ladies and gentlemen! Important announcement!" Johannes shouted once more, and waved his hands to stop the orchestra. "I'm very pleased to bring you the news that I have asked for Cornelia's hand in marriage, and she has generously accepted my proposal. My bride-to-be has rendered me a great honour, entrusting to me the announcement of this news, ladies and gentlemen!"

"Hurray!" thundered Doctor O'Hara.

In his shout one could discern two-fold joy: the engagement of his friends, and on the same day, victory in the war.

"Hurray!" echoed a chorus of guests' voices.

In their shout one could discern only bewilderment and affected enthusiasm.

The orchestra struck up a quick Boer melody, and everything began to rotate again, swirling in a beat faster than before. Terrified at all going on about her, Cornelia tore herself from Johannes' grasp. But that did not stop him. He grabbed the first woman who came along, and began to twirl with her in the wild rhythm. As it happened, his new partner was Katy. The carousel spun faster and faster in the heat of the hall. It was as if a steam engine, and not people at all, strained itself to the utmost to rotate this devil's carnival.

It also seemed that in the room danced more people than were there in reality. Already some new imaginary faces merged into the whirlwind of the dance.

Here shifts the face of the mole-nosed Malay barber. There revolves the legless Gnat. What is that dirty vagrant madman, the old servant of Piet-Johannes doing here? Here floats the beautiful pale face of Private Tommy Holly. He is overshadowed by the merrily laughing dead Spotty who dances a jig. With his hand bandaged, there gyrates Andries-the-chicken. Ah! No! He seems to be a real one! But please, that is too much: a chameleon of enormous size pirouettes with the pig killed by Flycatcher, arms round each other. And look, there swirls another circle, formed round the mass of dancers by a group of Boer prisoners from Paardeberg, their faces wrapped in rags. At the head of this potpourri shimmered a conductor of colossal dimension, dressed in the red coat of a soldier, balancing himself on his wooden leg.

It was unclear how long this wild hash was on the boil, but when at last the heat abated, the dish of people was ready. By then, a few illusory ingredients had evaporated. These had been followed by some of the real personages who suddenly disappeared from the pot. Particularly strange was the disappearance of the hero of the festivities - the fiancИ Johannes.

Hurriedly saying goodbye to all and expressing gratitude to Doctor O'Hara, Cornelia and her family, panic-stricken, retreated to the family estate. Not understanding what had just happened, the gatherers slowly began to disperse, having come back to their senses. Suddenly, a hysterical voice rung in the air:

"Bloemfontein has fallen! It's finished for us!"

The remainder of the guests ran in retreat from that accursed house into which fate had enticed them, as to a blasphemous feast during a plague.

Someone collided with a small fat musician and the man fell onto his cello, reducing it to a heap of splinters. Somewhere in the distance the escaping trumpet-player sounded the retreat, sending a final chord into the cooling air of the thirteenth of March.

Connection of neon wires. Yellow, red, and white will be blackened. That is the latest news from Caphrogenius Atlantic. It's hot in Atlantic! And the head is hot, particularly from neon music in the style Rotkod. All the members of the musical group are flushed and soggy from sweat. And the footsteps around are like flames! Females among them.

"Among spiders, the females are the more dangerous!"

"Really? That's the limit! Impossible!"

Under electric lights everything looks so strange! Cornelia is without a gun. Meisie "I" is all in green oilcloth. Here is a nosy Malagasy-mole. There is Cherry separated from Waxy. Then there is a vagabond wind. Birdie Pin King, it is I. The Magician with the handle of his sword sticking out. The mummy of a cat. The ventriloquist dog-horse-pferde. A captured Boer by the strange name of either Mampoer or Foeir. And finally here is Mangle himself on wooden, or should I say, European clay legs.

It's so cosy here with you in Atlantic - the coast of life. Even though you're not quite happy with our answers.

Somewhere in the distance! Hey, I can't wait to destroy that damned bridge between them. She always lies! And always scoops support from the neighbour's head! To increase the force of the current, they add another little blue wire! Oh, there are too many! It's hell! It's all over for us! I give up! I agree to anything! To start with, take Shiva's latest poem... I can't take it any more! I will tell you! I'll tell you everything! How to destroy the Straightforward Flycatcher.

"Spotty appears as a Marius, in unrecognizable make-up. He enters the city hidden behind a painted mask. But Piet recognises him and returns to the Prologue, by that means achieving a time loop."

While waiting with his son to ambush Gatacre's group, Piet kills the guide who is marching beside the general, realising it is Marius. In pulling the trigger (Puff), he saves his son but loses his brother, thereby destroying the prospective history Straight Line of Flycatcher.

Oh, watch out, Rotkod! Hasn't it always been like this in your family, and will it not always be? The father, the son, the brother, the aircraft... Do you want me to remember the twentieth century...? - -

"Are you still dissatisfied with my answers?"

"You ask the wrong questions."

"Let my heart answer your unasked questions. And here would be my answers: Endear yourself to a Calling, but remember that Kindness takes into account the circumstances of the World, where Evil ignores them."

"Illness draws a person closer to God, and death puts him next to a poor man."

"Our common destiny is to see a sanctuary prepared for us in this World."

"The World expects compassion and not sacrifice."

So that's it. I've told you everything I know... And I ask you to take pity and stop torturing Shiva, because she sacrifices...offers herself up for you.

Red Ink

Here it is. Let's face it - I am a criminal... a villain... a man of medicine who has committed an unforgivable blunder.

How could I so arrogantly pen those ludicrous red notes of mine?... in reality I had not the slightest idea what this Stitcher-creature was all about...

After the electroshock to, as I thought, Vanessa's head, it was apparently Shiva's mind that began to disintegrate.

I see it now - Vanessa's head was in fact the head of Shiva!

The cunning Shiva who all along pretended to be Vanessa, taking a face of lamb, was in reality a clever and determined fox. From the beginning Shiva understood that the medics were going to attack an unyielding nature, and she persuaded the biddable Vanessa to take a mulish stand.

It is the personality of Vanessa wearing the mask of Shiva that had to undergo my lobotomy... Oh...

As the condemned Vanessa said in her diary: "SHAM IS SHIVA'S SHADOW!"

Shiva knew that Vanessa would give in to any pressure. So she herself pretended to be pliable, while Vanessa was forced to look like a mule and I would destroy her... destroy the persona - the sacrificial Vanessa who in reality would agree to do anything, even to sew!

Yugh! I was left with the artful Shiva, who could never be broken. I had kept the head that played along. She would eat and drink, yet not allow the submissive Vanessa to touch food. Now I understand why all of a sudden, after the lobotomy, the eating head declared a hunger-strike, while the treated head unexpectedly begun to munch...

In one poem of Robert Burns, the old honey-maker begs the king of Scotland to execute his own son - the only other custodian of his precious recipe for mead - before he would betray this secret to the king. The old man professes that he wishes to avoid the shame of his son witnessing is sin. But in fact he well knows that his son would break under torture, whereas he himself would never give up the secret, no matter what people might do...My crime as a professional is not that I have been deceived by Anglo-Saxon genius... (Obviously I could not compete with the two-headed universal wisdom and will... Everybody who was within the orbit of Rat King became a tool in his game. It was not the universe that controlled him, he was the one controlling the universe.) My unprofessionalism lay in making a decision too quickly... without proper evaluating. I was fooled by my self-confidence. I took that radical step without examining, analysing, scrutinising, studying it through and through... getting to the bottom of what drove Stitcher, why he so uncompromising drove himself to extinction...

I chose the simplest and fastest course of action - surgery, the way I started my medical career...

Sure... first cut off a toe then perform a lobotomy. Cut off Vanessa's head (as an obstacle) and finally carry out an execution by eliminating the remaining head... Nice, nice!

Damn it all! How can I live with myself now?

I was an invisible weapon in the hands of invisible Shiva... She masterminded it all so perfectly! All by herself!

My failure as a doctor and a man is not that I was caught out by Stitcher, but rather in that I couldn't understand why (his motives) he did it... I'm still struggle to understand...But it even more painful to admit that without proper understanding mine was the act not of a doctor but of an executioner...

-- XVI

When Cornelia had returned home with her parents from the bizarre engagement party, she first tore off her festive clothing. For a long while she stood in the middle of the large dressing room, half undressed, loading her carbine. She fumbled with the cartridges, which kept slipping out of her trembling fingers, and with a ringing clatter, falling onto the waxed mosaic floor.

A while later she set out on horseback for Johannes' house, dressed in her usual Amazon's attire. Her horse stumbled at the bridge over the mountain torrent into which some time ago Marius' body had vanished. Cornelia reined in her horse and, with calm curiosity, scrutinized the wild stream. First she looked at the suicide cliff under which the current slowed because of the depth of the channel, then she followed the stream down with her eyes. Under the bridge the water was shallower. The torrent began to seethe, boiling with a colourful foam, at the same time disappearing round a corner covered with hanging rocks and overgrown with bushes. Cornelia pictured how the current might have dragged the body of Marius into that vortex, and grinning bitterly, urged her horse forward.

As Cornelia approached Johannes' house, she saw through slightly open shutters a scene that caused her to bite her lip involuntarily so that it bled.

There at a table with traces of a small tЙte-Ю-tЙte, on chairs close together and embracing one another, sat Johannes and Katy. They kissed repeatedly and whispered into each others ears.

Cornelia turned her horse and hastened back to the mountain path.

The two lovebirds had discussed between them in whispers:

"How did you manage to get rid of Flycatcher, Katy?" asked Johannes.

"I said to him what I feel not very good, and ask him to stay for me in the kitchen and make my work," she answered.

"Can you see the path clearly through the window?" he asked.

"Yes... Oh my God, Cornelia coming round the corner. She riding to us. She have a weapon with her! Are you sure what she will not shoot us from hers awful carbine?"

"No, I'm not sure, but that is the whole beauty of this game. Is it not? You, planted as a qualified spy, should appreciate the situation!" baited Johannes.

"Oh, she's seen us! Goodness, what a scary face!"

"Careful, don't look at the window any more! We've seen enough."

"Even if she aim at us now?" persisted Katy.

"Even so!" answered Johannes. "The stakes are set, the wheel is turning, and someone has to gain the victory."

"Don't be over-excited," said Katy. "Nobody hunting for your miserable life. Ah-ha... she riding away!"

"Well, then our passionate love-rendezvous is over, and I need to..."

Johannes did not have a chance to say what it was he needed to do. A sudden pain pierced his wrist. The cause of that was Flycatcher, who materialized from nowhere. He sank his teeth into the hand of Katy's offender, as tenaciously as before the pig had done to him. Jumping away from the table, Johannes shook the boy off onto the floor, and without wasting any more precious time, dashed out of the house.

Meanwhile Cornelia, leaving Johannes' house, urged her horse towards Marius' cliff. On reaching her destination, she dismounted and began to climb up the cliff, allowing her horse to go where it pleased. On the top of the cliff she tossed back her head and for a long time looked up at the sky. Up there soared two magnificent black eagles.

"That must be the same pair that was reflected in the eyes of the klipspringer which I killed," she thought.

Once more Cornelia looked round, and then slipped her rifle off her shoulder. She placed the butt of the carbine on the ground, its muzzle at her chest. Then she pressed the trigger, in the same way as was done a while ago by her precursor Marius. And in the same way as her precursor suicide, the body of Cornelia crashed vertically down into the deep channel of the stream, raising a column of white spray.

Johannes arrived just in time to observe the unfolding tragedy. Though his horse stood ready near the house and he galloped it mercilessly, he was still afraid to miss the final curtain of the drama he had staged. What he saw was the most captivating part: the shot and the fall. Without dismounting from his horse, Johannes removed the hat from his head and began to recite:

"Now brother shall betray brother to death, and father his son; and children shall rise up against their parents, and shall cause them to be put to death."

Then he slapped his horse, riding away from the cliff, assured that he would see neither this place nor this accursed town ever again!

***

As a real gentleman, Flycatcher would not question Katy on her involvement in the scene with Johannes. Besides, like the other characters of the day, he had somewhere to hurry to. When he caught Katy and Johannes together, the boy confirmed his conclusion that the engagement was a farce, staged especially to cover the absconding of the newly engaged couple to the Boer army.

A little earlier, when he had lost sight of Johannes at the party, he began to shadow Cornelia. Flycatcher was determined not to lose sight of her whatever happened. As she left for home with her family, he had dropped his duties in the kitchen and darted after her. Having a presentiment that he should wait no longer, Flycatcher retrieved his mule from Ziggi, whom he had placed strategically nearby, and stood in ambush not far from Cornelia's estate. His theory was confirmed when Cornelia departed from home on horseback the day of her engagement. Flycatcher followed her at some distance, abetted by the slowness of his old mule. The boy was somewhat surprised to see that Cornelia did not enter the house of Johannes but rode away instead. To clarify this unexpected behaviour of the object of his pursuit, he peeped through the window of the house, and, unable to restrain his emotions, intervened in the proceedings.

After the retreat of Johannes, the boy understood that the time had come to burn bridges, for the chance of joining the fugitives was slipping away. However, the keen-witted Flycatcher soon grasped the fact that when he had scared Johannes off, the latter had forgotten to take all his requisites, and in particular his rifle, an object of adoration for the boy. Grabbing the musket, he remembered as well to fetch the basket with the chameleon entrusted to him.

"Goodbye, Katy, goodbye", he shouted. "Maybe one day we'll meet again, and then you'll not have to work as a servant. But for now, look after yourself, and don't allow any cheeky suitors to take advantage of you!"

Straddling his mule, Flycatcher moved on, having little doubt as to where he would find Cornelia and Johannes. Firstly, he had earlier seen Cornelia ride towards the path leading to Marius' cliff, and secondly, the fresh hoof prints of Johannes' horse in the dust of the road clearly indicated the same direction. Flycatcher heard the shot in the distance ahead of him. He was extremely satisfied with this, as he took it to be a conventional signal between conspirators. When at last one of the objects of his pursuit came into view, Flycatcher resolved rather to die than allow that person to slip out of sight again. That was unwelcome news to his half-blind old mule, which was urged to increase its pace by constant raps of the musket's butt against its scraggy ribs.

Hell consumed. Dream of the twins (two-headed).

The twins dream the same dream, that Christ descends into Hell. To the very bottom of it in order to save the fallen souls. He does not draw the souls out of Hell, but rather, Hell disappears around Christ as He advances further and further down. By degrees Hell ceases to exist because it cannot withstand the presence of Christ. When He has reached the deepest level, all the souls find themselves in Paradise. Since Hell has been consumed, then all the souls are in Heaven. The end of Hell is Paradise consummated.

So the twins dream. Their life is the cage of an elevator, descending down to the depths. Vast Paradise rolls out its sunny skies, lawns, trees, beds of flowers stretching to the horizon. Yet below the ills, misfortunes, torments and agonies recoil, shrink, fade away with perishing Hell. At the lowest floor lies the final debris of writhing Hell. And all good is drawn up to immortality. So the twins understand that their time on earth is a journey to the lowest level, where lies Salvation. What puzzles them is whether their time in the elevator is time in infernal Hell, or whether they reach Paradise through being in the elevator next to Christ.

The revelation now comes to the twins, that as individuals they comprise a set of impressions about themselves, out of which they create a picture of the universe in which other individuals exist. Their own reality is the reflection of the impressions of other people whom they have created. The whole pattern of interference is infinite in its diversity and unrepeatable combinations. But the twins fear that if somehow everyone should create an identical impression about reality, then the interference would disappear. The world will remain, but impressions about it will come to an end. Therefore one of the twins holds back from the elevator cage, and sacrifices himself to save forever this vision of the world.

In order to experience Eternity one has to believe in its existence while living, expecting nothing, but agreeing to bear the burden of life.

...She's woken up! She has, I can hear it. There's the squeak of a pencil in the dark. She is writing down her dream. So I'm not alone in this lonely neon darkness. Someone next to me guards my bridge. Shoots at anyone without warning. In the night, the Queen of Blackness writes my last thoughts after me.

"Your bridge is in peril, Fumanchu!"

What can I do? This is the breached fate of all bridges - to be endangered!

There is a sudden pain in one of the four wrists. They clinched the arm with a tourniquet. The best chefs trying to feed the body... Needle's eyes to paradise? Thanks! Goodbyes!

Through my drowsiness-dizziness-doziness I take in a dose of neon flow.

Run, Vanessa, run! So you will never again see that damn darkness, that damned city...

In the dark city - footsteps come alive

Don't wait for the curtain - run for your life!

Ears like locators catching the tread

Wherever you go, stage-drapes are set.

Golden hooves pound over the steam-beclouded cobblestones and droppings. The poor guards have not managed to secure the bridge before my retreat. Rotkod - click-clack! The time has come for burning bridges.

But what on earth is that? What is it that still holds the bridge already put asunder by Rotkod?

Not Shiva for sure... Could it be that veil, which fluttered in the wind? I sing while Shiva sways! The last song of the indivisible bridges, joined at the hip as it were. Do you really think that a mere knock from out there at the thin ribs can stop the rapid rabbit river running song? Guarded by a cast-iron lion gilded by the she-giant in her veil, the river-song now holds the bridge instead of Shiva.

The neon shadow crawls

Over famished ribs of the Minaret

An embankment clasps it jaws

Majestic lion roars its Sonnet

The carcass of my being is not worth even the shadow of my golden hooves.

What can this vegetable, this food for worms do? What can you teach it beside some rubbish like: When you eat, please hide your beard behind the strap of your suspenders...? Can't you see that some Soup Julienne is stuck in your moustache...? The future dead are still fighting battles...but with whom? I tried to establish who it might be. They always point to different things. This is almost like the prayer of a dead materialist.

"Comrades, I'm trying to call upon all who knew me before, but called me someone else. I was not sent by anyone, so you sent me far away. I'm not going to be... well, I am not here anymore. It means that I'm almost there... recovered. I feel that time shrinks and the hand that held the bridge has weakened its grasp...

What do I see? How little and dirty is my room. I see that the squeezed-out tube is still lying on the same spot of the floor. The twelve minarets of the City of Jerusalem have turned out to be a tiny skew mosque. The windows are cracked and the draught runs through the pages of Shiva's writing... my writing. That Shiva of yours is gone and gone forever. Let me add this last and most important page to my notes:

We've stitched ourselves to this world very firmly. So tightly that we cannot separate ourselves from it without blood. Following the path of Evil, it is always the strongest that wins. Following the path of Good, the strongest wins NOT. In order to overcome the world, I choose not to be the victor. Shiva read me the gospel according to Matthew: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father."

You, Shiva, I know, are the sister who will take care of her bird twin-half into which I rapidly transform myself. In those caring hands, your twin-half will watch the sunset with delight. The recovering half of Rat-king, formerly hermaphrodite, whose birth certificate reflects the name John Charlton.

Space remains for only one last paragraph. What is the main thing that I've learned from here?

Imagine yourself to be individual with your own physical reality plus a transcendental life of dreams and illusions, to whom is stitched another individual with his own physical reality. This is an imposition. But because of the physical attachment, you have imposed upon you the transcendental life of the second individual. That is an accidental obligation. An accident which, by the way, is mirrored in the other person.

This is the World: Imposition plus Accident... The accidental obligation to see the dreams of others.

Part Three

Apocalypse of Banality

So, vengeance was consummated. Piet-Johannes had executed Cornelia by reducing her to suicide. In other words, by sending her to the same death as she had contrived for Marius.

For a little while a sense of fulfilment of his duty pervaded the mind of Johannes. His mission had been completed and he had regained his spiritual freedom. However, somewhere far in the depths of his heart he felt some unusual anxiety. Something elusive began to gnaw at him. That little crack in his soul grew and expanded, opening into a deep bottomless abyss. Soon it became impossible to ignore this chasm and not give a name to it.

And the name of this new emotion was love for Cornelia. In his effort to chase from himself that dreadful phantom, Johannes clung to thoughts on small matters of everyday life.

Money, some of his clothes, letters, the pipe, the mouth organ, a little water and some biltong - all of these he packed for the road and loaded them onto the horse in advance. Flycatcher, in his conjectures, was correct in one only: Johannes did indeed forget his rifle in the turmoil caused by the sudden appearance of the boy. To return and retrieve it was unthinkable. That world was a closed chapter of his life. In that same chapter he left also the chameleon.

The proud avenger decided no longer to burden himself with memories of the past. However, it is one thing to decide, and completely another to realize that in practice. Again, the flow of anguish, with the autumn mist around him, closed in to envelop Johannes and his thoughts. The trifles of life to which he tried to cling, would no longer help in his struggle with anxiety. Johannes dismounted, and in the rays of the drowning sun, began to read the very last letter from Marius, taken out from the bag:

God will protect you, Piet. God will requite my nephew who died as a hero. I beg you, read my letters through, without judging me too harshly for something that begs further explanation on my part. Although you consider me a traitor, believe me everything has its good reasons. If you knew these, all in our relationship would fall into place again.

But now I want to tell you about something quite different. Remember that lady of whom I wrote before? The woman with whom I fell madly in love. Her name is Cornelia. She is now expecting the arrival of her fiancИ, to whom she was betrothed by her parents many years ago. This is someone called Herman. Although Cornelia hardly knows him, nevertheless she made up her mind to fulfil the will of her family and to marry him. The most dreadful thing is, that not only am I in love with her, but it seems to me also she is not indifferent towards me. Even my new assignment in the service of the English did not alienate her from me. As before, we still meet and walk together, which causes me to burn inside with an unbearable flame of love. Do you know, Piet, what is genuine passion? To be almost able to possess someone, and at the same time to know that very soon you must give up everything that might be yours.

I opened my heart to Cornelia, demanded a straight answer - perhaps there's a chance that she can reciprocate my feelings. She said neither yes nor no. Can you imagine, I demand an explanation, going mad with love, but she just laughs in return!

The skies are turning black for me. Sometimes I wish to take to the field with an army. Let it even be the same sort as the last campaign with Gatacre...

Here Johannes interrupted the reading of his letter, saying aloud:

"During which your nephew and my son was killed."

Then he picked up from where he had left off:

And sometimes I am ready to spend all my life on the path waiting for Cornelia. Even after our leave-taking every day, I return to her tracks in the dust of the road and that is already a joy for me. Oh, how I hate this long-awaited fiancИ Herman. If it were not for him, I would now have some hope of happiness. I'm sure you will never understand me. I know that you may be angry with me and ask yourself how the hell, in times of war, can I occupy myself with my private affairs. It's impossible to understand, until you yourself experience a similar feeling. Although you may be revolted by my difficulties, I still want to share them with you, because you are the only man in the world to whom I can express my pain.

I'm just afraid that if this torture of love should become too unbearable, then... God forbid that I should undertake that last irrevocable desperate step, for the sake of that woman.

Your perishing brother, Marius.

"But why have I begun to understand your pain, Marius?" exclaimed Johannes. "Is it possible that I too have become a victim, having inherited this feeling from you?"

In the closing dusk, somewhere in the branches of a tree, the eyes of an owl flashed out, reflecting some hidden source of light. The bird answered affirmatively for Johannes:

"Ah-huh!"

"Can it be that I love this woman, this killer of my brother? I cannot, but I do!"

And the owl agreed:

"Ah-huh!"

"I love her, I love her!"

"Ah-huh! Ah-huh!" came the answer.

"But then... the upshot of it all," breathed Johannes bemusedly, "is that I have killed my love!"

"Ah-huh! Ah-huh!" confirmed the owl.

"Oh damn you, Marius, with your letter-testament! You forced me to inherit a mission which destroyed both her and me. What business is it of mine, to worry about a dead man? `Let the dead bury the dead.' But she was here so recently, and she was so alive in my arms. She trusted me and I played on her trust, and became a traitor worse than you!

"Like a blind bloodhound, I was hot on the trail of Cornelia, and did not see that the path I followed passed through Paradise. The charge overshadowed the sense of reality. Behind the diversion of the project, I did not see that I was building a labyrinth on the bones of my closest one, on the flesh of the Creator himself.

"I escaped from the front in order to avenge you, and we have lost this war because people like myself ran to settle their own little family problems. I did not get back my son, but with my retreat I helped his killers gain victory in the war. I did not get you back, but I destroyed my soul, committing a sin which is worse than killing. And finally... "

Johannes stopped, because even inside of him he was afraid to admit this.

"...and finally, I destroyed the only living soul on this earth who loved me, sent to me by the Creator to console me. She was entrusted to my care and was destined to become the reason for my existence."

"Ah-huh! Ah-huh!" answered him the owl.

***

It was unclear how long Johannes sat in his trance, his back against a large branchy tree, but gradually the night crept over him. The evening mist had dispersed and the sky above shone clear and crystalline. The numb paralysis of Johannes began to recede, the faster the more he turned his mind to the starry dome above him.

The March sky of the Southern Hemisphere struck him with its grandeur. The whole panorama of autumn constellations was held between two sublime wings - the formations of Orion and the Southern Cross. First Johannes turned his gaze to Orion, and imagined Ancient Egypt - the beginning of the most recent wave of human civilization. The thoughts and feelings of Egyptians were turned in their time to the belt of Orion, and in the same way as Johannes now, at night they would contemplate their distant, as they believed, native land. A little further to the left of that noble constellation hung the formation of Canis Major with its blazing Dog Star, Sirius. That huge shining eye of the formidable Egyptian dog-headed god.

Then followed some interlude between the Great Dog and the giant ship, Argo. The ship in which Jason and the daring Argonauts sailed to recover the Golden Fleece. The ship which some considered to represent Noah's Ark. The ship which in Johannes' imagination sailed away from the Egyptian gods along the enormous path of the Milky Way, through the vast ocean which spread itself across the wide open space of African skies. The point of Argo's destination was marked by a huge bright torch - Crux, the Southern Cross.

That symbol of Salvation, that symbol of the Creator, drew Johannes' attention. It swirled in the space of his thoughts, triggering a strange formula:

"Man must believe - that is the greater aim of his existence. But faith dries up in a man if he is constantly accompanied by success. Why should we believe in anything if we are successful and immortal?

"On the other hand, if we are endlessly unhappy, then also we cease to believe. We would want to turn away from this world, to escape from it by taking our lives. In order to prevent this there arises, in the string of failures which from time to time stand in our road, an instrument of faith called Hope. Hope, which helps to assure one that the aim is achievable. One simply has to believe that it is within our reach.

"Do I have hope of anything since Cornelia's death? Yes, I think I do. And the proof of this, is that the majestic Cross in the bright skies stirs something inside of me. Do I believe that I will ever again see Cornelia? No! That I don't believe. But there exists a third essence which forms a substitute for existing reality. That is Love. Cornelia does not exist, but love for her does not diminish. Quite the opposite. It burns brighter and brighter, as if it were a fire in my soul. And I do believe that time will come when I kiss that source of eternal love. Love which is infinite, which grows with its roots down into the depths, and which spreads its arms up into the sky like this tree which has given me shelter..."

At that moment, Johannes noticed that the tree under which he sat was not quite an ordinary one. This was a baobab, which by all accounts was not supposed to grow in this part of the world. On a long crooked branch, just above Johannes' head, were perched two living creatures. These were a chameleon and a paradise flycatcher. A quiet conversation unrolled between these two new neighbours.

"We do the same thing - catch flies," said the chameleon. "However, we are so different. You are colourful and conspicuous, and I am an almost invisible creature which dyes itself in any desired colour to blend with its surroundings."

"I always fear this characteristic of yours," replied the paradise flycatcher. "Sometimes I even feel sorry for the flies that fall victim to your deception. You sneak up on your poor prey like a vampire."

"Yes," answered the chameleon, "I prepare my ground for a long time. In contrast to you, who darts into the world of flies like lightning and snatches the prey. The eggs holding my children must lie under soil for a whole year. All that time the little chameleons slowly ripen, preparing themselves for the mission of patient hatching into this world. But your hunt is defined in space, which is crossed by your short and straight lines. Between the moment you spot a fly, and the moment it disappears down your gullet, there lies the brief instant of one short dart. And then again you bury yourself in meditation - in a world in which there are no flies."

"Yes it's true," replied the bird. "My world differs from yours. My universe is not like yours. There are no invisible beings and sly pretenders, creatures which know well what they want, and like to tighten the noose slowly round the necks of their victims. These vampire-sadists assemble, like a jigsaw puzzle, the pattern of a treacherously friendly world. It's for good reason the black people don't like you."

"Yes," said the chameleon, "I know your kind lives according to different rules. However, what interests me more about you, is everything beside the darting lines with which you hunt. Open your secret. What is the meaning of your existence outside of those darting moments?"

"You don't understand the difference. You are a deceitful devil. But I am a very simple creature. That is why I was created so bright and colourful, so that you can take delight in my beauty. The more so because I do not live for myself, but rather for you. So that your existence can be more joyful even though, treacherous that you are, you do not deserve it. Even so, the secret does not lie in that at all. The important thing is that you are me and I am you. You'll tell me that we two belong to different biological kinds. Then, just look at humans. They belong to one kind. Yet, one constantly changes his colours, another tries to exaggerate his colour to the utmost, and starts to vibrate like a taut string. Then there are utterly insipid individuals. However, the most ridiculous thing is, they all think they are all the same. Behind the exterior of hairless primates, they cannot see that one has wooden legs, another, instead of a body, a sail filled with wind. But my secret concerns them all - they are all part of one creature, one creation, including you and me. If you want to be noticed from Heaven, paint yourself in heavenly colours"

"This is exactly what I don't want. The sky is the domain of birds of prey and I don't wish to be taken there before my time. You, Flycatcher, are a beautiful inhabitant of the Sky, yet you hawk after earthly creatures."

The paradise flycatcher arched its splendid tail so that it reflected the twinkling light of the stars. The sparkles blazed up on its chest and wings. And already it was not a bird sitting on the branch. It was a huge constellation in the African sky - the constellation Flycatcher.

The inner and outer Johannes disappeared. In their place a new persona came into being. Around him was nothing. He absorbed into himself all visible space around him. The change occurred so imperceptibly and rapidly that it could have been called sudden. But there could have been no suddenness, because behind the space, time disappeared too.

The left side of the new creature's face was cleanly shaven, and bore a resemblance to a slimy chameleon. The right side was covered with a beard and looked like a flycatcher. There were even a few reddish feathers sticking out. The creature's arm was wrapped in bandages up to the shoulder, the hand - in a black cloth. The chest looked like that of a woman, and the hair both long, blond curly, and at the same time short and grey. The skin was spotty, absent in some places, revealing organs beneath, woven inside like endless labyrinths, the surface of which resembled the red coat of a soldier. The wooden leg had no little toe.

The creature was so phantasmagorical that Johannes guessed that he was in a dream. From the moment of that realization, the dream took a desultory form. Johannes saw himself under a baobab walking and embracing the laughing Katy. Next to them stood another couple: Marius whispered something into the ear of Cornelia. Johannes himself was dressed in a strange brown suit, embroidered with golden apples. Not far off, in the savannah grass, two white rhinoceroses mated in quiet dignity. Johannes shouted with all his might:

"Cornelia, you're alive!"

But the sound of his voice could hardly penetrate the thick air of the dream. Marius shielded Cornelia with his magnified body, filling all space around. He fixed his eyes on Johannes, and grabbing him by the shoulder, began to shake him. Johannes opened his eyes and shouted to his brother:

"Marius, allow me to speak with Cornelia!"

For some time he could not comprehend who it was that bent over him and shook his shoulder. Then a ghastly wheeze from Johannes sounded in the air:

"Marius?!"

***

Indeed it was real. Johannes was being shaken awake by his suicide brother, who bent over him in the dramatic light of the lantern which he held in an outstretched hand over his head. Johannes could not believe what was happening, and assumed that this awakening was part of his dream - an extended nightmare. The reality was even more unreal, enhanced as it was by the strange presence of the dark silhouettes of two mysterious horsemen looming behind Marius. Marius himself, in the light of the lantern, looked as if he was glazed with the yolk of an egg.

"Why are you so afraid, Piet?" asked the yellow phantom. "Yes, it's me, your brother!"

"This can't be real!" exclaimed Johannes, and grabbed the hand stretched out towards him.

"Ooh, why are you pinching me? Hey, brother!"

"But it cannot be!" babbled Johannes. "What has happened? Are you alive, or am I already dead?"

"More alive than you think," said Marius. "But I can't understand why this surprises you. Wait a minute. Did you not receive any news of me?"

"What news?" asked Johannes. "And who are those people behind you?" he added, pointing in horror at the dark strangers in the background.

"Oh please come to your senses!" demanded Marius. "When I learned that you had arrived in the town I sent to you our old servant to warn you that my suicide had been faked. And those behind me are your two good friends, Herman and Andries."

When at last Johannes grasped the import of what had been was said, his sense of reality flooded back. He seized his brother by the throat and began to strangle him. The lantern fell to the ground, but luckily did not go out. That saved Marius, as the horsemen seeing this jumped off their mounts and tore Johannes' hands from the choking victim.

"You sent to warn me about your tricks," shouted Johannes in a frenzy, "the madman, who called me to you, to the other world! So, sure, never mind, because you are going there yourself, right now, and will correct everything! To send an idiot, a fool who can't even unbutton his own trousers when he pisses, with such news! But do you know that you are a triple traitor? Because of you, I killed Cornelia!"

The other three were struck dumb.

"What are you talking about?" shouted Herman. "What do you, son of a bitch, mean by killed?"

"No, no, wait a moment," exclaimed Andries. "It can't be true. Let Piet tell the whole story."

Johannes, freed by those holding him back, clasped his head in his hands and swinging from side to side, began to groan.

"I will tell you nothing!" slipped from his lips. "Until I understand what this horrible dream means. And if you can't explain this damned illusion, then I will know that you are figments of my nightmare and I will not believe in you."

Herman in his rage turned to Marius.

"Tell him your saga!" he demanded. "Only in short. And let him try not answering after that!"

Marius began his story, and as it advanced, so the needle in Johannes' heart pressed deeper and deeper.

"First of all, I'm not a traitor," began Marius. "I have always fought on the same side as you. Remember I wrote to you I was in the expedition with Gatacre? So here it goes: I was one of the two guides who led the English army into the Boer ambush. When I returned to the town suspicions began to arise against me, and I decided to disappear in order to avoid interrogation. Not to run, or I would have been followed. But to die! To die before the eyes of many witnesses. I shot myself with a blank cartridge, and escaped in that way. Then I discovered that not far away, on one of the neighbouring farms, a Boer commando was being formed, which had to start a rebel movement on a signal from the Transvaal. I joined that commando, consisting of a few dozen men, meanwhile being not far from the town.

"Occasionally I disguised myself and was able to visit the town without being recognized. None of my acquaintances knew of my trick. I could not entrust the secret to anyone without putting them in jeopardy. On one of my visits I saw you, Piet. For fear that a meeting then would betray my presence to the enemy, I sent our old manservant to tell you that I was alive, and wanting to see you. I was not afraid of entrusting him with the secret, because in case of his capture, no one would listen to the story of a madman."

"Oh you damned idiot!" shouted Johannes. "That is exactly what happened. I did not listen to the story of a madman!"

"Yes, I can see that now!" replied Marius. "Anyway, after a short while," he continued, "Herman appeared in our commando, having escaped from the town. We had heard about each other from Cornelia, and as you can imagine, did not share much love between us, although formerly he was a member of the Republican forces. He told me all he knew of you."

"Oh please, leave me out of your family squabbles!" interrupted Herman. "Let him explain quickly what he's done to Cornelia! And let him beware what he says!"

"All right, have your truth!" shouted Johannes. "What have I done? First I scared you off, Herman, you coward! Chased you out of town by threatening you with the English police. Here stands a living witness to that: Andries, through whom the news was transmitted."

Andries nodded his head in assent.

"You, Herman, were the first... " continued Johannes, "... or should I say, the second after my brother, to deal a blow to Cornelia. Both of you ran away without warning the bride. To where? Out of fear of causing her harm? And then I... I pushed Cornelia from the cliff, or whatever was left of her after what you did to her. Pushed her to the same abyss where I thought you lay, my unavenged brother!"

All three of them began to shout at once, the gist of which was:

"How pushed? Pushed Cornelia into the abyss?"

"No, of course not myself!" Johannes yelled back at the top of his voice. "She herself committed suicide. But please don't blame only me. You are her previous suitors. You started the fire under this pot."

Suddenly Andries burst out laughing with relief.

"My sister?" he blurted. "Committed suicide? Ha-ha-ha. She will sooner drown her own mother than even think of killing herself. I bet she duped you. All of you."

"And you will not lose your bet," was heard in a woman's voice from the darkness.

The men all jumped to their feet, and strained their attention to grasp this new convolution of their already confused reality.

The voice from the darkness was too familiar to each of them not to be recognized. The next instant, like a prima donna on an opera stage, into the circle of light stepped the beautiful Amazon Cornelia.

***

Johannes dashed to Cornelia, catching her by the hands. He did not care whether this was a dream or not. Not long before, he had come to the realization that he was prepared to give up anything in the world just to see Cornelia once more, in a dream or in reality, alive or dead. He did not realize what had come about here, under the tree, and could only repeat in a whisper:

"Cornelia! Cornelia!"

"Hey you! Easy! Easy!" the Amazon said firmly. "Besides you, there are some other suitors here. Look out they don't become jealous!"

At that moment the cruel reality of the scene began to penetrate into the dull consciousness of Johannes. Love was one thing, but the real state of things obliged him to refrain from outpourings. He dropped his hands, obediently accepting a secondary role in the unfolding drama.

Herman sighed with relief.

"Oh, this crazy maniac scared me!" he said.

"He's not crazy," Cornelia declared emphatically. "He's the Great Avenger, Johannes... Or rather, Piet, as we should all call him from now on. So what will you say, Piet? Was that cup sweet? The one that you prepared for the other?"

"When did you learn that Marius was my brother?" muttered Johannes.

"On your first attempt to make me jealous," answered Cornelia. "Then I rushed to teach Katy a lesson but instead received one from her. My dear friends, allow me to entertain you with a most amusing story:

"My third fiancИ, Piet, took Katy for a Russian spy, and decided to blackmail her on that account. His idea was to use her in his crafty designs against me. The poor creature was indeed Russian. She came to the Colony on the track of her husband who had disappeared. She hides her nationality only because the Russian Czar is at odds with Queen Victoria. To make her search easier, she looked for a position with an English family, in order to find out more about prisoners departing by sea. By the way, she saw you before, Herman, in the ranks of the Republicans."

"Wait a moment," Marius interrupted her. "You said to use Katy against you. How on earth did you offend my brother?"

"Not him, but in his opinion, I offended you. He decided to take revenge on me for your death, and did so in a quite extravagant manner. But please do not interrupt me any more. Otherwise you will never learn the most interesting part. I can see by your face, Piet, that you have already guessed the rest. So I must enlighten you with the details.

"So Katy decided: `All right, if I was taken for a spy, let me play a spy.' Trust me, that woman possesses a fair degree of sharpness. She managed to extract some benefit from her new status. Katy threatened you, Piet, that her invisible comrades-in-arms would take vengeance on you in case she was betrayed to the authorities. Yes, Katy started to play her new role. First she was very curious to know why an unknown tramp, in the course of your walk to the port, called you Piet, and not Johannes. Once in your absence she came with Flycatcher to your house to feed the chameleon... By the way, is the poor lizard with you, or did you leave it behind? That would be so characteristic of you... She sent the boy away a little early to take care of some task, but she herself remained and got to know the contents of your..." Cornelia turned to Marius, "...Marius, your letters written to Piet. You must forgive her for this small intrusion into the intimacy of your correspondence. It was Piet who pushed Katy to spy.

"So thus, the identity of the labyrinth-builder was established. Maybe you, Marius, don't yet know that this is a new profession of your brother's. Katy, out of woman's solidarity, felt - and not without reason - some threat to me in Piet's intentions. So she initiated me into the secret of his real identity. The news, I must tell you, amazed me, as you look so different from your brother. Not so, Herman?" Cornelia directed her speech to Herman.

"At this point, at last I received a letter from Marius and Herman."

Johannes blazed up, burning his brother with his eyes.

"So how come you were not afraid to write to Cornelia? And I had to receive only the vagrant madman?! And why did you not now say anything about a letter to town?"

"Did I really have any chance," replied Marius, "to say anything over your croaking: `I have killed her! I have killed Cornelia!' Scared everyone to death!"

Cornelia burst out laughing, enjoying immensely this remark of Marius'.

"And then I was totally convinced," continued Marius, "that you did receive news of me from the old fellow, our servant. And that you knew already that I was alive and staying not far away. But on the other hand, Cornelia was still in the dark about me and Herman. We decided to unravel all knots and risked writing her a letter, also because the situation on the front grew worse for the Boers. And hardly anyone would have paid much interest, neither to the guide of Gatacre nor to the refugee from the Boer army. And even less to people who communicate with them in writing.

"The new reality gave us more freedom. We wrote in our letter (I'm sure you, Cornelia, remember well its contents), that we had joined the Boer commando which was formed for a rebellion, and were awaiting the moment to rise."

"So all this time," exclaimed Johannes, "you, Cornelia, knew that Marius was alive? And did not say a single word to me, in order to ease my suffering, and to put an end to that preposterous game? And, by the way, tell me, how did you understand that I was unaware that Marius was alive?"

"Oh well," responded Cornelia, "by your own remarks, like: `bring down my vengeance', and also your inquiries about the reason for the suicide. You looked so proud of yourself, like a prince in exile. And I implored fate not to let your brother send you a letter with the happy news, before the time was right. Yes indeed, Piet, labyrinth-builders often find themselves in the place of those for whom they prepare a trap.

"Judge for yourself, could I really deprive myself of such a treat, fully enjoying your play on the stage with Katy, and not to mount the stage myself, in the final act? How could you, being such a Great Bloodhound, not discern the peculiarity of the bend in the wild stream, which swallowed both Marius and myself? That is, the deep spot under the cliff, the seething vortex covered with foam which can hide anything underneath it, and then the sharp bend behind which the torrent disappears. All we had to do was to fall into the water, swim a couple of metres along the bottom, and then emerge behind the curtain of bushes which conceal the actor from the spectators. Not so, Marius?"

"Exactly so," he confirmed. "Only I felt so sorry for my rifle, as I had to leave it on a shoal to make it look plausible."

"And I," Cornelia declared proudly, "I managed to swim under the water together with my carbine."

"So did you shoot with a blank? Pressed the trigger with a stick?" Marius grilled her for details, getting excited.

"Oh yes, exactly," answered Cornelia. "You see I even burnt my chemise a bit. Thank God that immediately after I had to jump into the water... But all right, I see that your brother wants to know something else about the structure of the universe."

"But how," demanded Johannes, "how did it turn out that we all meet here together for this idiotic comedy? And tell me, why is Andries present?"

"Questions, questions," grinned Cornelia. "In good time, after your disappearance from our engagement party... "

"What engagement party?" Herman and Marius exclaimed simultaneously.

"Eh Andries, brother of mine," sighed Cornelia, "why didn't you tell them about the forthcoming marriage of sister of yours?"

"When should I have done that? And there are things that a tongue simply cannot spit out!" mumbled Andries.

"All right, then let the other suitors wait their turns for an answer!" pronounced Cornelia. "First, allow me to satisfy Piet's curiosity. After your disappearance, Piet, from the celebration in O'Hara's house, I felt that the finale was approaching, and sent Andries to the Boer commando, in order to organize a brotherly welcome. Andries was bidden to remain in the commando and become a member. You, Andries, resist in vain - you will have to do some fighting for your land, whether you want to or not.

"And myself, I emerged from the water, caught my horse, and as soon as you, Piet, started on your journey, I followed you, nearly freezing to death in my wet clothes. All this should explain our wonderful reunion, under the flying colours of a struggle against the aggressor.

"I of course wanted my rising onto the stage to wait a while, in order to see how you, Piet, would hang yourself with your own drawers, out of love for me. But unfortunately I was afraid that my other suitors would kill you before you managed to do that. On the other hand, I'm very pleased to see that you are so devastated, realizing that you had been hoist with your own petard, brought down by your own perfidious designs."

In reality, Johannes could not even imagine what he would do now with his love for Cornelia. A love so ludicrous in the present situation, like close-fitting trousers pulled onto a goat. In addition to that inappropriate passion, another thought lay in his mind, like a tantalizing little cherry on the top of a cake:

"Interesting to know how far Cornelia went in her love relationships with my precursors?"

***

Having finished her narrative, Cornelia glanced at the men and then asked:

"So tell me, where are the other members of the commando? I went to so much trouble to drag Andries out from under his mummy's wing! And now I'm very keen to test his mettle in real action."

"Well, this is it," Herman answered gloomily. "The entire flower of the Boer commando at your service! Or should I say, what is left of it! The rest have gone home."

"What does it all mean?" exclaimed Cornelia. "Marius, you wrote to me that the commando consists of substantial forces."

"Oh, well, that was yesterday's news," said Marius. "But today, after the fall of Bloemfontein, the situation is quite different. After a general debate the Boer commando was disbanded and sent home. Now is a very bad moment to raise a rebellion. Defeat up north has undermined the mood of war in the local people. If we advance now, we can expect more desertions from the commando than new members flowing in. It was decided for the time being to lay low, and wait for the right moment to reunite and deal a blow to the enemy from within. Herman, Andries and myself were heading home when we found what we were looking for. The discovery of Piet's horse led us to Piet himself, sleeping under this tree. We are just a group of fellow travellers, and not at all the vanguard of the Boer commando."

Here came Piet's turn to laugh. And that was bitter laughter. But he could not contain his outburst, looking at the contorted face of Cornelia.

"Of course, that is for the better," said Andries. "Otherwise how should we explain to our parents. We left so suddenly, without even warning them! Sure, we wanted to write to them on the road, but now there's no need to do so. We should hurry back, then perhaps they won't notice we left. It's just as well also for my shoulder. It hasn't quite healed."

Herman took Cornelia's hands.

"Please explain to me," he enquired, "what did you mean by engagement, when you told us about recent events?"

Cornelia jerked back her hand angrily and without answering, pushed Herman away. Her face was contorted with a wicked grimace which ill suited her. Piet's derision changed to hysterical laughter. Wiping away the tears caused by these suffocating outbursts, Piet turned to Marius.

"And you, brother?" he asked. "Are you not afraid of returning to town now? I understand that there's nothing for Herman to fear. At present the whole country is flooded with deserters from the Boer army - they are welcomed guests of the English. But you...you are something else! You are a traitor who used to be in their service."

"Nonsense!" objected Marius. "I did not take an oath for the Queen. I was hired for one expedition only, and how it ended... well, everyone's already forgotten about it."

"Everyone except me, brother!" Piet grew serious. "In the action against Gatacre my son was killed!"

"But listen!" interrupted Cornelia, shouting furiously. "What about our common struggle against the enemy? Who then will destroy the English army?"

"Patience, Cornelia, patience!" said Marius. "Our goal now, I suppose, must be to lie low and wait for the appropriate moment."

"I'll give my consent to that," said Piet. "To lie low and wait. Now I can go along with you! Let us proceed, Glorious Army, the day is breaking."

Indeed there was nothing more to be discussed. The assembly straddled their horses and set out on the road leading back to the town.

The Boer commando moved with the vitality of a funeral procession. Different thoughts occupied the minds of each of the warriors.

"In the eyes of my brother," coursed the thoughts of Marius "I have ceased being a traitor. However, what horrible luck I should have led Gatacre exactly to the detachment where, during the fight, Piet's son was killed. This means I am again guilty. This time guilty of the death of my nephew, although it was not intentional.

"Nevertheless I do need some means of living. It would have been nice if I could have wormed my way into my brother's good graces. As I understand, he still possesses the remains of our family fortune.

"And concerning Cornelia, I'm sure I have a good chance to win back her favour. Piet betrayed her friendship making an attempt on her life. Herman turned out to be a coward, was frightened by Piet's threats and ran away, almost from the altar. Both of them are deserters from the Boer army. But I, on the other hand, I'm a faithful and unceasing crusader against the enemy. Of course I will not begin my play for Cornelia before I extract some capital from my brother, otherwise I can say goodbye to the money."

"It must be said," swirled the thoughts in Herman's mind, "I deserted the army for the sake of the wedding, and ran from the altar only because my former services in the army could have done me some harm. And now I must confront Cornelia's parents, old friends of my family who think of me as a deserter who broke the family vows - escaped from the front and from my own wedding.

"Oh, damn you Piet! Now at last I recognize you. You were one of du Plooy's men, and your present face was hidden then, under a beard. If only I could turn back the clock! If only I knew then... I would have shot you in the back! Then, when we fought in neighbouring commandos! By now I would already have been married to Cornelia, and our parents' wish would have been obeyed. And now, even if I kill you, I can't get Cornelia back! Oh, damn you, Piet!"

"Fortunately," bubbled the thoughts of Andries, "all horrible prospects have vanished from my horizons. The war is not the main menu of the day. What luck! I can't wait, there's so much to tell in the Victoria and Kruger tavern. These fools are riding and cannot even imagine that tomorrow they'll become the laughing stock of the whole town. Catch it, Andries! Don't lose this starry moment of yours! Tomorrow you'll be the talk of all the taverns!"

"Oh God," flowed the melancholy thoughts of Cornelia, "what has happened with our men? How readily they return to the town, not caring what awful disgrace awaits them back there. I'm sure that each of them has already invented his own way to get himself off the hook: honest explanations of staged suicides, escapings from the altar, and engagement celebrations. Phew! And I bet that each of them is hoping to make a play for me again. Just look at them, how they stab each other with their eyes, like spiders in a tin! See in themselves future rivals. Yes, a formidable bunch they are indeed! Each better than the other. Anyway, time will tell. However, the first one attempting to cultivate me will be the most stupid one. I swear he'll pay for all of them! I will make such a fool of him that he cannot be seen, not even in a dream!"

Piet was buried in his own gloomy thoughts:

"The dream has turned out to be a reality. The world is inhabited by a multitude of disguised chameleons. I'd like to know where in this world live the paradise flycatchers? The soul craves abstraction, such as to interpret the evangelistic parable of the Horn of Plenty, or to imagine yourself as part of an existence where there's no space or time... But the mind is stuffed only with calculational lines:

Son - Minus.

Brother - Plus.

Cornelia - Question Mark.

At least the brother is in the Plus. I repossessed something I had never lost. I must somehow extricate myself from this day, when the Spirit in me is voiceless. The best recipe in such times is to do what you ought to do according to the accepted norms of Christian morality. That will be the first step towards regaining my spiritual centre. Let me, in my routine of today, start with preventing the deception from expanding. I must fulfil my old promise.

"Comrades," he called to his fellow travellers. "Can you do me a small favour? Can we please make a detour and visit one place on the way home? I must pay one debt, in order to erase the reputation of a great liar that I have gained recently.

No one would even have deigned to answer his request had it not been for Cornelia, who ordered:

"Well, all right, why not render you such a small favour? In gratitude for all the trouble you've taken over the last two months."

Piet turned the party towards a vineyard where in spite of the early hour, a group of workers was already at work. These were the same vine-growers whom Piet had met first, after his descent from the mountains on his way to the town.

A miserable drizzle began, and the workers would have sought shelter but for this strange procession which approached them. Facing the group of wet cultivators, Piet began his speech:

"I'm sure you recall me. I, the man who proclaimed himself Johannes at our first meeting. Now I wish to correct this lie, and disclose to you my real name. My name is Piet, my children. I cast my net in order to become a `fisher of men'. I caught nothing because I was not sent, but acted of my own will. Now I fulfil my promise, and play for you on my mouth organ, because the business which brought me here is accomplished."

The gloomy, soaked workers were noticeably cheered by the melody when the first sounds floated from Piet into the air. That was the nature of these people. Regardless of all adversities of life, poverty and abasement, the smallest entertainment was able to conjure a festive occasion in their lives. This transient joy immediately helped them forget all the misfortunes of their everyday existence, and at once their lot seemed no longer so bad.

Among the smiling crowd one character stood out for his particular exuberance. A remarkable Bushman with the little toe missing from his foot. If Doctor O'Hara had been there, he would immediately have recognized him to be his rescuer Charcoal.

In contrast to the barefoot audience, Piet's troops sat cheerlessly on their horses, with lowered shoulders and a variety of despondent thoughts on their minds.

When at last Piet finished his performance, Charcoal pointed his finger to the horsemen.

"Those are the promised new horses?" he asked. "We must kneel?"

Perhaps Piet would have found an answer to that, but at that moment, from behind a clump of trees, appeared another horseman. This time it really was an Apocalyptic horseman.

On a grey, one-eyed mule, with a Dutch musket raised aloft, and a chameleon clenched in his hand, the pale and solemn Flycatcher rose up before all.

***

The appearance of Flycatcher at the vineyards was preceded by a series of events, occurring a while earlier. When Flycatcher heard the shot in the distance ahead of him, the one that signalled Cornelia's faked suicide, he took it to be a conventional signal between conspirators and hid himself near the path. He saw how first Piet, and then Cornelia (for some strange reason, soaking wet), passed near him. Flycatcher urged his mule to follow them, keeping at a respectable distance from Cornelia, to escape notice. When the objects of his pursuit stopped for the night under a tree, and were joined by a group of three Boers, the boy understood that he had not been mistaken in his conjectures. He was now witnessing a council of rebels. He could not make out the content of this important meeting, as he was afraid to approach any closer and reveal his presence. But from the wild gesticulating he perceived that the rebels disagreed in their opinions concerning further actions.

When at last, with the dawn, the Boer commando set out on the road leading back to the town, Flycatcher was somewhat puzzled. However, when the group turned towards a farm, he guessed that the council of war had decided to raise a rebellion in the countryside, and now he was going to witness the beginning of the formation of a rebel army.

His hour had approached. He could wait no longer. The time had come to join the ranks of the combatants, and Flycatcher stroked with his heels the scraggy ribs of his mule. The chameleon was extracted from its basket in advance, as the boy was afraid lest he injure it somehow, with the jolting gallop of his daring horse. Thus appearing before the guerilla forces, Flycatcher recognized someone whom he absolutely did not expect to see. Nevertheless the strangely resurrected Marius, the escaped fiancИ Herman, and the coward-drunkard Andries-the-chicken, only added some mystery to the enterprise, being there all together.

"I'm going with you to fight!" exclaimed Flycatcher. "The hour of revenge has come!"

The war-cry of the newcomer called forth no emotion among the assembly, other than perplexity. They had simply lost the ability to be surprised any further that day, and were not even curious to know how the youngster had found them in these parts.

Only Piet appreciated the dreadful and bitter comedy of the situation.

"So you have decided that we are setting out for the war?" he asked.

"Of course," answered Flycatcher. "First I thought that I would ride behind you, at a distance, to the very battlefield. But now I can see," he pointed at the group of wet workers, "that you are raising a rebellion in the country. My place now is among you!"

That was too much for Cornelia's nerves, and biting her lip, she lunged her horse, galloping away. Herman and Marius dashed after her. But Piet, knowing that nothing awaited him in the town (let the ludicrous retinue of Cornelia comprise only two suitors), decided to amuse himself with a conversation with Flycatcher. Andries remained as well, because something in this newly arrived horseman clearly interested him.

"You are such a sharp philosopher," began Piet. "You are able to interpret labyrinths, but when it comes to real life, you force your way so straightforwardly. What amazing naОvetИ is in you. To think that we are going to fight! It's difficult to attribute this innocent idea to your young nature. I can understand Andries' sister, who conjectured that we strain to go into action, but you... from you I expected a more sophisticated approach."

"What sort of sophisticated approach?!" shouted Flycatcher impatiently. "Where have the others gone to? To start a rebellion on the neighbouring farms?"

"Home, Flycatcher," replied Piet. "They have gone home. And we gathered here only to give a charity concert to the vine-growers. Now this performance is over. So let us go home. Come with us!"

At that moment, Andries dismounted and came closer to Flycatcher. He took the mule's bridle in his hand and gave out a whistle.

"Look at this," he said. "This bridle is mine! I myself recently ordered those buckles with stars, from a blacksmith. That's why I couldn't find it, when I was packing for the road!"

Flycatcher was so thunderstruck at Piet's announcement about going home, that he paid no attention to the discovery of the bridle.

"How home?" he kept saying. "Well, you can go as you please, but I am going to fight the war. If not with you, I will reach the Boer army myself. They need each and every person who can carry a weapon!"

During this entire agitated conversation, Flycatcher instinctively supported the chameleon as it climbed about his hands. Noticing this attempt not to disturb the comfort of the lizard, Piet experienced inside of him a strange dИjЮ vu. In front of his eyes was his dead son, playing with this, the same chameleon, before the battle.

"Hey, Andries," shouted Piet, shaking off this feeling. "Give this little thief a thrashing, so in future he won't steal anybody's bridle again!"

Andries readily dragged the resisting Flycatcher off the mule. The boy could not fight back with his full measure, as he was afraid to injure the lizard in his hand. Andries in his turn held Flycatcher firmly with one hand, and although the shoulder caused him terrible pain and contorted his face, he managed to take a rolled whip from the saddle.

"Andries, beat him so," recommended Piet, "that he can climb over his bony jaded beast only on his stomach. And that he can straddle his mule properly again, only when the war is in the distant past!"

The whip split the air with a whining sound. The workers, to be on the safe side, quickly dispersed amongst the vines. Who knows what could be on the minds of these strange visitors? What if they next decide to take the whip to some of them?

Flycatcher did not cry out, and Piet, remembering his first encounter with the boy, was not surprised. Each lash called to his heart a twinge of compassion for the youngster.

"This is what I deserve!" thought Flycatcher, biting the sleeve of his flax jacket, "Every sin must be punished! Thank you, Almighty, for chastising me for my theft so soon and so mercilessly!"

Scribblings in light brown

That is how I write now - in the red of my own blood... it's unthinkable, would be shameful to write in anything else...

Oh, Rat King... why did you have to die on me like this? Now that I've uncovered your secret!

Having perpetrated my "mercy" killing, I began to sort out some of Rat King's papers, and came across a little grey order-form, the standard letterhead of a company that apparently ordered suits from Stitcher.

A funeral bureau!!!

Thoughts begun to swirl through my mind.

Oh, poor Stitcher! All your life you sewed suits for the dead. Sitting in your room, isolated from the rest of the world, you believed you were the one who created the universe, that your actions decided the thread of all events. It was your conviction that if you stopped stitching, the people of the twentieth century would stop dying. If you did not "give" them suits, you would not be "taking" their lives. Therefore you, who took by giving, believed you had to come to an end.

You refused to supply to twentieth century customers... and where could you get any other type?

It's too late now to tear my hair out!

And all I needed to save you, to motivate you to sew, was to bring a live customer to you, so you could take measurements. Simple as that!

Have I been sleeping?... or maybe, maybe it was YOU who created me, YOU who wove this world for us as a world of the past, where no-one was either born or died... and I'm a part of your consciousness. ... I'm still in your head... that is why I cannot believe in your death and can't let you go... otherwise who would have woven TODAY's me?

Rat King! Stitcher! Wherever you are, please answer me!

Would you like some sweet-melon that you've never tried? Perhaps the droning of a long fairy-tale? Would you like me to get rid of the neighbours who disturbed your sleep? Let me offer you sunlight instead of electric lights in your room? Do you want to see snow-covered mountains instead of the fire lookout tower behind your window?

Anything you want... but, please, be alive!!! You see, I live only through you... My love is big enough for three heads! Oh, Stitcher, do pity me! Be merciful, listen to me!

Without you, so narrow and deep, so wide and shallow, light and dark, you `monstrum horrendum informe ingens cui lumen ademptum'...

It's so lonely without you... unbearable...

I miss your "apocalypse of banality".

Epilogue

One year after the fall of Bloemfontein, somewhere in the Transvaal, a small group of Boer guerillas was surrounded and destroyed. Not one of the defenders surrendered. All of them died with weapons in their hands.

Just before daybreak, two English officers, those who a long while ago had witnessed the tussle between Piet and Andries at the Victoria & Kruger tavern, moved slowly in the darkness of the night with hand-lanterns, amongst the dead rebels. The English soldiers killed in the encounter had already been buried in the evening, but the dead Boers awaited their turn at dawn. In the grey haze of the retreating darkness, the officers began to discern details of the bodies lying around.

At the scene of the battle, the weapons had earlier been collected from the corpses by a special detachment of soldiers. However, the officers noted with disgust that marauding thieves had already done their best. A number of the bodies had been undressed. The thieves had torn boots and clothing from the dead, and had not even restrained themselves from grabbing whatever they found in the carry bags.

A light wind drove some torn pages of a Bible from place to place. Suddenly, one of the officers called the other over.

"Come here," he shouted. "Just look at this! What a small boy fighting with them!"

His comrade approached.

"Incredible!" he exclaimed. "Who could have beaten him like this! The whole body is covered with traces of whip lashes."

Before them on the ground lay a teenager of about thirteen. The marauders had torn off his jacket and shirt. They had not touched the trousers or boots, perhaps because of their small size. The hat of a young soldier hung trapped on the thorns of a nearby bush, apparently lost in the darkness by the thieves.

The boy had light hair, tossed in its recalcitrant tufts. Like all children of his age, his face was adorned with a turned-up nose and freckles. On his pale plump lips was frozen a happy smile. His eyes were closed, but the Englishmen could clearly imagine that, if by some miracle they had opened, two huge blue irises would have looked out at them. The lean body of the boy indeed carried traces of numerous healed lashes. On his chest, clotted blood marked a fresh gunshot wound.

"And that must be his basket," said one of the officers. "Check what's inside. Perhaps the contents will tell us his story."

The other officer took the basket, glanced inside, and threw it back onto the ground.

"Phew, disgusting," he said. "A chameleon! I understand why this basket was not carried off!"

"Here's the name of this soldier," said the first officer, and held out to his comrade the hat which he had freed from the thorns. On a white ribbon inside the hat was the inscription:

Born in Bethlehem, Afrikaans-speaking English boy, Johannes (John Charlton) nicknamed Flycatcher

Silent for a while, he continued:

"The boy must have been a rare bird indeed. An Afrikaner of English origin. I was always convinced that the essence of the Afrikaner lies not in nationality, but in the fabric of the soul."

"Would you also say," said the second officer, "that Christ was born in that Bethlehem which is in the Orange Republic?"

"I don't know whether this boy was a saint," answered the first officer. "Certainly, he looks like one now! Nonetheless, he gave his life for a collection of losers! These freedom-fighters, they always come to the same bloody end. If ever I should be blessed with a son, I'd urge him to be a surgeon, to sew up wounds rather than inflict them".

"I'd prefer mine a tailor," responded the second officer. "He'd stitch the clothes of whole men, not the skin of the living".

Dawn approached. In the predawn twilight, the body of the boy seemed to be fading, becoming transparent and, as had happened long ago to Private Tommy Holly, was turning into African sky, into earth and into fading stars. It seemed that the miracle which had always been in the mind of Flycatcher now embraced the whole world. And nature blazed alive in every little inanimate object around. The more so, as the streak of a flying paradise flycatcher passed across the sky, drawing a red line of dawn with its swift thrust.

Africa is so recognizable in its pre-dawn hour. A first red line on the horizon, against the absolute darkness of the night - that is the real African dawn. As if a whip has torn away the skin of a black ox.

From the author:

I have managed to track down the people who were involved in the mercy killing of Stitcher, and have learned from them an interesting story.

Soon after the unfortunate elimination of the patient, a strange thing befell the psychiatrist in this case. By the way, this doctor has not always been a psychiatrist! He had been a surgeon, but changed his profession after one of his sons drank himself to death, and the other was involved in the famous terror attack that shook the entire world.

After the catastrophe with his patient, the doctor attempted suicide, strangely enough by cutting his wrists. The attempt failed, because for some unexplained reason the blood ceased to flow from the vein. And remember - it was a quality incision, made by a professional surgeon! The blood changed direction in his arm, and bypassed the cut.

The fact of this utterly rare phenomenon was recounted by the colleague who attended to the wound. The psychiatrist, to my knowledge, made no further attempt on his life after this incident.

So, that seemed to be the end of it. The staff of the Pathology Department where the homicide took place, on learning of my great interest in the history of Stitcher, invited me to view an unusual exhibit. Because of the singular deformity, the medics chose to preserve Rat King's body as a specimen. At first they thought to immerse it in formalin, but for reasons of expense they opted to entomb the creature in clear resin. Unfortunately the resin darkened and became almost opaque, so the body inside was hardly discernable. Only under strong light could one distinguish the hunched silhouette within. This produced in me a most uncanny feeling - the dark monolith with its encased monster and the cluster of illuminated bubbles frozen in the resin. Their bright points of light hung like stars.

Note in a fine print:

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events or characters taken from real life is entirely incidental.

The discrepancies between reality and the version of reality presented in this book are intended.

Because you are what you believe!

Or as Stitcher would have said: "There exists not quantity but only quality."

terroristrap

The events of this narrative occurred in real life,

although the dates of astronomical phenomena

may have been moved for the sake of art.

If you want to be noticed from Heaven, paint yourself in heavenly colours.

Inhabitants of the Sky hawk after earthly creatures.

Where Priests decline the scientific way

The priests of Science are slow to pray.

The fact

At the beginning of the twenty first century, a major press conference was organized to present the wreckage of the passenger aircraft destroyed in a terrorist hijacking incident. Amongst other less interesting items of debris on display, was a unique object - a dark monolithic cube, molten in the explosion of the crash and then solidified into a glassy mass. Inside this sombre cube, cut from the wreckage, could be discerned two human forms almost merged into one. Judging from the positions of the two, confined as they were in the dark amber of eternity, one could recognize that they were neighbours sharing a common space, time and fate. It would have been impossible to break open the cube without destroying the figures inside.

-- ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR

They did live happily ever after.

But first...

The first flash. Earliest memory. Early childhood. My childhood. That flash known to all. Two, three, four years old... Fsssh! Introduction... After that flash, memory flows. Continuous. Rolls uninterrupted. This happened to me. It happens to all... Happened what? Sunrise over my soft, round body! On the edge of milky flow, tender stems tremble and glow. Unknown before - Bright horizon... dawn... cockcrow.

Curtain rise!

Grrrsh! Ignition. Spark in the system. Device checked. Introduction of the mechanism into the world. Into reality... The first flash. Where the Creator tested the readiness of the system. My system. Me. First blush of the morning. First glimpse. First sight. What is there? Around the device? About me? Light upon a room. In a city? Twenty first century? No. Twentieth... Had I approached the window - the city would have appeared! Could not. I had no legs. I was round... Rolled over there? Unrolled...

Uninterrupted memory rolled over me. Interrupted only by sleep, or whatever it was called. As I learned later, when four years old. What about at three? And two? - Non-existent. Can't recall. If I don't remember, it did not occur.

And when I die, as I learned I must, I'll not remember anything. Book without beginning or end. Without the first or the last parts. Page number One Hundred and Forty-Four - The flash. In memory. In earliest childhood.

Sleep. Months long? Half a year? Then a step beyond the bounds of the house. Into the stretching surrounds. The city outstretched. Into the space beyond. Outstretching the boundary of my interests. Overstepping the boundaries? No! Stepping out of the house.

Then I found I was a boy. With eyes, mouth, digestive and perspiring organs. Already I could speak. Already had a name. Will not tell the name. Newspapers will splash it soon. Splashed into the world! Splashed on what?

On a plane?

As an airline hijacker. Murderer. Monster!

But on that first dawn, when I was but round...I saw all that differed from round me. Contrasted. Contradicted. Swiftly kicked against. Struck! Hit! Slapped!

PAIN!!!

Was not like me. Unlike me. Disliked me - pain and spite!

And when I stepped out of the house, already I was equipped with these sticking-out extensions. Offshoots. Weapons! Already, I knew these stood in the way of me-round rolling. These had names - arms and legs. And the one that slapped on that dawn - that was called a stick.

It had a spiteful quality - called length. And the purpose of length was to cause pain.

When did I learn about this? Was it during that "first check"? Or was it when the little boy stepped out of the house? I don't know...What do I know? Did know then?

As I stepped out, already I knew where length lay, and where vicious spite hid.

Are you still with me?

-- ROUND HAPPINESS

Unaware of my first three years, not remembering them, being "absent", I was spared all pornographic sensations. Don't recall touching a woman's soft, round, milk-laden breast. Don't remember means didn't happen. Did not touch!

I do remember well the bottle of thin gruel... and the length of arms... My arms sticking out to grab a dummied bottle, and other arms slapping mine. Arms against arms? Whose? Mother's? - Can't recall. Pain and spite! Sucked the bottle till four? No! Sucked the bottle from four...

These were good bodies: SUN, MOTHER, GRANNY, DUMMIED BOTTLE OF GRUEL, PUPPY, BALL, ME.

These were bad: NIGHT, FATHER, BELT, MY ARMS, MOTHER'S ARMS, ANY ARMS OR LEGS, ARMED BODIES!

At first I was not hit by legs, but their length and hidden qualities I saw, guessed, suspected at once. Worst of all was a stick...

So, that's all there is - all my memorabilia. My cypher. My code. The scroll of my childhood... and ever since. MOTHER-FATHER; GRANNY-BUNNY!But in the nature of things, components have a fancy for alignment: Like to arrange themselves. Crave sequence, order.

Let's see: PUPPY, BELT, BROTHER, SUN, GRANNY, NIGHT, BALL...

Feel the difference? The words, the ammunition is the same. Only bullets of a different calibre. There are even blanks, bachelors. Like Brother... Any use? What am I on about?

Yea! Lo! An order of succession! Do our days follow one after the other in a fixed sequence? Or, am I today four hundred and twenty five years, three months and half a day old? And tomorrow precisely seven? And every morning, according to age, memory changes to suit. Appropriate to that day. At school we were told it's not so... Try to prove it one way or the other!

Later, I learned even the ancient Greeks could not prove the case either way. And since them (not since then) the globe has got no brighter. Wiser, I mean...I did. I was getting brighter and wiser. Knew my marbles on the matter of PAIN. Learned a thing or two about pain in the knuckles.

Also, long objects were the source of pain: Mothers arms trying to tear my fingers away from the wheels of Brother's bicycle - DAY ONE. A girl at my school desk hits precisely my joint with her wooden ruler - DAY NEW. Father's belt lands its buckle on the bend of my elbow - DAY OF PAIN AND SPITE. Then a rugby player with his leg against my knee! But that was later. In DAY MINUS ONE... SQUARE ROOT OF DAY MINUS ONE.

Believe me, I do like people! Mother, elder Brother, rugby player, Father...When they're round - they're so soft and kind. They do wish me well. Teach me to be kind...Taught! Always did! On the first day, which today I don't remember. And on the last day, which was yesterday.

I believed them. Immediately and always. They were kind-hearted folk. Spoke not really what they thought. I noticed it in myself and transferred it to their credit. They fed me, smiled, gave advice. Most of all, they liked a good joke. So that everyone could roll with laughter. I take my hat off to their round benevolence. Yet, I observed that they were doing not what they intended. They suffered because of that. I sympathise with them.

They still assume that the feeling of happiness depends directly upon the circumstances of their lives. And allow circumstances to dictate and disappoint them. They ever look for satisfaction, but life always upsets them. A happy feeling is what they are after. It would be an ideal of the day for them. The ultimate goal. If only they could achieve this...

Yeah! They don't even try first to force their minds into a happy state, and then with those happy eyes, appreciate, embrace and cheer circumstances. Could circumstances ever really satisfy anyone...? Remember: BELT-GRANNY, TRY-GUY! Go ahead! Play with the sequence! Be happy! My best wishes to you! I love you, you soft round ones. Arms and legs are your only misleading tools. Your enemies! Sticks are your wicked, spiteful arm-extensions. Bullets are your spiteful stick-extensions. Arms of the arms!

These things I learned later! Yeah! Pain and spite! Up in arms against this hostile world! Without them there would be nothing to rock ones wits. They brought war into my today! About that later.

Never wake the Furies! Yo-Yo!

-- JAGGED BRAIN

Save the world from evil! Destroy the evil arms! Spiteful extensions! Armed hands! All in vain. Waste of time.

Time...? What am I on about...? Is there such a thing?

Yea! Lo! There were lessons. Lessons of good and evil. Benevolence and malevolence. Profit and pain. Advantage and dis.

The lessons of good! Those I could soak up. At school, the kind round ones taught me of Ancient Greeks and Roger Penrose. They wished to craft a smart and successful person out of me... Out of me! I took it all in. All that was taught and said. Thank you! Kind lessons... or what kind of lessons? They had no utility or use. USE-LESS LESS-ONS! Those OUTLETS of useless goodness! Out of me - Outsider-lessons. Yea! Yea! I turned the tables on you, your kind Uselessness. To my advantage! Found your purpose. Made something handy of you!!! Just as the evil lessons made me. Thank you, kind round ones, also for your tender mercies!

Lessons of evil! They shaped me well. And served as well. Still do. Hope I can serve you too. Through my appreciative mediation.

Yo-Yo! World of good and world of evil! Evil useful lesson number one: Less is more! The lesser and smaller it is - the more painful it turns out to be... Take, for example, a tiny splinter under your nail, or a small thin paper cut, or the small arms of my Mother...

Mother... she was the nearest. She used her hands to inflict pinches. The finer the squeeze the more pain I felt: a lesson to hand over knowledge and insight! Fingers the arms of hands... small pincers, little fangs.

There was also a kind outsider-lesson: Someone's poem, remembered from the age of four.

A child sitting in the sand,

Holds a locust in his hand

With widest smile!

Adult wants to interfere:

"Just look, this creature's full of fear.

Take your fingers from its wings.

And don't you touch the locust's knees!"

The child trembles!

"Your hands are killing poor thing,

You damage that - twill never spring!"

Force has no limits...

The insect jumps and disappears

But little lad is full of tears.

To avoid unnecessary disputes over my race and origin, I should say: The country where I was born is a small one. The city is big. The largest city of a small country. Even if you try to guess - you will still not establish which. An unsubstantiatable and indeterminate matter. And in any case, why should my countrymen be lashed and punished for me? Why should their good names be dragged into this? It's not necessary.

The specifics of my occupation are such that they preclude me from mentioning a single detail of anyone connected with me. Even my favourite rock band must remain a secret. It can introduce wrong, unhealthy associations:

`Is this the same music that he liked?'...

No! The music cannot be blamed. Fold your arms on that!... Blame no one but me! And me?

According to Blumenbach's classification, I'm a Caucasoid.

Belong to Caucasian race of mankind. Division of the Indo-European family. I have quite an ordinary face of uncertain age. And as long as I remember, it's always been like this. Even when I was four.

The evil useful lesson NEW: I don't know what or how it was before I turned four. But from four, if Mother wanted to teach me a lesson, her fingers would transform, extended into pincers. Soft pinching squeeze embraced the round lobe of my ear! My round, elongated ear... First she squeezed, slowly and persistently! Little by little, the tips of her fingers pressed into the flesh. Then, deeper, the pulp resisted, firm and obdurate. Nerve-ends cried out under the crush of pliers. Heigh-ho! Sometimes nails were implicated. And like a sting or stab, they focused on one spot!

I watched, observed, followed! Experimented myself. On myself. On my body, so I could learn well. Yo-Yo! My nail-pincers too made an imprint! A red groove! Red line! Red mark! Red as Mother's nails. When the pressure was relaxed, the pain left, groove disappeared. Memory was imprinted with a mark!

Mother always accompanied her pinching lessons with a lecture. Moralization! The lecture I accepted. I always could find a use in that...

Always? Yea! But the arms of the hands caused pain. They were in the way. They opposed the goal, negated the lecture, contradicted the moral. They troubled the good words of the good woman. Created division in a principle, fracture in perception. From there I saw: People and Hands are separate, different beings!

World of people - land of goodness, ethics and morals.

World of hands - land of pain, spite and evil.

All in your hands! Yo-Yo! Then with great curiosity, I looked at my dirty hands and chewed nails. Those rash-ridden extensions! Sticks! Arms! Instruments of evil! Only later did I learn from the Ancient Greeks about reciprocal retaliation.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot. Like doth quit like. Iron sharpens iron. Similar segments coincide and should treat each other equally. Should match! Measure for measure! Tit for tat! Blow for blow! Strength match with strength, and power confronted power...!

But then, as a boy, I simply experimented: what if I match my methods with Mother's? Follow the lead...

I found the best moment when her hands were occupied. She was carrying a heavy pot of hot water for her special bath. I struck from behind! Pinched her pink elbow with my short small fingers! I tried to grab as little skin as possible (lesson number One: less is more). Less is more painful!

Later, when both skins, Mother's and mine, treated and bandaged, were taking a break from tests and experiments, Mother asked me "Why?", I explained.

I could be obedient. I am obedient! Without any pinches on the skin. Pinching disturbed me. It didn't go along with the teachings. Distracted my attention! It couldn't be good? Could it?

The results of my experiment exceeded all expectations. The physical aspect of attack turned out to be fruitful. It produced a shattering effect on the opponent. I had struck a telling blow!

The philosophical aspect of attack proved itself useful as well.

Hands to hands. Match arms with arms. Armed hands match armed hands! Never again after my explanation did Mother use her instruments of evil... Well, with one exception: trying to tear my fingers away from the wheels of Brother's bicycle...

We were a friendly family. Lived happily. Until my parents broke off all relations with me. That was after the accident with Brother.

Or was it before?

IN, OUT AND OFF MOVES

FATHER, MOTHER, BELT, BROTHER...

Don't expect some story about the horrific, sadistic murder of Brother. Or any terrible, shocking tales of the rage of Father.

Nothing of the sort! So what, then?

MOTHER - She was tearing my fingers from the wheels of Brother's bicycle, not because I had pushed him under a lorry or anything like that ... I had not! But, I had practised, exercised, trained my hands... She was tearing my fingers away because they were locked cling-clenched onto the spokes of the wheel! She was trying to unlock the iron grip.

FATHER - Well, only a couple of times did he lay his hands upon me with his BELT. That was under the influence of a desperate state of mind! Cracked under emotional pressure! At the end of his tether...

No! I did not give him any grounds for it! And I forgave him anyway! Never really blamed him! I understood. It was beyond his control! How can anyone blame a person who cannot control his sticking-out instruments of evil...?

And what about that SLAP during the first flash in my memory?

Well, I suppose it was an unpremeditated, unintentional strike on the part of Father's arm-extensions. Always with a bamboo fly-swatter he hunted insects. Accidentally swatted the baby. Yo-Yo! Misleading tools!

My parents... They were good parents! They loved me. They taught me. Paid for my education. Good school and the University. Well, at least a start at the University... Until BROTHER died! Passed away. Drank himself to death! That was when I slipped. Could not handle my sticks of arms. Stuck out my instruments of evil. Pointed a finger at my parents. Put a spotlight on their fault. Blamed them for Brother's death. Exposed their failure...

It was so unnecessary! That was the day of our parting. They're gone from my life for good. They're still at the same place, live at their own pace. Let them! Hope they find some spots of happiness. My best wishes to them!

Yea, Yea!

When Alice went through the Looking Glass,

The flowers talked to her.

But a psychologist observed,

If a flower spoke to a man, that man would know terror.

Yea! Yea!

You turned and hurled into the toilet bowl,

Your laboured retchings brought up nothing but thin mucous.

Yea! Yea!

You were a bit cut, that's true,

But not so drunk as to be incapable.

The backs of your forefinger and middle finger were stained brown.

But you were not a smoker.

Your hands are full of shit, man!

Lessons, exercise, training, practice! At school. After school. Hands and arms. So I could handle them, control and use them to my advantage.

Lesson number TWO: Never attack a stationary stick!

At school, in my class, I shared a desk with a brainy, sharp-witted girl. Smarty Pants. The one who hit me with a ruler.

Like her, I was a first-class pupil. And, since the good outsider-lessons came easily to me, I trained my hands together with my head.

It all started, not under the school desk, but in the outstretched space of the outer school grounds. Time outstretched after school. Behind the school. There was a yard with a palisade. Picket fence. A fence of regularly spaced planks. The gaps were just enough for me to insert my opened hand, but not enough to allow it back with the fist clenched. All attempts to retrieve the fist failed... until force was applied! With force the planks shook! Moved aside a few millimetres! Gave way, releasing the sticks of my arms. But the pull had to be a forceful one!

The lesser the force, the more painful the result. Remember, less is more.

Slowness or hesitation could mean entrapment. Hands could stick between sticks. Planks could bite into my skin! Stick unto stick! Measure for measure. The fence was the ribs of a carcass.

I had to break those sticking bones! With mine! At first I could force them to move only a little. But the structure remained. The planks would not break... no matter the pressure... no matter what technique, tricks or tactics I used....no matter how hard I tried. All labours were in vain! I could not succeed...

Just so, Smarty Pants' knees resisted my moves! Under the school desk all passes failed.

Beneath the desk there was a kind of block made of foam-rubber. A block between us. For the comfort and safety of Smarty Pants...To protect her from the passes of impudent, cheeky, forward fellows. Foam-rubber!

Foam-rubber? Yea! Yea! Could be useful! While I listened attentively to the good outsider-lessons, I trained my fingers under the desk. Pushed, forced, drove matches into the rubber block. To match the force and force the match! To handle all!

Lessons in the head... whole box in the hand.

Mind on the equation. Hand to the block.

Left hand forces the matches in. Right forces them out.

Half of them break in the process.

Moves in, moves out! Measure for measure! Good matches good! Force handles force!

The lesson was reinforced:

Man, education, his head - world of good!

Hands and the result of their actions - world of evil!

After years of education, I did indeed learn thing or two, and could prove it.

Take for example a soft, round one. If such a person does you a good turn, in your eyes that person is good. If the same person does something bad, you regard him as unkind, evil!

So, who stands before you? What kind of person? Good or bad...?

The same goes for hands. If somebody's hands do something good for you... Touch you lovingly... Cook... Bring you a book. Those are kind hands. But as soon as they strike, slap, pinch... they are evil! So, which are they? Kind or evil...?

Let's see!

There are always going to be certain things that you do not like about a person. Some part that troubles, irritates or downright annoys you. By acknowledging that that side does exist...

Conceding the fact that the person delivers not what he means to deliver... Presents not what he had in mind... Does not what he intended...You condition yourself to his failings. Immune to his outbursts. Insensitive to his volleys and attacks. You laugh inwardly, sarcastically. Let that part of him be!

Try! It's easy! Anyone can grow a thick skin. Armour against emotional pain...

But the pain inflicted by hands is different! No philosopher yet has been able to endure a painful punch without reacting.

If the hand strikes - it punishes! If it hits - it hurts! You cannot develop tolerance against that...Don't even try! Spare yourself the suffering. Arms will cut you to pieces!

You might argue: "Hands are part of the human body and ministers of one's intentions". Then, please, when some old woman in the library drops a pile of books from her shaking hands onto your sore toe, DO KILL HER!

No! Hands are separate tools! These sticking-out instruments of evil live separate lives! And they must be treated separately.

Match arms with arms!

While training the hands, oppress them with outsider-lessons...

The whole match box! One after the other into the block! One, two... All parallel with the universe of outsider-lessons!

Yo-Yo! There is a task! (A + B) «...Right hand writes A« + 2AB + B«... Left one deals with the box! Half of the box, quarter...

Left one writes: To be or not to be? Right one puts three quarters back into the box...

Then we start all over again!

One, two...

Already almost all the matches are in... unbroken. The quicker the refill, the more time there is for outsider-lessons. Yo-Yo!

And the origins of the lesson number TWO: Never attack a stationary stick?

Well, this arose as a cultivated ideology, a hatched philosophy!

A lesson out of the lesson!

One day the outsider-lesson stated: "2 x 2 = 4"... And inside me the lesson took the form: Hand turns evil only when it moves! Hand hits! Hand strikes! Hand kills! Raise your hand and you will cause pain!

A still hand does no evil! And by attacking a stationary object you provoke an evil reaction! Create an evil out your own hand!

Opposing evils produce a one-sided monstrosity. The result is distortion, deformity and ugliness...!

But what if the evil attacking hand is itself attacked by similar evil hand? Counter-attack! Blow for blow! Measure for measure! Evil for evil! There is counter-balance! The lesson "2 x 2 = 4" takes on a new quality. The equal but opposite components coincide, counter-act, mutually annihilate, and produce an entity of a different nature!

So, straight after the lesson, I ran to the outstretched space of the outer school! As usual, I slid an open hand between the planks, clenched my fist and with great force pulled the fisted hand out of the picket fence! Then in an instant struck back, counter-attacked the still vibrating plank! Yo-Yo! Once again, this experiment exceeded all expectations: The wooden plank, my opposition, cracked, shattered, flew to pieces.

Two lessons intertwined to produce lesson NEW:

LESS IS MORE x NEVER ATTACK STATIONARY = BALANCED-OUT QUALITY

The common view of "2 x 2" had gone much further than I'd expected! I have multiplied visions, and used similitudes...

Later, in our neighbourhood, a call went out for the arrest of picket fence vandals... Although, who knows what is meant by later...?

DELUSIONAL BLISS OF EXISTENCE

I had to know more about that multiplied quality. Had to learn about capacity, the capabilities of attacking hands...

To what degree could the sticks of arms further extend their power?

What kind of damage could they inflict on a good round body?

And most important, how, for experimental purposes, could I provoke aggression in soft round ones? How could I induce their instruments of evil to strike my way? (Somehow one is always less keen on hitting oneself).

Now, I could more or less distinguish the instruments of good and evil. Next, I had to comprehend the fabric of these two elements. Yo-Yo! Good outsider- lessons! The time has come to bear fruit! Put them to use! Yea! Yea! Lo and behold! Call into play, Literature, History and other school teachings.

As has always been explained to us: Every person needs food and amusement. Bread and show! Having these, a man should be happy. Why not plough in the morning, and write poetry in the evening? Surely then, the whole world would be overwhelmed, flooded with goodness! No! Deluge of happiness happens not! The world is not engulfed in superfluous waves of benevolence!

And why? Yo-Yo! There is a flaw! Malice. Evil.

Where does it come from?

Well, believe it or not, that is triggered by an abundance of good.

Too much of anything is harmful. Excess in all things is evil!

The world of good overflows into the world of evil. Brims over!

Becomes what it was not!

When stuffed with food and amusement there arises in man the desire to entertain! Man wants to act, perform, amuse others. Even against their wishes... Desire overtakes him. Rules in him! Countermands his will.

The ever-changing world! We all go through fire, water and wind.

Fortune, Power and Glory - the three well-known monsters!

These are but desires to show off, brag, boast.

GLORY - a desire to entertain others through the medium of the body itself, such as in acting or in sport. Or through the body's voice, such as music and politics. Or through the body's crafts, such as writing, painting, fashion-design.

FORTUNE - a desire to entertain others with an arsenal of collectable goods. Kings and Queens collect paintings, porcelain, sculptures. Presidents collect vintage cars. Sultans collect women for their harems...Flat papery stuff like stamps, postcards and banknotes is quite popular amongst the common people.

POWER - a desire to entertain others by organising spectacles and public shows. Louis the Fourteenth declared L'Etat c'est moi, and spent all the state's resources on mass celebrations.

Empress Elizabeth was fond of balls and masquerades. Gentlemen had to dress like ladies and ladies like gentlemen. The court danced all the time! Hitler loved marches. The Roman Emperor Nero pranced on the public stage as an actor and singer. Believed by many to have started the great fire of Rome out of merriment. The desire to dazzle is so strong! Imagination so capricious! It was not unusual for great lords to amuse the courtly crowd by transforming a field overnight into a lake or a mountain. Build a triumphal arch or a pleasure pavilion in the middle of a forest.

Yea! Yea! Wicked world! A circus inhabited by different clowns.

Laughers and criers. Jesters in red, playing buffoons and fools, Harlequins that laugh to amuse their audience. And jesters in white, sufferers, Pierrots that weep with the same aim.

Are these good clowns? Do they amuse the crowd?

They are just calling attention to themselves! Waiting with great anticipation for applause, recognition, admiration. And such expectations! But one has only to ignore, discount their efforts to provoke their wrath. Their good intentions are not understood!

They rush to turn their good act into an evil reaction, hostility, counterblow!

A child shouts and screams when his unappreciative mother throws away his precious creation made of crap. A drunkard boxes the ears of his passed-out bosom-companion who was no longer able to watch the one-man show! A teller of anecdotes turns red as a lobster, but still cannot stop himself from telling worse and worse stories to a bored crowd.

Writers, piano-tuners, generals, gardeners, thieves, artist-plumbers, all are keen to amuse, to entertain, to gain popularity.

All are kind folk, until their accumulated goodness transforms into an evil display, exhibition of buffoonery, parading of folly.

Yo-Yo! Instruments of evil are taking over! Red and white clowns turn everything to comedy or to tragedy.

Americans grasped long ago that actors make the best Presidents. Surely professional actors are better fit for public roles! They're more convincing. Yea! Yea! Successfully played a cowboy or a robot? Then President or Governor is a role that will come easily to him. Taking a non-professional is taking a leap in the dark! You may run into danger. An amateur clown might be carried away with his own ideas of conducting the show. Upset the apple cart. Drain-blocked! Call the artist-plumber! Disaster! Press stop! Curtain-fall!

So, let's search for the essence of evil in hands! Wherein lies the source of the sin? Where do good round ones turn into evil-doers? What initiates the transformation? The milk of human kindness flows to sewage. The Chalice of Goodness overdone, overflows...

Of course, I started experimenting with Brother... But...shush! Quiet about him! Taboo!

Let's focus on my golden years in school. A broad arena for research! Multitudes of chances to pursue my goals. Prospects for a wide variety of strikes, hits, knocks, smacks, kicks, whacks, thwacks, cuffs, slaps and raps. I wanted to extract from my schoolmates all potentialities of the hand performance. I wished to explore every opportunity for provocation. Learn how subtly to provoke confrontation. Simple! Study diligently! Befriend the girls! Rat on the boys! Does this not flow with goodness? Yea! Yea! Reversible quality!

In primary school, the crowd of screaming youngsters, breathing heavily, would kick and punch me with their evil little sticks.

Pinched me and dragged me by the hair. The young monsters really enjoyed themselves, pushing and pulling. Those were the rewards of my goodness!

But I was familiar with such blows! Already I knew, thanks to Brother, how to resist, deflect those assaults. How to weave, move aside, recoil and dodge out of the way. Streaming blood and snot or choking on dust, I learned how to protect myself, save both hide and bones. Yo-Yo! This type of massage was not much fun.

But as the world rolled on round, I acquired an aura of respect.

In time, the other boys developed some regard for my academic progress. They folded their arms and let me be. What could I do to resume my useful lessons? Luckily for me the world is filled with responsive clowns...

Amongst our maturing schoolmates there were two zealous actors. The red clown, a teenager with a head of red hair. And the white clown, a boy with a lopsided, sickly pale face. What characters! Yo-Yo! We three, a remarkable trio!

For a long time we held sway over the minds of the school crowd. Entertained the audience on a large scale! In any case the bullies of old were quite fragile. I could no longer run my experiments on their flimsy bones, properly and seriously.

But now, the whole scene had improved. I had encountered these two jerks. My Red and White. Buffoons who loved their punch-ups! They revelled in their exploits. With great enthusiasm these two simpletons entertained crowds in the back alleys. My stooge-clowns amused also the older boys, who entrusted elementary tasks to them. Like buying booze, stealing money from parents.

As for myself, I was not yet ready to open my door and receive beatings from the big fellows. But their puppets were perfect for me. Red and White. What a find! They gladly took up any challenges, and relished the opportunity to trade punches with all takers. That was exactly what I needed.

Our game was quite simple. I pretended fear. Especially went in a round-about ways, avoiding the back alleys. Yo-Yo! That was a signal, almost a starting-gun to launch the fun and games. They were bloody creative dudes! Apart the normal kicks and punches, they employed various kind tortures: twists of the wrists, Chinese Bangles, raps on the knuckles, jabs to the pressure points, suffocations, thumpings, squashings, bashings!

I admire their inventiveness. I take my hat off to them. And the audience too, appreciated the show. Their hand-play worked for the public!

The victim, that is myself, resisted this punishment of the kind round clowns to a less than appropriate extent. Moreover, I mocked their efforts with laughter. But all the endeavours, all undertakings, all the exhibitions of our triumphant triumvirate were a source of great pleasure to everyone, performers and viewers alike.

My torturers were so carried away by their excitement, that my counter-attacks went unnoticed. They didn't even suspect my furtive little blows. I struck back on the sly, while keeping a good eye on each of the two! Now White! Now Red! Into their vicious ribs. Each in turn. One day, Red's joints. Another, White's.

Red thrashed out sullenly at me. Unaware of the yelp of his buddy. They saw strikes of mine as strikes of luck! Attributed their mishaps to occasional accidents. Blamed all on the vicissitudes of warfare! More so, that next time, my blows travelled other way!

This is how it worked:

DAY ONE

Victorious were WHITE and I. In pain, RED and I. Pretending to be victorious, was RED!

DAY NEW

Victorious were RED and I. In pain, WHITE and I. Pretending to be victorious, was WHITE!

Classical ancient theatre! The spectators were extremely happy. Mostly because I took upon myself the undivided attention of those two rogues. Myself the scapegoat, that diverted the danger away from the crowd. I was triumphant and miserable at the same time! Content it should be so. I understood that triumph and suffering are the same. It all depends on how you look on things.

Lo and behold:

Without pain there is no appreciation;

No ordeal, no lessons learned;

Without a task, there is no solution;

No obstacle, no progress;

Without conflict, no resolution!

Without trial, no patience gained.

Proof of this was not long in coming. I realised that I had begun to inflict serious damage upon the evil hands of my opponents. Upon their sticking out arms. On their spiteful extensions. Despite that, they yet refused to acknowledge the injuries. Even when Red's arm ended up in plaster, and White's fingers swelled up and could no longer bend, still they would not believe in their incapacitation.

And back then, I used only limited resources for my protection.

The beatings received by the clowns were like a slight brush against the sticks, by comparison with my capabilities after the exercises on the picket fence. But the clowns pretty-well lost all their evil tools for entertaining, while yet they thought they were on top of their game. Hello, Nirvana.

Yo-Yo, people! In what kind of world are you living?

Is reality what you see, or is it what you wish to see?

KNEES, KNEES...

By the time Smarty Pants' knees had grown almost level with the foam-rubber block under the desk, and I had already written a couple of rap songs, our magnificent trio was no more. Fallen apart. Abolished. Eradicated.

With the new school term, a new person had "descended" upon our class. Dropped out from the next standard. Second year rounder. Yo-Yo! He was huge, an over-hatched mammoth!

Enormous boulder. Massive Hulk. Yea! Yea! Big body, big heart!

It was this big heart that put a stop to the raids of my clowns.

Forbade them to touch me... and the clowns obeyed. What can you do with these great floating balloons? Spheres of kindness? Adamantine boulders of goodness? The jesters simply listened and complied. Before the mountain all arms would fold, any stick would be lowered, any sword handed over. It was as simple as that. The clowns left me alone.

Oh, ever changing universe! Shifts, turns, transforms! What could I do? That flag of truce, just when I'd forged a perfect device, built a bridge between scientific ideas and their practical use. Between theory and practice. These two I had held in my hands.

Yea! Yea! Lo and behold! Call into play, Physics.

A body at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force.

Well, it's quite clear. In my translation - never attack a stationary stick! Let's go further...

Conversion of potential energy into kinetic energy.

No doubt - The stationary stick of the hand converts into the kinetic stick of the arm, when it rises, moves down and strikes.

Yo-Yo! Next...

The momentum of a moving object is defined by its mass and velocity.

Sure! Force applied. The arm in motion. Extends towards the extensions of a foreign body. Yea...

When force is multiplied by distance, taking into consideration impeding factors like gravity, air resistance and surface tension, work is done.

No mistake. Extended arm finds its objective.

Still...

The energy transferred upon impact depends on the density and configuration of the target. The shape and size of the sticking-out extensions. Indeed, in the case a hit to a fluid mass, the energy transfer would be less than a hit on a harder mass. A strike sinks differently into the sack of the stomach than it does on the point of the elbow.

Then again, always keep in mind:

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

And last, not least...

A body in motion will continue to move unless acted upon by some outside force. In my language: Counter-balanced!

Thank you, Sir Isaac Newton, for your unforgettable, haunting lessons. Etched in our minds! At that point in my life, they played into my hands. Served me well. Were pretty handy!

I studied kinetics closely. Investigated the relationship between the motions of bodies and the forces acting upon them. Considered all aspects of adequate pressure, correct angles, precise movements and exact timing.

Kung-fu I rejected from the beginning. The variety of methods, lines of attack and styles could not mislead me. This was for me an unacceptable approach to combat. Against my principles to attack or counter-attack the soft round bodies themselves. It was their extensions I targeted. Moreover, the darting movements of the Chinese techniques increased the chances of meeting the opponent's sticks. No, it was not my scene... Every so often the Kung-fu devotees are carried away with the aesthetics of their elaborate performance, sometimes getting too far from the target. If sent on a mission to kill a dragon and bring back the princess, they would, through mistaken identity, kill the princess and bring back the dragon. They have the wrong end of the stick.

However, I criticise the basic techniques of Kung-fu, not the rare cases of individuals, like the genius Bruce Lee! He took it to a new level. Came so close to my own concept. My formula.

Not quite, though...

In his movie "Enter the Dragon" Lee comes up against his opponent. For a time they stand facing each other, with the palms of their hands crossed. Uraken fist in karate. Lee is the one who first drops this pose. Strikes his opponent on the head...

To my mind, the Uraken could be much shorter, and more effective. With all due respect: if only Lee had landed his stroke, not on the head, but against the hand of the enemy!

Never mind... Just a thought! Just a little hint... enough said!

Knowledge is priceless! Should not be scattered to the wind. Don't squander goodness!

No! No! My game was all in the speed of the hands. What for, all that dashing, jumping, jerking? One rap! That's all I needed to shatter a plank. With the clowns, I'd learned how to stick close to an opponent, allowing no space for his instruments of evil to accelerate. On my side, I had developed a unique technique that was effective in a restricted space. Struck in a flash! For observers, though, it looked like a tango.

Dance. Fusion of bodies.

My practice with the foam-rubber block was now paying off. Already I could push matches into the block without breaking any of them, using only my little fingers. I learned to prise off, with these same little hand-extensions, any foe's grip on me.

I was just starting to understand the particular purpose of joints and ligaments. They connected together the evil body-extensions. They were such vulnerable points! My education was going so smoothly...

And here comes the Hulk!

Well, well! If you, silly fellow, have crossed my path, knocked the legs out from under my research, dislodged the clowns, then you should occupy their spot yourself. Then so be it! Yo-Yo! Will you be kind enough to become my guinea pig? You boulder-Hulk, just wait! You won't even know what hit you. My kinetics will be upon you. You will be wrapped all over in my extended embraces...

Yeah! It was not an easy thing, to provoke him. He was cool. Firm as a rock. Not easy to crack. Just like me, he saw goodness everywhere. Nobody would even consider raising a hand against him. So his sticking-out extensions just hung from his broad shoulders. They were useless, had little or no ambition. Good for nothing but those silly functions, like pushing the keys of a computer or the buttons of cell phone.

Yea! Yea! Lo and behold! Call into play, Sport.

Sport was a challenge for me. I had yet to learn the essentials of fighting. But without showing my real strength. This was not an easy task, since I was the strongest and swiftest in our class.

By then, as a teenager, I looked like an overgrown gorilla. I needed always to hide, disguise my physique. Cover up my muscles. From primary school on I would pretend, act as if I were a sickly boy. Make them believe that I was hit-worthy.

So before games, I would avoid the dressing-rooms. As a consequence, the more I played truant, the more hostility I engendered in my fellow team-mates. Our sports coach was dismayed by my frequent absence. It drove him crazy...

But at the same time, the other school staff tolerated my non-attendance, because at the remaining disciplines I was one of the best ...

Not quite... the best, of course, being Smarty Pants.

So, the clowns were off the scene. And Hulk was accessible only in sporting activities. Rugby!!! Yo-Yo! Phoenix rises from the ashes... Here I come! In a new shape and form. Yea! Yea! Transformation. Transmutation. From an ugly duckling there emerges a striking swan! Adorn myself in the uniform of the sport! Costume! Acting gear! And enter the arena. Scene of action. Sports stage! This metamorphosis caused a stir. Though, more worrying in all of that were the side effects: the attentions of the fair sex. Yo-Yo! Womenfolk...but that is a completely different story...

No matter how fast our plane is flying, we must remember that in our hands we always have ONE day!!!

So, Rugby! I always tried to ensure that Hulk and I played in opposite teams. Because of his stature, weight and strength, he was a prop. My assets, swiftness and adroitness marked me out for a flank. Let the game commence!

My moment always came as the scrum engaged. Once Hulk was within my reach, then was my chance to grab his knees. These knees were the stuff of my experiments. And believe it or not, sometimes inside a ruck, I squeezed the rugby ball with all the force of my hand, and the ball would burst. Nobody could understand why so many of the school the rugby balls were defective...

Yea! Yea! For reasons less than obvious, the scrum kept collapsing on Hulk's team's side. Their prop was weak in the knees. Often his team would lose the possession of the ball...

Dis-armed and dis-kneed, Hulk rolled on the grass, rubbing his joints, unable to explain his downfall. I felt no great concern for him, as his team would not do without him. He was brilliant in other aspects of the game. Nor would they exclude him from the scrum, as he was their boulder, their rock, the massive wall that could not be breached ...

Yo-Yo! Hurray! Fall on your knees! Bravo, rugby! Thanks to you, I've had unlimited access to joints and ligaments. Could research the knees of the greatest. Although... stop! This depends on how you look at things! The angle you take! The knees of Smarty Pants were the greatest! Actually they were, on their own level, unreachable...

KNEES, KNEES (continued)

Eventually I fell in love with fair sex. Woman. I did. Yeah! That was sparked off by Smarty Pants' knees... In fact it was ignited after that terrible incident of the fireworks. A horrible accident. The blast. Let me confess all. Now, today! At once!

ONE day, that's all we've got!

So, I will recount my story in general terms only. I was never good with details anyway. I'll draw the main picture. You may fill in the colours as you wish. You can adorn the framework with any ornament of your choice. No inhibitions. Paint Smarty Pants' lips and eyes as you please. Put powder on her nose. Invent her looks as you might invent the looks of the others. Into your hands I hand over this task. Play with it as you wish...

One day, when Smarty Pants' knees had grown level with the foam-rubber block under the desk, something unexpected happened. While I was busy fiddling with the eternal match box, I accidentally generated a spark. That spark flew straight to the foam-rubber block... Shit a brick! The block stuffed with broken matches. Overstuffed. Hundreds of sulphuric heads, accumulated over long years of study! Flames! Mini-bomb! Horrible blast! Everything blew up, flew up into the air...

My own pants were guardian of my legs. My shield.

However, Smarty Pants' tights, those synthetic, polythene, plastic, pantyhose, shit knows what things, caught fire...

Blast! Fireworks sparked off the knees. Caught the knees. Wrapped the knees. The greatest knees! Smarty Pants' knees...

She didn't cry, she didn't scream. What's more, she didn't even blame me. Never told anyone what had really happened. The school was dumbfounded, but in the end concluded that some malevolent hooligan had played a dirty trick. Planted a home-made gadget under our desk. The case was eventually closed.

Smarty Pants underwent a long and painful course of treatment, and subsequently took to wearing jeans. For me, the affair was conclusive proof of the fundamental goodness of human nature. Woman's nature. Testimony to their substance, their strength of character. Verification of the possibility of moral fibre in every woman's soul. And a trial of the heart for me.

Before the incident, my concept of the female of the species embraced only the physical aspect. One day, to my amazement I discovered on my body the presence of a strange object. A queer growth, another offshoot. Another stick?

By then I understood that there was an established division:

Myself, I am kind, soft and round.

My arms and legs, they are long, hard and spiteful.

And all of a sudden this additional member! New oddment. Sticking-out extension. This normally small and soft part became a hard stick...

What kind of beast are you? Instrument of what evil? What harm can you cause? Your capacities to stretch out? Willy. Dick. Tool. Penis. Phallus. Lingam...whatever your name might be.

I ran to Brother...

His shocking exposition horrified me. Confirmed my worst fears.

You see, sad as this might be, instead of hitting us with normal sticks of arms, women beat us with our own tools. They thrash us with our penises. Our own fallible phallic sticks! Yo-Yo! Could I even begin to imagine what kind of devious, cunning, underhand tricks they might play on us males? Yo-Yo! I had to stop this thing. My new sidekick-stick must surrender. Lay down arms. Be restrained. This instrument of evil must be reined in.

I'll handle this. I'll keep a tight hand on you.

Once again I turned to the service of the outsider-lessons.

Father's library! He was a doctor. And what a waste. I never ever got sick. Such a useless relationship up to then. Now the moment had come to make it useful.

Yea! Yea! Lo and behold! Call into play, the science of Medicine.

Penis - is a sexual organ of any male... Consists of blood-vessels... It becomes hard and spiteful, when it fills with blood...

What triggers that? Irritants like: Pornographic images on a screen, a curvy female-teacher, stories told by Brother, stupid dreams, Smarty Pants... A man loses his head to these evil turn-ons. The dick becomes a dictator!

So here I come to turn the tables! Resist, oppose, suppress...

Back to my useful lesson "2 x 2". The well-tried therapy of counter-attack. Measure for measure. Stick confronts stick.

Evil extension versus extension of evil!

Well, the idea was, while my dick was still soft, but the rising flow of blood already felt, a hand in the pocket would squeeze hard the rising knob. Spiteful move on the movement of the spite. That turned the scale. Balanced out the evil.

Yo-Yo! Now with little trouble, I could get closer to the girls. Hang around with them, mingle, socialise innocently. Simply befriend them. By disarming myself, I disarmed the fairer sex. Took away their powers over me. Pathetic man, so easily manipulated through that vulnerable piece. No! Deal with it, deal with it! All the time, every time, before it rises!

The girls did not, or seldom, used their own weapons, their wicked arms and legs. The boys, on the other hand, persistently masked their kind qualities. They tried so hard to imprison their good nature, the goodness of their character. "Don't be such a girl, Sissy!" I wished them luck!

At the same time, I myself was searching for my own luck elsewhere. While my hands dealt with the evil within, I embraced the body of goodness in girls. My connection with Mother gave me some initial hope, promised to be quite constructive...

Boy, I was wrong!

Heigh-ho! Woe is me! Bitter disappointment awaited me. Fiasco! Dashed hopes. Toppled expectations. Part of anyone's education...

Vanity of vanities...

From early childhood, the only thing that occupied girls was learning techniques. The techniques of taking charge of our phallic sticks. By all manner of means! Manœuvres! Strategies! Tricks! Tactics! Clowning around! The list was longer than life itself.

However, with training, my penis no longer reacted to those efforts. No longer rose to the bait. It was soft and kind. Motionless in the face of manipulation. Soft and unresponsive. Just what I wanted! Thanks to the power of reflex behaviour! Reflex reaction to expected pain! Yea! Lo! That is the body of knowledge of the body, buddy! Yo-Yo! Powerful stuff!

And, how ridiculous they looked, the girls with their theatrical antics! Obnoxious, pathetic when seen from the outside. Could make a parson swear... Mannerisms, coquetry, hugs and pensive squeezes, eye games, word games, hate games, grips of hands, contemplative frowns, meaningful silences, deliberate disregard, intentional ignorance... the list is endless!

I must admit womankind is very inventive. And entertaining to watch, when you're not involved. As observer I was quite amused. I understood that they were first-rate performers! Actresses! Clowns of the clowns!

Then again, if men pretended to play the role of Harlequins, women were unsurpassable Pierrots!

Hard to believe?

Then look at their vanity cases! Their wardrobes and bags full of cosmetics. Totally equipped Thespians... Drama queens!

However, the biggest turn-off for me was their possessive nature. They could get so sticky. When you're caught, there's no escape. Their grip is iron-like. They're so tenacious and invasive. Encroach on your territory! Entertain you, even when you're not interested. Particularly when you're not interested!

Desire to dazzle rules them. Overflows from them. Inflames them. Drives them to worse and worse actions. Till you could vomit.

Remember the anecdote-teller who would go red as a lobster?

Yeah! Wearisome business!

So runs the world away...

Males perform on a stage where they exercise their own instruments of evil.

Females perform by employing the instruments of evil of others.

What a troupe! Tragic arena! Yo-Yo!

Good kind people, where are you? What have you done with your soft, round bodies? Why on earth is there so much spiteful wickedness sticking out of you?

Heigh-ho! Indeed, it would have been tragic, shattering, if it were not for those soft round ones... people like Smarty Pants!

She was the only girl in our class who preferred study to socializing. What a fortunate quality! Her wish for entertainment was restricted to her studies. Her need to entertain was restrained. She confined herself to solitude. Here it was! Pure round kindness right in front of me. Offered in a bright round chalice. Could I drink of this chalice? Could I handle that? How could I get closer?

Apparently, this was easier than I thought. Precisely because of Smarty Pants' virtues, no one else dared to share a desk with her. So there was I, more than willing to volunteer. Jumped at the chance. The more keen I was, as hers was the only desk with the foam-rubber block underneath.

That is how I found myself next to a person who had no evil in her instruments. It was the beginning of a long journey, shared with a soft round ball of great goodness. Sphere of kindness.

Benevolence, as we know, is like a plant. Cannot grow without a source of energy. Cannot develop if it has no support. Cannot survive long without proper treatment and nurturing.

So how did we, Smarty Pants and I, take care of our benevolence? Keep it running? What was the basis of our approach?

Well, we sustained it with our mutual love for the entertaining aspect of our studies. We turned to performances of a different kind, made the body of knowledge perform for us. Together we discovered the joy of abstract numbers. Arabic methods of describing unparallel by parallel, algebraic numbers that use letters to represent quantities! Measuring of the immeasurable, Greek geometry with its interplay of lines, angles, surfaces and solids!

We didn't stop there...

We tried to alienate the unalienable. To define the undefinable.

To describe the indescribable.

Wow! It was giving us some powerful kicks!!!

To think the unthinkable. To answer the unanswerable. To conceive the inconceivable.

What a thrill! So much more exciting than playing tedious computer games, or watching boring videos...

To approach the unapproachable. To sustain the unsustainable.

We were ecstatic!!! Far above the ground! Taking it further and further away.

To rely on the unreliable. To desire the undesirable. To forget the unforgettable.

We soared to new levels of absurdity...

Even when we were digesting pre-Joycian literature, or the motley, patchy subject called History, this was much more stimulating and invigorating for us than modern magazine articles.

At the same time, Smarty Pants took the same line as I did, on the suppression of the phallic stick. We had a silent agreement. She collaborated. Was kind of part of my scheme. The kind part of my scheme. She appreciated my objective. Sometimes she allowed me to touch her knees, sometimes not. Sometimes let my hand slide under the skirt, sometimes resisted. She knew that at the same time my other hand was restraining the wicked rise, obstructing the advance of the spiteful force, blocking the overflow. Slowly we cast off the conventional conception of man and woman as different entities. We began to understand the abstractness of that idea.

Though we continued to name things as they were supposed to be named, we looked beyond designations, titles and labels. Stripped off the sticky tags. Removed the common categorizations, the banal sweet-papers that were traditional stereotypes. We began to discern new qualities in everyday matters. Distinguished further dimensions in ordinary habitats. Discovered other perspectives. Nevertheless, we still watched attentively the ways of others. How they assembled their worlds with words.

By the way, from the very beginning Smarty Pants understood the purpose of my cruelty to the clowns, Red and White. She had sympathised with them, and that had annoyed me. Later, during the era of Hulk and rugby, she'd had to endure further distress.

In the same way, she'd had to endure much spite from the wicked weaker sex.

Women...Yea! Yea! As a successful rugby player, a bright student and a so-called cool guy, I gained immense popularity amongst them. My indifference towards them apparently stirred the blood in their veins. Drove them to new heroic acts in pursuing me. Moved them to even more desperate tricks and stunts. A typical case of Buffoonery.

Smarty Pants tolerated with patience all the wicked remarks and insults aimed at her. Remember, anyone can grow a thick skin. Armour against emotional pain... She did not use her hands for any evil purpose, and a phallic stick she did not have. What else might harm a person?

That is how we kept pace with the world. The period following the blast in Smarty Pants' life was the time of our love for absurd dialogues and Alternative Rock. In the outstretched space of the city there was a bar, where from time to time we went to listen to the music. The fusion of Hard Core and Rap. Into the space beyond, outstretching the boundary of our interests, we rapped.

I did not drink, as I knew that alcohol could unleash evil in my hands. I could lose control over my wicked extensions. It could open many spiteful outflows. Moreover, Brother by then had already plunged into heavy drinking. Went to the bottom of the alcoholic sea. Yeah! Wicked sight! God forbid I follow that route.

Neither did Smarty Pants drink. From scientific research, she knew what alcohol makes of a woman. That creature she did not want to be. However, we both liked to share a joint or two. Hemp set our tongues free. Sent us on trips into the depths of wacky, eccentric, absurd conversations. Jabbering, prattling, babbling, gibbering. Often I found myself on the stage continuing that discourse, but now with a crowd. I joined a hard-core band as second singer. Expressed myself in rapping. Yo-Yo! We played underground rock. The stuff that never really gets accepted. We had little or no chance of being invited to the Woodstock fest.

Yet, what a time it was! The tiny bar chock-a-block with people.

Soft, round, kind bodies everywhere, as if the teenagers had for a moment completely forgotten about their instruments of evil.

On the edge of milky flow, tender stems tremble and glow.

On the edge of beery flow, round bodies tremble and glow.

Yea, Yea!

"I'm all right", he said.

"Are you sure?", she asked

Always sure of everything.

"You're so bitchy, hey!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm being bitchy, but you're acting a bit strange"

"Joints have never agreed with me. They taste like straw to me."

"You son-of-a-bitch! You think the sun shines out of your arse."

"Make hay while the sun shines!"

"You're so bitchy, hey!"

After the blast, my "battle" with Smarty Pants for possession of her knees was made impossible by her injuries, and ended.

Then came the period of her jeans. The period of mind games. Mental recreation. Entertainment in the areas of paradox, contrariety, irregularity, nonconformity. Network of absurd thinking and whimsical labyrinths of sophistry.

Hey, people! Look around you.

We stand in the middle of a mine-field.

And the orientation map... Yea! Yea! ... is blown away on the wind!

HEAT EXAMS DAYS

Then one day, after school, a street gang stabbed Hulk. No! Not to death. The clowns, Red and White, were behind it. Arranged it...

In the days that followed, I had to cook up my response. Counter-stroke.

I had to mete out some fitting retribution! Measure for measure!

Balance out! Recover equilibrium.

After the subtraction of Hulk, my rugby coefficient, I needed to return something else to the equation. To equalise.

Well, well! If you silly gang have crossed my path, knocked the legs out from under my research, taken away Hulk, then you should occupy his spot yourselves. Will you be measure up to the task of being my guinea pigs? You will be wrapped all over in my extended embraces. Then so be it!

Tests! Trials! Final exams! At school. After school. Behind school. In the hall! On the stage! In the grounds!

The easy part of the maths examination: Biquadratic equations - Red and White clowns. Two monomials. No knives. No knuckledusters.

The difficult part of the examination: Differentials of Henri PoincarИ. His topological methods. Multinomial of the street gang, with an unpredictable number of terms. How many knives? Guns? Approximately I calculated the approximations. But I needed some initial values, some guide to orientate on the plane. White, you'll be my pilot. Let's find the coordinates...

In the bogs there were the two of us, White and I. Two constituents. Two elements. I took his elbow firmly. Slowly my finger-pincers compressed the flesh. I needed some answers.

"The gang... what are they?"

"...Yes! Yes! There are six or seven of them. All with knifes. One with a gun."

"The one with the gun...?"

"...Yes! Yes! He is tall and bald. Has only one eye..."

"Ha! A gun for an eye! Bloody Cyclops! Yea, listen! Let them know, you jerk, that I'm coming. To pay them a visit. Entertain them a bit."

Difficult question of the test: The strange attractor of PoincarИ.

The twisted ball of live vipers. The gang! No harm, when the ball is stationary. However, as soon as it finds motion, the evil extensions begin to stick out, causing pain. Let's see what follows...

The task at hand for me, was to learn how human joints respond to the super-strong, heavy shocks of my trained fingers. Such heavy blows as till now were known only to the sticks and planks of the wooden fence. A further task: I needed to avoid the sharp points of the knives.

The smaller it is, the more painful it is!

Neutralise the gun. Disarm Cyclops! My extensions were powerless against bullets. No matter how fast I might be, they could never match the heavy metal. But always remember, if the distance between you and the gun is more than a metre, flee for your life! Run, jump, spring, fly away. Make yourself scarce.

Duck. Turn. Dodge. Coil. Managing to get away? Good luck...!

If there's no place to run, say your prayers, sing the National Anthem, whatever takes your fancy.

Sticks are wicked, spiteful arm-extensions. Bullets are spiteful stick-extensions.

There must be some measure to stop the bullets. Some kind of balancing-out counterplot. Some sort of "bullet-catching-Martian-sticky-net"...?

There was no time to manufacture such a thing. Our rendezvous was to take place at sunset, so I decided that up to that time, I would rather prepare myself for the literature exam.

To be or not to be...went Hamlet's monologue. Yea! Yea! Lucky bastard! He had to deal with one sword only, one dagger... Although poisoned, but still only two points to worry about.

In my case I had six, seven, eight. Plus eight other rounds of potentially hot metal, waiting to be discharged. Fucked am I!

Stage test:

Yea! Yea!

Do you really think you could

Stand against eight men with guns and knives?

Wrap up your shit!

You slept poorly last night?

Wrap up your shit!

Your sleep was plagued with dreams?

Shake off the flowers!

You jerked from sleep, from dreams of monsters?

Twitch aside the window curtain

To find eight men with guns and knives!

Shake off the flowers!

Do you really think you could stand up against them?

I don't know if there'll be shooting or not,

But if there is,

I hope you'll be on the receiving end, and not me.

Here I come to my new examining body! Enter the arena of the school grounds! Lights! Action! There were eight of them. Plus two clowns. Body of ten! Red and White were fidgety. Coughed, and whispered into the ears of the magnificent eight. The magnificent eight too, were ill at ease. They looked at me, lopsidedly. Winked and giggled nervously to each other.

The seven with knives clustered to one side. One-eye stood apart. That was Cyclops, the one with a gun...

Hey! I approached him swiftly. Fell into his arms. Greetings?

He was gobsmacked, and instinctively pushed me back!

Yo-Yo! You raised your evil sticks of arms against me. I counter-act. Counter-attack. My chance to feel your joints. Let's see, what happens to a joint, as my mighty squeeze surrounds, envelops, crushes it. With full force. There it was, Cyclops' shoulder. The top of the humerus, as Father would say. In my hands. Work is done...

Cyclops did not even squeak. What a freak of Nature! He toppled down, senseless. I under him. Held him over me as a cover, a shield, protection. From under his torso I peeped at the gang.

The seven of them were baffled, scrutinised the scene. They concluded that their leader had initiated the battle, had gone for me, had taken me on. Two of the gang approached. Bent over us. Stretched out their offshoots. Their wicked arms. To help the boss?

Yo-Yo! Charge! I clutched those sticks. Though now in half-measure, astonished as I was at Cyclops' passing out.

There were four bodies on the ground now! Circumvolving entangled mass. Contorted cluster. The twisted ball of live vipers. The strange attractor of PoincarИ. The knives somewhere there in the middle, of no use in the spiral twist of flesh. One body, senseless. Two more, screaming. No, three! Myself, playing along. Performing a part. Participating in this grotesque clownage. Imitating the shrieks. Disinformation for the opposition. Slowly I wormed myself out from under the inert torso of Cyclops. The remaining five looked at each other, hesitant, not knowing quite what to make of it. They formed a half-circle. Drew their knives. One of the fallen tried to rise. I pulled him in front of me and pushed his body like a shield onto the left-most thug. This Lefty tried to reach me through the body of his buddy. Yo-Yo! Exactly what I wanted! A body in the way. Out-stretched hand is mine. In full swing! The rap! Onto the point of the elbow!

Another fallen...

However, while my hands were busy, the next upright thug extended his knife. Source of danger! Trap! Sword of Damocles!

Yea! Yea! He slashed his weapon across my ribs. Not deep. Just a brush. Then his hand wavered, hesitated, hovered. My chance!

Another rap! Another fallen!

Results after the first ten seconds: Three are senseless - Cyclops, Lefty and his successor. Two are crawling. Mad with pain. The remainder, including the clowns, disoriented, deranged! I seized the moment, searched unhurriedly for Cyclops' holster. Here it is! The gun!

Hey you, remaining gang, have you learned from me?

If the distance between you and the gun is more than a metre, flee for your life!

Indeed they fled, scrambled, scuttled away. They dropped their knives and ran for their lives, jumping, twisting, coiling, darting, dodging away.

Before curtain-fall on the school-ground stage, in one last theatrical gesture, I stretched out the gun-hand, aimed at the fleeing mob, and shouted an exaggerated: "Pafffff!"

White turned his pale face to look at me, still running. Just at that moment, he stumbled. Fell to the ground like a camel, legs splayed. Awkwardly he drew in these extensions. Screwed up his face into a grimace.

My, my! What can you do with these clowns? Even in dire straits they strive to make one smile... It was inappropriate, not a time to smile.

I summoned White with my finger, gave him instructions:

"Take Cyclops' holster. Collect the knives and gun. Run fast and far away. From that "far away" phone the police and medics. Tell them there's been a fight. Don't tell them who you are". As Hamlet said: To be or not to be?

Yea! Yea! My golden school days! How fast you flew by. In my final exams, rewarded me with the best marks. The verdict! Human joints, in my hands, turn to porridge.

The last dance at the school. Surprise, surprise! I found myself on the stage once more:

Yea! Yea!

Don't run away with the idea

That I'm a big-time rock mogul.

My stuff wasn't strutted at Woodstock.

I write didactic stuff mainly

That cracks on the head,

Stirs things up.

The blocks in my memory are shaken loose.

I remember more and more

As time goes on.

You know, you're rather like Hamlet,

Letting yourself be pushed around.

To be or not to be?

But I think that if Hamlet had had someone

To give him advice,

Put some spine into him,

Things would have turned out differently.

Do I offer the backbone?

No, all I say is

Don't depend on this gang of Woodstock fucks.

Now, you have a right to question the strength of my will and my self-control. How could I have become so subject to someone else's bidding, that I should find myself on board this plane...

You ask - I answer!

I ATE MY PANTS

The thing is, the plane we fly now is not alone. There are more planes like this one. Flying to not where they left for. Not to their intended destination...

By the way, the Matric farewell party was my last evening with Smarty Pants. She didn't want to go to the University with me.

The Faculty of Science, for Physics and Mathematics, I had in mind. She refused. She wanted to leave, go away to some other city. She had something else in mind... What? She didn't say. She laughed and changed the subject. I tried to persuade her, inspire her with the prospect of working on the powerful computers on the department. She laughed and laughed.

She explained she was tired of living in the illusory country called Calculus. For her there were other regions, territories, countries.

She joked that she knew the place with the most powerful computers on the planet. Where? She said I would learn later.

What could I do? I could do nothing to change her mind. So I laughed with her and hoped for the best. Hoped to find goodness apart, away from her. With no Smarty Pants around.

What could I do? Possibly one day I'd come across, roll across some other soft round one at the University. The kind institution. Kind of institution. Supposed to be a body of knowledge and education, not a range for evil extensions. One way or the other, in this ever-changing world, I did eventually find someone like that... but about that later.

Yea! Yea! The citadel of learning! The state of modern science! Because of its state, I chose modern science. Because of this state, Smarty Pants did not. For me it was a challenge. For her, a very dull play. For me, an open prospect. For her, a crooked path. Thus, as it were in front of me, there lay a tangled web. I would have to untangle it. Without Smarty Pants. Twisted web. Knotted net. Hic labor hoc opus! I had to untie, disentangle it.

Yea! Yea!

It's a stochastic process,

A development of the mother fuckers' method.

The output is repeatedly sampled

And put through a series of transformations at random.

Each transformation is compared

With a value stored in a computer's memory.

If a match is found,

A tree branch is taken,

Leading to further sets of transformations.

There are loads of dead ends.

Your dead ends, mother fucker!

Let's see. How was it the fishermen-scientists caught their fish before Albert Einstein and Niels Bohr?

Take the Japanese haiku:

In night's dark waters

They wait with a silent net

Up-river swim fish.

The arrival of the two famous fishermen brought no change to the catch. One fish in the net was the Theory of Relativity. The other, Quantum Mechanics. Judge for yourselves. There were two in the net, and both of them were fish.

Then came the Principle of Uncertainty. Things depend on how you look at things. This too was in, but not part of, the net.

Scholars saw: FISH + 2 = 2FISH and just stood there hesitant, undecided, in suspense. In a state of Uncertainty. In dark, obscure waters. What next? Self-organizing systems! Bifurcation. The self-netting net! It's quite clear! The catch in the net is not fish. The catch is itself a part of the whole, entangled in the shape of fish.

Night is a part of the net - dark.

River is a part of the net - light.

They, the fishermen, are part of the net - evolving. Standing, waiting, in the water - execrable. How on earth can anyone keep his good humour, if every time the net is touched, shuffled, tossed, cast, it opens up, rolls out in a different manner?

The ammunition is the same but the pattern shifts, varies, changes.

In dark waters they

wait with a net up river

night's silent fish swim.

With net up-river

Dark fish silently wait in

Night's water they swim.

In silent water

They swim up a dark river

Fish wait with night net.

The thing is, they're all cool! In any form the words sound so beautiful! Unlike something like R.TIGHTRAVINE... Although here as well one can find the quintessence!

In TIGHT, for example, one can get the epitome of all!

Mathematicians apparently were able to find it. They evaluated, gauged, calculated the universe with their mathematical brains using their dear abstractions.

If one can imagine the cosmos as a geometrical body, one can produce a formula. Draw a parallel. Find an equivalent of the smallest constituent of the universe. Create the building material, a brick of Calculus which would represent itself as a brother, an abstract twin of a particle that assembles, builds the world!

Yea! Tempting! Particularly if that particle could be defined within Euclid's system. Has specific, finite parameters and characteristics. You know, like, such a width and such and such a length... It never has.

Anyway, let's go! Action! Let `T' be a point... not enough. Push, move the point! Let `TI' be a line... not enough. Move the line!

Now `TIG' is a Cartesian plane... still not sufficient for the whole `TIGHT'... Move the plane: `TIGH'. Yo-Yo! Created a three-dimensional figure! And just stood there in suspense. In murky waters. Still not getting `TIGHT'. What next? Move three spatial dimensions?

Well, let's admit we've run out of possibilities, constructing it with observable coordinates. Now hidden dimensions come into play!

Allow us to unroll complex numbers. For example, the square root of negative numbers. Some call them fictitious, others imaginary. You'll say - this is an abstract concept! An artificial realm! Indeed, but no more than the Arabic numeral 2 combined with FISH... 2 FISH!!!!!!! Wow!

The awesome complexity of mathematical structures! Measured with complex numbers, here come the sixth, seventh dimensions. Calculating, evaluating, gauging parameters... eighth, ninth, tenth... Hooray!

R.TIGHTRAVINE is here! The quintessence, perfect example, embodiment of all. There is even a graphical image of it.

A trouser diagram. Looks like pants with a big hole in the middle. Or a woman's tights! (Oh, Smarty Pants' distant knees...) The monad of our world! The Twistor it's called. (Yo-Yo! We twisted and rolled to punk music, Smarty Pants and I...) Yeah!

So, how does this monad-twistor build our world? Simple! Assess, calculate, evaluate R.TIGHTRAVINE in sixteen more ways and you will come to RIVER AT NIGHT. Altogether twenty-six curled up dimensions! Twenty-six only! A complete view of the universe, with all its nuances! At your service.

Okay! But, how many twistors are needed to create the picture? Or, as it is now fashionably called, the strange attractor! Let's see. If we attempt to compress, compactify down the formula.

Compactify down V,I,R,G,I,N and we are left with THREAT.

Ten curled-up dimensions now. What if we take it even further...? Compactify some more. Squeeze, reduce, condense!

We're left with `T'. Only one T - Twistor. Twistor with its tail, a compact briefcase. Box with tightly packed dimensions. All the necessary compressed components. From this briefcase comes all. `T' has it all!

`T'...? Is this the same `T' as the one at the beginning of our process? Then, why the whole ordeal, loop of nonsense? How does the first `T' differ from the last?

Yo-Yo! It differs! The first `T' has no briefcase. The last one has. One ultimate `T' is enough to see in it the river, and the fish, and the frogs, and Bohr with Einstein as they stand in that river, in their rolled up tights. All in one! Quite coherent, convenient, practical! You wouldn't actually be surprised if an artist-plumber arrived with his case full of all necessary tools. No! It is a recognised, accepted, expected fact. See?

The thing is, the system is made out of the network, by the men of the network! All are part of the system. They create each other. You'll say, it's theoretical, intangible, elusive! It's a mathematician's trick! Ghost...! All right, then look at the physicists. The experimentalists that work with real objects. What could they really prove with their experiments?

Listen to this. An elementary particle can be in two places at once. Nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. That is how an electron works in a microchip. In our cellular phones, for example!

Next. One cannot measure the speed and mass and position of a particle at the same instant. Just imagine! Either this OR that!

Either the dumbbell is rolling on the floor, OR it weighs one kilogram. So, the statement `a dumbbell of one kilogram is rolling on the floor' is absurd from the point of view of experimental physics.

Next. A particle can interfere with itself. If you want to know how exactly this works, you would have to run behind yourself and kick your own arse.

Thus, in these proven ways, those quite real bricks comprise our quite real world! And even that would be tolerable, if only the building blocks behaved decently. Remained true to themselves!

But, they do not! They exhibit (or don't, as they please, maliciously) four different forces. They transform, change, vary at will!

Just imagine two rams smashing together, and out of this comes a fire brigade! Let's say, two boys (Red and White) go for each other. Clash head-on. And out of this comes a pack of monsters, a gang of ten with knives and guns! Serpents' teeth! How can scientists cope with these apparitions spawned within? What else but introduce a monad. An epitome. A kind of miniature representation that would be responsible, accountable, liable for all. For everything. For all complex matter and elementary substances... It's all right that so far no such monad, epitome, or any modus operandi has been found. It's okay that physicists can't find the recipe... But nearby they can find a related table-turning science, which sorts out the spirits from the vasty deep, packs all ghosts into equations, materialises all astral bodies into a solid mass.

Here comes a winking smiling fellow... A salesman at your door?

No, a mathematician. Problems? That's nothing ! A trifle!

Your particle can demonstrate multiple properties, some identified, some not. The thing is, the particle is so small, 10 ^-37 mm, that it can never be discovered. Where is the proof of its existence?

In mathematical complex numbers, of course. Remember R.TIGHTRAVINE? As a bonus, the winking, smiling fellow will provide you with a picture of the thing, a one-dimensional line with a tail that moves at the speed of light. One-dimensional (!) line? What kind of monster is that? Arranging in shamanic ways the R.TIGHTRAVINE, we intentionally didn't mention the fifth dimension. Time. We went directly to the sixth, seventh, eighth...

Yet, already in the second dimension, time is a factor. As soon as we pushed the point to produce a line, we moved it in time!

Time is inseparable from a point. Sneaky and sticky dimension.

Not even fifth anymore, but second, even first! Because of its intervolved quality.

So, going back to TIGH T...

`T' - second time around. `T' again. From fifth position to first.

So, let's us take a point, and accelerate it to the speed of light.

Relative to us, observers, its time slows down and stops. Disappears! A two-dimensional image comes about, a line-beam! Still, one dimension is missing. Here is your unit, building-block: "2 = 1." This is called a superstring. (Strings, strings... what super strings had the guitarist in our band!) Apparently, the net is woven from superstrings. And we're woven out of the net.

And the superstring? What is it woven from?

Well, remember the `T' dimension? No, it wasn't a mistake to call time the fifth, and not the fourth dimension. Actually, by occupying the first position, it moved itself from fourth into the fifth place. Interference with itself? Yo-Yo! Familiar quality. And with other parameters? It has neither mass nor position! It is everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Thus, it appears that our superstring-monad, all in all, is a chronoton. Its time-span stretches from absence to eternity, infinite continuity... Infinite continuity of what? Time...? But, the chronoton itself is time! Yo-Yo!

Now is there, in modern science, anything that could be touched by hands? Some chain of reliable, consistent, unswerving atoms? Biology, heredity, genetics, spirals of DNA? Hey, biologists, have you yet by any chance seen the winking smiling fellow on your doorstep? The complex number-bearer, the mathematician? You can be sure of one thing, he'll be at your service soon.

It seems the genes which took years and years to decode, are not responsible, answerable, accountable for anything. We thought we'd found the elixir of life. Discovered the gene of ageing... Oops! As soon as this gene of ageing is pointed at, examined, observed, analysed, it is transformed. Becomes a match-maker. Introductory gene. Its function now is to link gene A with gene E, which in its turn might be, just might be, the gene of ageing...

The trick is that just after introduction, when all attention turns to gene E, gene E itself ceases to be responsible for the vital process, and becomes a match-maker, introductory gene. Vicious circle! While the men of science were still busy, in the middle of the process of studying E, it played that cruel joke on them...

Just you wait, you nasty joker-gene! We know just the right winking, smiling fellow, the mathematician who'll quickly sort you out! He carries scheming complex numbers with him. He'll find you a position. Will organise you a post. Your genes could become his operators with T-briefcases tightly packed with all necessary compressed dimensions, made up of R.TIGHTRAVINE.

From out of this briefcase, one gene exposed his little ears, a second one revealed eternal life. The first one then covered his ears and exposed his fish tail. The second one hid eternal life and bared his teeth! Remember, those briefcases have a sufficient number of dimensions, features and facets to produce any form or shape. Perhaps the mutation of genes as such, is a side-effect of time interference? All calculated reliably, unfailingly in complex numbers!!!

But is there any romanticism left in this world, or does everything come to the tedious monotony of calculating and decoding?

Yea! There is. There are dreams...The mathematician-topologist dreams that one day he will prove the earth is flat. He dreams that one day he will see the whirling universe in a two-dimensional representation. The world as a complex tightly folded paper. Paper sculpture. Origami...

Let the topologist slide his hand into Mother Nature's tights, and grope for R.TIGHTRAVINE. Any success in his quest?

Yo-Yo! Let's see.

Totally analysed topological diagrams that look like tights. Is it really a coincidence that in the very first attempts to describe space, the ancient Greeks produced geometrical sketches that looked surprisingly like pants too? Pythagorean trousers.

Trajectories in two-dimensional phase space. Generated by computers. The result of multibillions of calculations, containing over a hundred thousand changeable points in erratic systems. Chaotic Pendulum of Ueda. Most probably it is the product of a superfluous process, an excess. Remember, the overflows of goodness? The emergence of numerical dead-ends.

It's a stochastic process...

There are loads of dead ends!

As the reflection of design. Design of the computer method. Method of random search! Search in the tights of Mother Nature.

Then there is the Mandelbrot set. The universal hope. Labyrinth without dead-ends. True admirers of beauty carry the image of this figure-blot in their wallets, instead of photographs of their wives. In the old days, in place of Mandelbrot's figure there was Catch-22.

Shshsh! Quiet! Science is sacred. All citadels of science go by the names of martyrs. Like Nicolaus Copernicus, Max Planck, Einstein. There's no such an institution as the University of Koala Bear.

You see, Smarty Pants knew better! She refused to lose herself in calculations. Would not estimate, compute, multiply, divide, compactify... She shut herself out of it. Subtracted herself from the University troupe of tightrope-walkers.

In my turn, I steeped myself in all these learned matters.

A stochastic process of development of the mother fuckers' method. I now plunged into the process of creation with my colleagues, sculpting, forging, erecting a "theory of existence".

The foundation of the "philosopher's stone" had to be laid upon a universal formula that would join superstrings and twistors.

Everybody in the faculty was excited about the formula's prospects. Looked forward to cooking up the formula of all.

And I was just enjoying the company of those motivated good people. Soft round ones. Enjoyed that kind world that I knew before...

Although without her something was missing. I missed Smarty Pants so much that I even sought to do some good with my hands. Eatable pants, maybe? By crossing twistors with genes, instead of superstrings. Yet, I could already bend a seven-inch nail. A steel nail placed between the fingers. The forefinger, middle and ring fingers of my hand. Either left or right hand, by my choice. Living in a space distorted by myself. Not by my choice.

One more "by the way"! Why did the idea of turning iron into gold dwindle to nothing? Should I revive that idea? Transform iron nails into golden ones...? No, can't do.

Gold is a soft metal. Too easy to bend...Too easy? Yo-Yo!

FORGING THE SOFT METAL

I said I would not tell you my name. I said you will learn my name from the newspapers. That was not true. You have already read my name in the newspapers. Remember an Olympic Champion in both boxing and judo? The one that took part in a chain of bizarre, absurd fights that confounded the established scoring system of the judges. Put them in a muddle. Yea! Yea! The Champion accused of that scheming, tricky, slippery, smoke-and-mirrors, match-fixing scam in the ring. Remember it? Forget it! All that is the world of good that overflows into the world of evil.

Hey, you psychologists, analyse this: Some while ago I came across a bunch of drunks in the street. Among them I recognised Lefty from my adventure with the gang! Yea! That clownish gang... It seemed Lefty's left arm had been amputated. Just above the elbow. My feat, my mark, my stain... He had the leathery complexion of a booze-soaked hobo. Overwhelming remorse swept over me. That overpowering sense of regret and sadness. Overflowing goodness out of me... flowing into what?

Just imagine, it was a loud laughter...

I just stood there erupting with unstoppable mirth over that miserable drifter. Stared and cackled at those doleful eyes of a shorn lamb. He recognised me. Oh, yea! What was his reaction?

No, he did not curse. He did not rebuke, did not get angry, did not turn and walk away. He laughed back! Yo-Yo! Benevolence flowed out of what had been spite! Thus we just stood there in front of each other, doubled up. Hey, where are you psychologists, with your couches?

In that bunch of drunks I found also Brother. He laughed as well. Together with everyone. Soon after that get-together, Brother died. A bleeding ulcer. A funeral. Parents were devastated. Grieving to the extent that they wanted to be buried together with Brother, their son. And here I came, with my "methods of comfort". Right in front of all gathered, I declared that our emotions rule the world. That all of us have, and live, but one day. And this day, by the way, has neither exact position nor consequence in time. I told my parents about the last meeting with Brother. Mentioned that obtuse laughter when there was nothing to laugh about. And that the mirth had saved us on that day!

I declared that reality around us is created by our own emotions.

Then I publicly accused my parents of having a gloomy air in their souls, and said it was this that had consigned their son to the coffin. If they had changed the atmosphere in their hearts we might have avoided this tempest. Instead of the coffin on the table, they would have been sitting at that very table with a live, healthy-wealthy-successful Brother-and-Son. Winking at the glare of the golden Olympic medal on his chest, while he downs milk, having stopped drinking.

Yea! Yea! I stated then that our brains, and the emotions that spring from them, are the ones that shape the reality around us.

The power of grey matter is so immense! All our day-by-day activities, like working, talking, remembering, playing, mocking - all that is elementary stuff. Expends only one percent of the full capacity of the head-piece. We pour the remaining ninety nine percent of our brains' capacity into our emotions, with which we then draw our picture of existence. While we sleep, we recharge, refresh, revive. When we awaken, we find ourselves in the exact situation that we have created for ourselves.

I told my parents that if they had worked really hard, they could have found themselves in the day when their lost son went to school for the first time! Or for the second time... It all depends on what kind of stuff comes out of our skulls, what kind of emotion we carry after a night of recharge.

I drew everybody's attention to the fact that if we go without sleep for a long time, our minds begin to drift. The world becomes ungraspable, turns into a blurry space, with monsters peering out of every corner. Yo-Yo! Physically we're okay. Proven by the medical community. However our emotions cannot hold down the picture. Constrain the image. By the way, dreams are also pictures, but they are not controlled by emotions. They are like autumn leaves detached from a tree, flying apart, scattered, disconnected, deranged.

I told my parents that on waking, we are normally presented with neutral emotions. Nevertheless, it does happen that in our sleep we see some sort of nightmare, loss of a tooth or an eye, and therefore drag our bad dream into a good day. A neutral state of mind, become negative before we've noticed that we are already in the real world. That unpleasant, disagreeable influence induces, drags along, draws a foul, unhappy day. The one day that we are all in, gets corrupted!

There it was. The day begat, provoked, shaped by them through their melancholy. From that despair came the result: their son has drunk himself to death! And that was entirely their fault.

Yea! Yea! I slipped. I could not handle my sticks of arms.

There in front of all that respectable company, theatrically, I stuck out my instrument of evil. Pointed my finger at my parents. Indicated their liability. Blamed them for Brother's death. Exposed their failure. I brought disgrace upon them in front of the whole world...

I don't know if it was the same stick that slapped me at the dawn of my youth. But, there at the funeral, Father slapped me again. With his ever-present bamboo fly-swatter. It seemed that he never went anywhere without it. (Please, was he really chasing flies from the coffin?)

At that point, my overfilled emotions spilled over. Once again, as with Lefty, they overflowed into loud laughter. There I was, at that moment so tragic for the family, pointing a finger of blame at my parents, convulsing, bursting with unnatural, inappropriate, spiteful laughter.

Humiliating! Scandalous! My father was furious! I was dismissed. Discarded. Chased off. Repelled like a fly. I was thrown out. Out of the ceremony. Out of home. Out of my parents life. My father disowned me, demanded I leave home for ever. It didn't really matter. By then I was already living in the University hostel. My relationships with my parents ceased to exist, because of their emotional negativity. My father stripped me of all rights and privileges. He stopped paying for my education, saying: "If you, skunk, are so clever, then let your emotions make the money that pays for you."

Well, what's done is done... I was still an excellent grant-aided student, so I wasn't expelled from the University campus. Before I managed to find some means of income for food and clothing, I had for a while to go hungry, and walk around with holes in my pants. In the style of so-called Penrose twistors. Not difficult to guess that exactly at that time I developed the concept of eatable pants.

All for the best! Also because in the future, I would have to maintain a distance between my parents and my new acquaintances at the University. Cosmologists. Yo-Yo!

By the way, my new Cosmologist friends would have agreed with Father, and signed under every word of his declaration about making money with my emotions.

Money... Where could one get money? For the first time in my life I stumble over that question. The question that bothers, troubles, upsets the contents of most human heads...

Stop!

If I were you I would have a lot of questions. Who is this guy? What kind of pretentious, ostentatious bastard is he? Why is he messing with our heads? Why does he tell neither his name nor details of any events, while at the same time he tells us we already know his name? And this style of narrative... so abrupt, obscure... the manner of describing people... so stiff, cramped...

Why doesn't he give his brother and Cyclops normal names, like Bob or Charlie, for example?

Yea! Yea! Well, first of all, names... Only for a few people they would make sense. Only a few would recall them. Those who really want to remember would force their brains to remember.

As for the rest... I'm sorry but I don't want to turn them into a cold-blooded, unsympathetic, enraged mob of lynchers, who would use Lynch law on my family.

Secondly I can't really ever be in somebody else's shoes. Look through somebody else's eyes. Drink somebody else's cup of tea. Tell the story from somebody else's perspective. Just can't do it! I can only see things from my point of view. Through the eyes of the beholder. And the point of view of others? Others... How can I know for sure they actually exist? Perhaps they're just figments of my imagination, reflections of the multiple interference of myself with myself...

You, for example... I don't know if you really are there. Are you there...? I don't know. Uncertainty Principle... I can speak only for myself: I am here. There's even the proof - articles in newspapers: `Olympic champion in two fighting disciplines - judo and boxing'.

Well, how did it all start...? Hungry, fancying the monetary prizes given to Olympic gold medallists, I took it into my head to become one of these. The ambition was well-founded. As well-grounded as my concealment from you and from all, the individual names of the Cosmologists.

In my early university days, I knew nothing of the existence of the Cosmologists. Nevertheless, even then they were casting their eyes on me. Put their spotlight on me.

From the beginning I rejected rugby as a source of income. Our University team was quite a feeble one. Instead of sports activities, many of the students waitered at nearby restaurants.

And me... I had no talent for that. I just couldn't. What could I do? All I could do was dodge direct punches, and bend rails with my bear hands... Though these were not bad skills for say, a boxer. Indeed would be quite handy!

And big boxing means big "bucksing". So boxing it was!

I considered seriously, weighed up all the facts. Took the scientific line. In the case of choosing badminton, the Butterfly Effect and contour integrals would have been appropriate. At the University badminton was the most popular sport. However in boxing, the most solid source of income, I had to use a more solid approach. The physics of solids. Statics. Mechanics. Kinetics. Boxing as a system of hitting and dodging manœuvres.

Conversion of potential energy into kinetic energy.

Momentum of a moving object defined by its mass and velocity.

Impeding factors like gravity, friction and surface tension.

The force of impact.

Work is done.

All of these are useful!

I could not bring myself to strike at the bodies of humans. This was a minus for me. I could easily evade incoming blows. This was a plus. So, instead of hitting for the body I would have to strike at the gloves. Yea! Lo! Hitting a punch bag (and the opponent) with a gloved hand is quite a silly, uneconomical exercise. The intensity of the impact is always insufficient. The impact of the moving object decreases because of the dispersion of the force vectors. No matter how fast one hits, no muscular energy is enough to achieve the desired result. All the power is absorbed by a bag filled with shit knows what... Yo-Yo! Where can the blow not be absorbed so easily? In the joints, bones, ligaments of arms and legs. Legs were of no use to me, as this was not Thai boxing. Arms... Because of the gloves, a blow cannot be focused, concentrated on one critical, crucial point. Less is more.

Well, it all depends on who is throwing the punch... For a boxer who has spent all his life punching a shit-bag with his gloved appendages - no, there is no point for such a boxer. For a boxer like me - this is a different story. Imagine a hand like iron, hand like steel, like stone, like a nail. My hand like a knife in the glove aimed at the punch bag! Where there once was a bag, now there is a torn deflated balloon. Got the picture?!

With this clear picture I presented myself at the gym. A special boxing gym. The best in town. Those training there were like a bunch of sissies. The whole set reminded one of an amateur league of embroiderers. Home-bred, primitive, crude imitation of a fight club. Nonetheless, the atmosphere there, created by the veterans of the ring, was quite a pompous, ostentatious one.

I was immediately rejected. I was too old for a beginner. The coaches were looking for youngsters with special talents. Wunderkinds of ten or so years old. I wouldn't take no for an answer. I elbowed my way in, told them I'd been a wunderkind myself, with experience in the ring. They hesitated. I seized the moment, insisted they try me right there and then.

Everybody likes entertainment. Even boxing coaches. And the boxers themselves like to entertain. The soft round ones of the ring. I put on the necessary attire and entered the arena. Scene of action! Boxing ring! Are you expecting from me descriptions of the scrap? No, I'm going to skip all the details of that intro-fight, as well as all the training contests that followed. Rather, I will jump straight to the finals at the Olympics. All the preceding combats had been the same, as had been the reactions of the spectators. At the Olympics though, the crowd around the ring was much bigger. How many fights had I won prior to that? I don't remember. Did I win? Judge for yourself...

Yo-Yo! In the red corner - a Cuban boxer. In the blue corner - me. The Cuban had not lost a single round in official matches. Not till now. Gong! The Cuban advances. Moves forward, a polite inspection of the challenger, the setting ... His speed is stupefying! I dodge, duck, dart. Avoid, bob, clinch. This is my defence. Gong! End of round One...

The scoring system back then had already been computerised. Each judge pressed his button whenever he saw a clean punch.

In the break my coach fanned me with a towel. Updated me with the score. I'd lost the round 12-0. If the score difference had got to 20, the judges would have stopped the fight, with advantage to my opponent. In my corner I sat quite happy, still well within the limits! Yea! Yea! I looked at the opposite corner. The Cuban knew the score. Still he didn't look happy at all. His face was as red as his corner. And instead of giving his hands a rest, he kept stretching and bending them as if he wanted to correct their position. His joints were inflamed.

Gong! Round number Two. I can't afford to miss any blows. Eight more clean punches, and it's all over for me... Clean punches? That's what the judges mustn't see. I evade the blows. Sway, swirl, gust, outstrip the wind. Eight punches more? Yo-Yo!

The Cuban drops his hands lower and lower. Below his belt already, his heavy sticks hang down. Surprised he's not lost them altogether on the floor before the gong. Gong!

After the second round, the score was still the same: 12-0.

Eyes from the opposite corner said it all. Like a bitten dog he looked at me. Look! But look ahead! Here comes the third round...

Gong! Round number Three! We stand facing each other with our hands down. Whistles in the crowd. Empty bottles and half-eaten hamburgers are flying. To the ring. Tears roll down the Cuban cheeks. Quickly! Help him. Alleviate his suffering. This is no time to joke, to be sarcastic. I push softly. Yea! Yea! Necessary blows for the sake of the score... A gentle punch to the head - one! A kind blow to the ribs - two, three. A soft push into the navel - four. A couple more... Until the judges press their buttons the designated number of times. Enough!

"Match stopped with clear advantage to the blue corner".

Me!

Nice? From outside though, it looked as if two drunks were making a bet, to see who should go to get the booze. That was the Olympic boxing final in my weight. Before this, there had been preliminary fights as well, in the same mould. Funnily enough, none of the defeated shared his experience in the ring with anyone else. Told no one exactly why he had lost. Professional secrecy. Silence. Sealed book. In the end, nobody understood anything. Except that a champion like me should not be allowed into the ring. Never again. Yo-Yo! Disgrace to the sport. Discredit. Shame! Total humiliation, not the accepted standard!

Nevertheless, prize money is prize money. A gold medal is a gold medal. Like the imaginary one that I envisaged for Brother.

Even so, I had no elusions about my sporting career. From the beginning I guessed it was going to be a short one. This had been amateur boxing. It still had some element of sport in it.

It was supposed to be the game for people who had some brains left. Indeed, I knew that the life of an amateur boxer, particularly a boxer like me, had to be very brief.

Later turn professional? For those who fell from the moon just yesterday, I will explain. Professional boxing is not a sport.

It's show-business. An acting arena. A circus! The actors in it earn their salaries through charisma, originality, the X-factor. They have to know how to fall and rise appealingly onto and from the floor. Leading roles pay well. But not everybody is destined to become a recognised and cherished celebrity. Only if fortune smiles upon you.

Could I emerge and easily overthrow, dethrone that illusional clowning in the professional ring? In the same fashion as I'd done with amateur boxers? No, I could not. I knew better. At least, not before inventing that "bullet-catching-Martian-sticky-net".

You can see in "Pulp fiction" movies exactly what happens to boxers that bend the established rules. That disobey, fail to follow the preset scenario. The written script. The stipulated protocol. You can also ask the Cosmologists, as they know everything about corruption in sports totalization.

Yet my inner devil was pressing me to further conquests, challenges, raids. I was just too greedy...

Before the games began, being the Ace of Trumps in our Olympic boxing team, I put some conditions to the selectors, demanded that I should be a part of the judo team as well. They asked how on earth it was possible for a boxer to switch to a totally different discipline. Adjust to judo if I'd never in my life been on the tatami. Particularly as the Olympics was indeed the highest sport forum of all.

I did not explain, just gave them an ultimatum. I said that if they refuse, they would not see me again in the boxing ring either. And then they could kiss goodbye to their hopes of an Olympic medal. Yo-Yo! They relented. Yielded. And did not regret.

Did not, as I brought them a second gold medal. But did regret when they had to deal with the scandal on their hands, thanks to my controversial fighting methods. My "heroic deeds".

So, I decided to take the prize money for judo as well. In one scoop. Yea! Yea! It was cool! Although the judo matches weren't appreciated either. What didn't they like in my manner of fighting? Still the same - the passiveness of my opponents. In all of them.

What did I need from my adversary? From the beginning I had to get hold of one of his sleeves! That's all. As soon as I'd grasped his hand we began a tango, in which I was the leading partner! Hugging and dragging those senseless dummies about the tatami, I had to imitate real, clean throws. But the distorted, blue faces of my crippled, paralysed, prostrated, disjointed puppets with their rolling eyes gave away the story. Spoilt the whole performance. They minced around unnaturally on their wobbly pins, uttered odd pitiful sounds. Some even whimpered.

In the end I did what was asked - seized, threw and tackled.

Scored the necessary points. Won!

Again, from the outside it looked strangely unnatural, irregular.

Rumours of match-fixing spread. The organisers begun to look for doping. Pierced me like tattoo artists. Took all my urine, which saved me the trips to the toilet.

They could prove nothing. So, kindly they asked the sports federation of our country never to show me to the public again. Otherwise they would start digging deeper. Much deeper. And not only in my direction. Short sports life! Although, to get rid of me, they paid me off very well. Jackpot! Yo-Yo! Were I less greedy, I would not now be flying to a nowhere destination, rich and famous.

Do you have any doubts about my combats on the tatami, that they went too smoothly and according to my plans? Please! Let's not become too paranoid, infatuated, obsessed with an idea, like the Cosmologists who see a conspiracy on every street corner. Yea! Lo! Go and check! For an experiment one would need a carpenter's vice and an observer. First grip your hand in the device. Turn the vice as tight as possible. As much as you can bear. Then, ask your observer for help, to give you a hand and turn the screw once more. Yeah! Remember the feeling thoroughly, precisely. Particularly that part of the feeling which is ready to sacrifice anything in the world to stop the pain, release the vice, make it go away.

Gold medal? Anything! Any gold medal! All the gold in the world.

Yo-Yo! I would give anything right now not to see that Olympic gold and this plane.

Yea! Yea!

When last did you see yourself, nuts!?

Where were you at eight thirty on the evening of September 10?

What can we do for you, Mr Perfect?

Well, the fact is, I'm not Mr Perfect, whoever he might be.

I have no name

And I've been kidnapped from my boyhood home.

My face has changed

And I've been dumped into a student hostel

With a hell of a lot of money and success.

Can you help me?

Certainly!

Will you ring for a doctor?

You'd end up in the loony-bin, fucker!

FISH MARKET

So for the time being, money wasn't a priority for me. I occupied myself completely, plunged in medias res, Calculus.

Now I got close to one particular man of learning. A true zealot of the numbers game. He challenged me to construct, generate, perfect a mathematical model of the fluctuations of the stock-market. Almost a formula of all!

Well, why not? Cool idea! Lengthy, protracted project. To take my mind off Smarty Pants. A sort of substitute, though perhaps a feeble one... And what if I succeed? Find some kind of pattern, scheme...

I could put it to really good use! Unlike that super-symmetry-paradigm of the world-solution for insolvents. Yo-Yo! In any case, there was no road for me back to the boxing ring!

At that time, market movement probabilities were calculated in terms of contour integrals. Every stock trader used the Nash formula in his pocket-computer. Before any deal went through, a buyer would apply the equation.

Our idea was to take it a step further. Create a much more sophisticated version. A method that would embrace the general direction of the market. Would show the most promising, favourable, beneficial, potential lines of growth. At our first attempts to untangled the skein of pointers on our screen, they began to surrender, knuckle down. Submit to unification, organization, rule... And then, Bah! The beautiful carpet of symmetrical threads dissolved, in front of our eyes, into a ball of broken strings, loose strands. At the same time, all of a sudden, all together, the traders on the floors of the stock markets abandoned their handy devices with the Nash "panacea". All at once!

I admit I was dumb-founded at such a turn of events. It was then that my newly-fledged companion in research turned over some new information. Opened Pandora's Box. Welcome to the country called Totalitarianism. From that day on, I referred to him as Anti-totalitarist. My friend explained that the Nash formula was no longer needed. All the indicators that we see in financial reports are fake. A big fat lie, concocted from nothing. A fabrication. A fiction.

"Remember the Asian market crash, and its consequences?" he asked me. "Capitalist society cannot afford such "accidental" crises any more. Such disasters can benefit only a few lucky ones...

No! Now we deal with an organised, global structure, which sucks the juices, reaps, profits, pushes its greedy hands into everybody's pocket, including the pockets of those few lucky ones." Anti-totalitarist pointed out the fact that "the global market doesn't react any more, either to earthquakes or to epidemics in disaster areas. Before, when traces of petrol were found in the bottles of a big-brand mineral water company, the whole company went to the brink of bankruptcy. We can still see "incidents" like that. We do. However, now when we see a TV report on the discovery of a mouse in a soft-drink can, at the very same time the financial indicators at the bottom of the TV screen might show the stocks of the same company to be soaring...

"Well, of course there were a couple of unfortunate countries that had to pay a price. They simply didn't grasp early enough the fresh concept of forgery. Didn't catch on to the innovative idea of scamming. Didn't twig on to the deception. Instead of playing along with the latest schemes of the market, lying through smiling teeth to the public, displaying the necessary, preferred, desired indicators, they gave in. Let their currencies collapse.

"However, in that transitional period, it was difficult to judge who was already part of the game and who wasn't... Well now almost all in the business are clued-up, au fait with the system, well-informed as to how it all works, turns, evolves.

How?

Simple, like a swing! "The swing method. Platinum drops a little. Gold goes up. Then the other way around. Up and down. Down and up. Make use of gossip in the market: London has sold their stocks of a metal! Total distortion! Astronomical, aberrant, comical number of stocks! Grab platinum at the bottom! Chuck out your gold supply while it's still high. Step aside. Wait. Watch.

After a while the fake numbers swing again. To the other side...

Reasons?

There are always "good" reasons, that have nothing to do with reality, nothing with the actual, existing, genuine state of events.

A counter-swing in the opposite direction guarantees you twenty percent! What is more real than that? What is more true than that?

"At the same time, side by side with those transactions, we have the rocking, rolling waves of the currencies. Dollar, Euro, Pound!

Their interactions are always fascinating. Attention-grabbing!

The swing of the triplets on the rolling, roaring swell of the oceans! Captivating!

"And of course there is kite-surfing with oil! Yo-Yo! Heaving! Rising and falling! Easy to jump on board. Surge forward with the rope in your hands.

Rise so far above the surf! Remember though to let go the line when a sudden uprush fills the sail. Loads it up just before the fall. As soon as line becomes too heavy, release it. Otherwise it will be ripped from your grasp. Don't forget that the numbers on your screens are fake. Your calculations on how much and how long it can carry you are speculative. Only the cartel has a clear picture of how big the source is, and when to cut the line. They know how many clever surfers keep their hands on the oily ropes. Their figures are up-to-date. Well-stocked? Sufficient?

Time to reap the wave. Yo-Yo! What a fall! Hundred percent in one go! Down it rolls! Losing its might! The index doesn't even need to recover fully. Then it drifts. Still waters! Those who have fallen off the board, know how hard it is to get back on again. The wind drops. The sea is calm! There is no wave to take you up... Despairing surfers get out of the water. "The indicators now float on low levels. Unruffled. Unmoved. The players are happy with their five to ten percent short term gains.

What could be done to move the market? Sharply up? Well, back to gossip...gssssp! Yea! Lo! Can you imagine! The supply of oil is uncertain! Most probably there's enough for just three, maybe four days! War! War! Yo-Yo! The prices take off! The index soars! Meanwhile, everybody has already jumped off, sold everything, played safe.

"Nobody cares how much oil the dirty oil-miners are actually pumping. The most important thing is to create electronic oil-miners on the screens. The clean look of virtual reality. Simulacra of crude oil production. The index flies up on the display, but behind the scenes there's no trade!

"Surely, here comes the Hedge Fund, saver of the day...

Attention! Pre-sale! Pre-sale of stocks on a rising index.

Yo-Yo! The wind is picking up. The kite soars once again!

Hedging... hedging ... hedged enough? Cut the rope...

Grrrrsh! Yea! Lo! Oil production is actually high! We've stuffed ourselves with oil. Can't get rid of it... Blame those bloody speculators! They are the ones that inflated, puffed up the prices!

"Unemployment, interest rates, inflation, deflation levels...

All parameters that have of course become the latest fiction.

Yet, for transactions in smooth-riding, perfectly harmonised, coordinated waves of the market, every time, all the time, there must be a global manipulating network. Brain-like. An alliance.

"A coalition that spreads its hands-tentacles-neurons to embrace the world. Looks after everything. The all-encompassing macro-scheme. Conspiracy. No misadventures. No frowns of fortune. No mishaps. No accidents. Believe it or not, there is such a conspiring brain. Indeed there is!"

Just then I stopped my Anti-totalitarist. I wondered whether this conspiracy theory was perhaps too far fetched. I argued that even though there might be some cases of data falsification, nonetheless the regulatory systems do function. Things do go wrong. I pointed out the fact that just recently there was a huge scandal. Disclosure of fraud in one super-corporation. What a blast it was! So much noise! Such losses...!

Anti-totalitarist giggled in response. He asked: "If the scandal jeopardised the whole system, why then did the government not try to cover up the story, buy out the company? No, the whole thing was well planned. They needed a Red Herring to demonstrate the transparency of the market system. To show the public the openness, trustworthiness of the system. Scapegoats are so important in our days. In modern establishments. Flawless trade without swindlers can sow the seeds of doubt in the minds of the public. The scenario must be picture perfect: There is your decoy. Tear it apart! And let's go back to business as usual!

"They say, soon they would look into every nook and cranny. Would investigate and scan every one! All would be checked and dealt with! Yea! Yea! Awfully natural! "No, Champion (Anti-totalitarist called me that), the traders do not need calculators, neither with Nash nor with any other formula. This is a poker-game of the big fish! Where everything is based on a lie. Everyone swindles, fakes, bluffs, cheats and stings. However, the winner is always the big boss. The keeper of the bank - Totalitarian capital.

"Everybody is in the game. The poor countries are given a never-ending supply of credits-chips to keep them playing in the big casino. It doesn't matter that there's no chance they can win. Most important is to pay the croupier well, to keep the system moving".

Yea! Yea!

The line is keeping to middle ground

Between right and left.

The government can't crack down too hard on the communists.

But who the hell cares

What happens to Neo-Nazis?

It's my belief you're at the end of their rope

And the government will hang you with it.

You're only left loose as a makeweight

On the other end of the political see-saw.

You're a line fish

Fucking dummy, you are.

Fucking dummy.

Fucking line-fish!

They'll tell you a hell of a lot of lies,

But they'll need you when they want to eat.

You're an eatable dummy!

So, what could be done? To oppose. Counter-act! Balance out that Totalitarist system! Measure for measure! Strength match with strength, and power confronted power!

Anti-Totalitarian movement. Organised Anti-Totalitarian movement! "Well, Champion," he told me, "It already exists!"

"And the name?"... "Saint-Cosmologists..." At that time those Anti-Totalitarists-Cosmologists reminded me somewhat of Smarty Pants... They did not want to follow the show, performance, scheme. Did not fancy being clowns in the theatre of the social establishment. Like her, they did not desire to entertain. Yet they liked to find entertainment in the organisation of the world. Find, uncover, unearth or invent some kind of universal conspiracy! Which, by the way, then appeared to me quite amusing.

Therefore I put my stock-market ideas aside. Anti-Totalitarist and I together began to help scientists create genetic maps, discover the elixir of eternal life. Also, in my leisure time, I was stirred, challenged, eager to find examples of "financial scams" under every stone. And, soon enough the scam-ridden world became for me a transparent lie.

Now I looked and saw evidence of deception on every corner.

Very soon I could bring to Anti-Totalitarist exactly such a find:

The new Russian government had imprisoned their oil oligarch.

Multi-billion tax evasion! Immediately gssssp started. Crude oil production in the country is under threat!!! Return of the authoritarian system!!! In next to no time the prices on fuel were galloping, flying, dashing up. For sure, the supply of oil will be cartel-curtailed! There will be shortages. Meanwhile I looked at the TV face of the oligarch. He was grinning-smiling. He sat in a cage in the Magistrate's court, and laughed! Of course, his company was still pumping oil to its full capacity - business as usual. The only difference was the swollen prices the oil fetched now. Soaring numbers because of the prospect that the company would suspend, discontinue, cease fuel production. Now the increased profits could pay off all his liabilities ... The only "problem" was, one couldn't really settle an invented debt, foot a bill that didn't exist. Indeed, why not laugh? Fabricated, calculated game! Spectacle staged by the oligarch and the government! Played well!

Anti-Totalitarist approved of my illustration, and in his turn pulled out this: Suppose in a country, a big info-corporation holds all business in its monopolistic hands. The government tries to make some changes, introduce an anti-monopolistic law. It decides to issue a licence to another company to bring in competition, relieve prices for consumers. A few contenders participate in a race for the position. The government chooses a firm that promises the best service for the lowest price. Hurray! The monopoly is eliminated. Healthy competition, functional and effective. Two companies provide their services to the public now. Picture perfect!

Really? But why then in a short while do prices return to their former peaks?

Well, simple! The second company is part of the first one!

The government announcing the contest had made the right decision, chose correctly, the right candidate... For nervous observers, who always tend to see coincidental twists, and would suggest that there could have been a clash between the applicants, and that those who best bribe the officials will win... we explain: All participants in the race for the position belong to the same company. The one and only, the first one that had been there from the beginning. The entire contest was a performance. A governmental play-act, a show-project to demonstrate that everything is cool. Under control.

Totalitarism in action! In the same way as companies clown for their governments, the governments themselves clown around the arena of world markets. With manipulators at the top, hidden amongst the shadows.

What was the common denominator in our two examples?

Anti-Totalitarist summarised it for me: "The world's social pyramid is constructed in quite a neat way. At the bottom lie the destitute, poor countries, raw material diggers. They are buried in credit. The population lives in a permanent state of poverty and exploitation. Government officials there are paid exceptionally well.

"The second layer of the pyramid comprises countries with various and mixed political systems. Here there are huge material class divisions in the population. The poor majority is forced to pay big money for everything. Like costly petrol and information. But at least people there are able to pay for the basics, unlike those in the bottom layer of the pyramid. Instability in these

countries is quite essential for organising local wars and revolution, which play into the hands of the global market.

"The third layer is the top one. The Big Seven. Semi-socialistic societies with extremely high expenditure, consumption, outlays of the inhabitants. The governments there have to dish out large state grants. "Fair" distribution of wealth!

So, not only are the administration officials on high payrolls, but the citizens also play their clownish parts for a fair income in the all-encompassing system. People there honestly believe that they have earned their standard of living through smart decisions, choices, efforts and not by robbing the two bottom layers of the pyramid. It would never ever occur to them..."

So, that is how we played our game. "Look and find"... Until I noticed that my friends Cosmologists-Anti-Totalitarists suddenly developed a desire to entertain. Organised protests and demonstrations began to appear more and more, here and there.

Next, balaclavas and Molotov cocktails came onto the stage.

Soon, on the streets of the big cities, the first blood was spilled.

Once again, goodness overflowed! The world of good spilled over into the world of evil. Goodness produced, extended, its attacking hands!

Sticks of arms! To what extent could they stretch their spiteful force? I knew all too well about their overflowing powers, unstoppable qualities, inevitable outcomes. I didn't want anything to do with those sticking-out instruments of evil. It's unreasonable, irrational, profitless to go along with spiteful acts.

I told Anti-Totalitarist frankly about my discontent. Emphasised that I was tired and repulsed by this game. That we had overdone things. We had over-filled the Chalice of goodness. Turned it into spite. I could not be part of that. We can't really expect to defeat the Big Seven by going with the Cosmologists, fighting in the streets! Anti-Totalitarist calmly responded that there was no need for rushing to the streets. That was a job for simpletons, stooge-clowns, field soldiers.

"No, Champion," he told me, "the organisation does not need you among the lower ranks. They selected you for an officer, to accomplish greater deeds, reach Generalship! Remember this - nobody can choose to be a part of the Cosmologists. The Cosmologists are the ones who do the choosing. Recruit their special members... After all, you have to be special indeed to be selected...

"You, Champion, have been noticed, spotlighted, evaluated, already marked back then when you demonstrated your talents in science. I was assigned to observe you... But when you showed your unbelievable, unthinkable physical abilities at the Olympic games, you proved yourself completely and were designated into the highest echelon... The Cosmologists were the ones that extricated you from the sport (a shame to take gold away from Cuban comrades)... They removed you from the public eye. To protect you for the next stage... Now the moment has come to introduce you to the specialists, professors. They'll launch a new program for you. A kind of program that neither you nor I could even imagine... My job is over now. I hope I played my role well... Firstly you have to meet the specialist-politician. You have an appointment set for tomorrow..."

Well, well! What was my reaction to all that nonsense, gibberish, absurdity? No, I did not curse, did not rebuke, I did not get angry, did not turn and walk away. Of course, I laughed. The same obtuse laughter brimming over. To save the day! Anti-Totalitarist echoed, in chorus laughed with me...

Psychologists, psychologists, you would be all at sea...

That is how I was turned into Scheherazade upside down.

She had to tell the tales to stay alive. I had to listen to tales to stay alive. It's cool! It was all right! We all live in one day. One day is the only thing that we have. Just as it is! The sun is there... sufficient, good enough. Alive and well!Today I swallowed a hook.

In the day new I shall digest it.

Yea! Yea!

Discounting a lot of bull about shit,

Something happened up there in my head.

I've been told in gruesome detail

I'm fucked up

Isn't that rather an old fashioned term?

Isn't there chance that I'm right up there?

No chance at all.

For fuck's sake!

I can't stand the hooks.

What did you say you called yourself?

Mother fucking gold fish I am!

The most important thing to remember is that there is nothing wrong! And nothing can go wrong. Because the good and the bad are the same. Necessary parts of the whole. Depends on how who looks at it. Depends on how one measures.

With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you.

HO-HO-HO! HA-HA-HA!

"You say... Elixir of life... discover the gene of ageing... find the "philosopher's stone"... Ho-ho-ho! The universal formula of all... the world as a fusion of superstrings and twistors... Origami... Ha-ha-ha!"

The specialist-politician of the Cosmologists turned out to be quite a cheerful character. She-character. As could be imagined, the expected she-assassin, Scheherazade, did not disappoint me with her appearance. Dressed in khaki military uniform, her face was entirely covered in a veil. The only thing I could see was the pair of laughing black eyes. Had to communicate with those eyes!

"Ho-ho-ho! You, Champion, hit the nail almost on the head when you were tackling the issue of the philosopher's stone. What you were looking for has already been found, long ago. The banknote! Ha-ha-ha! Here it is."

Scheherazade's hand retrieved a paper note from her pocket.

"Here is your Origami. Ho-ho-ho! If your elusive twistor can serve as a two-dimensional model of the real particle-superstring, why can a real flat object like a banknote not be an abstract module that creates the multi-dimensional structure of human relationships? Ha-ha-ha!"

I asked her whether we can get rid of the two-dimensional plane as well. Just extract the platinum inner lining of the banknote, and use a one-dimensional line instead of the two-dimensional piece of paper. Supplying this line with a meaningful definition, I could easily paint a portrait of humankind.

LINEAR PORTRAIT OF HUMANKIND

Is it all right that the portrait is in profile? Then again, in the caption: LINEAR PORTRAIT OF HUMANKIND one can discover the remaining 25 dimensions: politics, economics, ecology, genecology, proctology, crudology...

Yea! Yea!

It confused me

And I'm no different from anyone else.

I don't like being confused

And I had a crazy idea -

It was so crazy I thought I must be losing my mind.

It looked like an organ

If it had a keyboard

You could play it.

It weighed twenty six tons

And was made by a body with a dick

The hand that rocks the cradle,

Can also wield a welding torch.

No, don't speak.

Let me sort it out myself.

Jackpot! It's a fucking banknote!

It's Capital, bloody hell!

Me, myself and Karl Marx.

"Ho-ho-ho! Precisely, Champion! And the nose of this capitalistic humankind is just as huge as you depicted. Cannot hide! How did we come to have this long sticking-out muzzle?

"Ha-ha-ha! Take for example quite an abstract, symbolic, emblematic picture of the president sticking his nose out of the green buck... Then try to imagine in the same way a photograph of an astronaut on the Moon. Two-dimensional model of earthly and cosmic matters... Now let us take another shot of the astronaut one split second later. Another two-dimensional model of the Moon... Next shot... Next... After that let's see all the pictures in quick succession ... We have a moving astronaut! Three dimensional model! The length, the breadth and time! Grasped! Americans would have fabricated a four-dimensional presentation for sure, if only the government had had holographic cameras back then... when they concocted their loony-moony fraud...Ho-ho-ho!"

I wasn't impressed with this dull, boring, uninspiring conspiracy theory. The story of the non-existent Moon landing was quite old.

The Russians were quite clued up, and would have picked it up immediately, cracked the forgery. Such a nice propagandistic gift in their hands!

"Ho-ho-ho! Exactly right! They did crack it. The thing is, just when they did so, the Soviets suffered a catastrophically bad harvest, failure of the crops. Khrushchev's experiments with the maze program failed, misfired, ended in ruins. He was removed from office, but still they had to find a great deal of wheat, to feed plenty of hungry mouths. From whom else could they ask help, but America...? That was the deal! Shake hands!... Silence is the price of bread. Of course you went to the moon, as long as we can be well nourished with wheat. Soon after, the new Soviet leader Brezhnev ordered all Kazakhstan to be ploughed up! Ha-ha-ha!"

I told Scheherazade that I did not buy it. That I did not believe the Moon affair justified saving the communist enemy from hunger. What was the purpose of superiority in the cosmos if the foe, because of starvation, was in any case on the verge of the rising up, rebelling, throwing their communist masters to the dogs?

"Ho-ho-ho! Yes, yes! Exactly! USA and USSR were not the enemies... Your good acquaintance, my predecessor, must have told you about attempts at the introduction of so called anti-monopolistic laws... Capital needs competition, rivalry, opposition, and does not need to acquire possession of the markets. No, it has ruled there for a long time already. But it does need to control, manipulate, hold in its hands numbers of buyers and sellers. Periodically to destroy some, or force others to produce weapons of mass destruction, out of peoples' patriotism... On the other hand, when systems are "competing", a difficulty arises over the provision of an army. The same as if there were only two policemen for the whole city! For that reason the army must always be present where it's called for, in places of suspected, alleged conflicts... With the development of a unified Totalitarian system, each government would have its own weapons...

"But tell me, Champion, where do you usually find nuclear warheads...? Exactly! In places with the biggest population on earth! Where it will most likely be used. Ha-ha-ha!"

Frustrated with this gobbledygook, I asked who was the mastermind of all of it? Who was the manipulator behind the scenes?

"Ho-ho-ho! It's still the same banknote. The paper model. The tailed superstring.

Soon enough, you will learn from the Cosmologist-Theologian about the construction of the universe. But for now I can tell you only how this tailed superstring can fold and bend the political map of the world along the lines of fire, wars and social cataclysms. From a two-dimensional plane into a three-dimensional origami. That banknote model can be incredibly small (held in the hand) and tremendously big (can buy the whole world) at the same time... As in the case of the twistor, to put it into the earth-purse one must fold it."

Yea! Yea! I listened to Scheherazade's gibberish and thought to myself it was easy to agree with something when one hasn't the option to disagree with it...

"Ho-ho-ho! Some historians have noticed that all wars and revolutions rise and fall along special lines on the maps. They call that activity the `passionary shifts'. And then begin to look for hot-spots and alarms... Perhaps Napoleon and Hannibal moved exactly upon the ridges formed by tectonic collisions ... maybe the eruption of sun spots is responsible for instigating those acts and moves...Ha-ha-ha!"

At this point I interrupted. I demanded some answers. Who stages all this? Who is that master of the world? From where does it all commence?

"Ho-ho-ho! From everywhere and nowhere, as the net is interdigitated, inter-woven from one exchequer bill, one note in the hand. If it folds in the middle, then the `passionary shift' runs in the middle. Bend the corner of the banknote - there on the border clouds gather, a thunder storm commences, an army opens fire...

"You, Champion, yourself preach, promote, advocate the idea that the emotions rule the world. So it is emotionally correct to admit that the paper model, the dollar, has the capacity to build, arrange, control, together with talents for managing, charging, administering, and ruling...Ha-ha-ha! No matter what your emotions might be, only this piece of paper can be exchanged for something your heart desires...

A bus ticket for example has no such merits. It's not going to precipitate any irrational behaviour. Not going to make people dance to its beat. Not going to push crowds to the polls. Well, not in most of the cases, since it has no value where there are no buses, no matter how hard you fold it. Ho-ho-ho! How could you, Champion, not spot the philosopher's stone in your wallet?

Ha-ha-ha!"

And the dawn fell upon us and Scheherazade discontinued her tale...

So in this fashion, along these lines wherewith to while away the waking hours of our latter nights, I had to hang about Scheherazade's fairyland for a time. Listen to her stories and imitate the pleased King.

For some must sleep while some must watch: so runs the world away.

Not quite a thousand nights passed before the anticipated, promised meeting drew near. In the opinion of Scheherazade I had evolved, progressed, advanced to the required level. Was ready for the next step of "spiritual" initiation. Dedication. Consecration. Ordination... This was regardless of all my attempts to clown around and mimic total political foolishness and ignorance.

Yea! Yea! But the uneasy thought wormed its way into my mind, that it was not my round kind body with its round clever head that they needed. Was it my hands? Yo-Yo! The evil arm-extensions, that's what they wanted. The instruments of evil, that's what they were looking for. Was it the fold of a banknote that ran through me? Or was it me, who had fallen from my bed in bad humour?

I didn't know any more... What I did know is that the day of my meeting with Cosmologist-Theologian had arrived. Crept up on me. Gave me the creeps. Ha-ha-ha!

I didn't want to know about their creation. Couldn't care less.

Formation. Construction. Fabrication. Still they kept pushing.

Lessons in yoga and masturbation

Money up front

before

INCARNATION.

For a long time I received from them only the sugary, syrupy philosophy wrapped in candy paper. Yeah! Up until the day of the meeting with Cosmologist-Theologian...

The day that struck fear into me. The day that gave me terror...

PHOTON FLIES AND FLIES AND NEVER ARRIVES

I couldn't even see him. That Cosmologist-Theologian.

He was presented to me in a dark room. In the darkness I learned the dark secret. Only his voice I could hear.

"...You were curious to know what rules the world...?

Self-regulatory... you say? All right ... But in which parameters? And who is it all for? ...Who is the Master of the system...? We ourselves... you would suggest? No... Cannot be. We are a part of the system... The ancient Greek philosophers themselves contemplated the mechanism of cause-and-effect. They said that in order to see the correlative effect, one needs a bystander...

"...Every outcome is caused by something. IF something, THEN something. If our universe is defined by rules, which it is, it follows that each of those rules operates on something to cause an outcome... If there is rain there is a crop, if there is a crop there is a grub, if there is a grub there is a chicken, if there is a chicken there is an egg... if there is an egg there is a... the string is never-ending.

"Cause-effect-cause-effect. Like an endless necklace of black and white beads. And when it is endless, there's not much difference between the beads ... Between cause and effect. As the effect itself subsequently becomes the cause...

"Chain reaction. Chain of events...! Black-and-black beads...to the end of Colour... Well, to differentiate the colours of the necklace, one needs a onlooker, observer, bystander ...

"...We might, of course, imagine another string: Necklace-and-bystander. And that they are also under observation of the next bystander, creating one more chain, a system that in its turn observes the next and the next... ...Yet from our row of beads it's impossible to view that system. Impossible even to guess what is going on over there... What is possible and important to understand, is the duality of the nature of the bystander. The duality of each link in the chain of observers... No matter how long the string is...

"...Obviously, being a part of the net, part of the cause-and-effect mechanism, we can incite causes and have an effect on outcomes... However, by the method of colour recognition, we can see the sequence of influences and changes only from the "outside" ...Keep that duality in mind ... we'll come back to that further in our discussion...

"... Now there is the eternal question: What is the world all about...? Here we need a scientific approach... With the three questions: WHAT? WHERE? WHEN?

"WHAT?

The building block, the working unit, has not yet been captured... Still it's a fact that it does exist. It gathers in groups - atoms, molecules, genes - it appears to be the property-carrier of every macro-object... Though, as we dig deeper it conceals its individual characteristics. Obscures its own features...

"WHEN?

This is an even more elusive, treacherous non-entity...

Time runs differently for objects that move with different speeds... Tackling the WHAT... let's say that the working unit of the universe is the superstring, which we can find everywhere at the same time... Part of the network, the strand, apparently interferes with nearby strands, absolutely identical in nature, creating a fluctuation - the wave...

However such a network cannot be aligned because of the velocity differences of the component micro-parts... One strand becomes too heavy because interfering superstrings, like prisoners, are stuck together - this strand lives today... Another strand which has not stuck to anything, is almost like a released prisoner. It takes the status of a free superstring, spinning its tail-photon - it lives tomorrow... And we all know how mathematicians sort out those disparities. Fill those gaps, blanks... with abstract methods of calculation - complex numbers of course.

"So, we come to the last question WHERE ... on which modern science has apparently already given a clear answer:

"Everywhere and nowhere"... So, what can we do with the first two unanswerable questions...? Well, you see, here we come to the limits of experimental science... In order to move away from the deadlock, one needs a different method... a different philosophy... Theological approach, so to speak...

"Let us imagine "Almightiness"... in the sense of a certain bystander that decided to establish total control of the cause-and-effect mechanism. He then must deny allocation of his powers to an observer inside of the system... Otherwise the Almightiness will cease to be Almighty, will suffer damage to his sole exclusiveness... However, remembering duality as the inalienable nature of any observer... who then is going to interact inside the system... instigate the cause-and-effect mechanism? Paradox. Conflict. Impossibility of the Almightiness... Not so...?

"Sure, if it all takes place in the present and in the future... but if someone has it all in the past... has the power to interact within the system and the power to observe from the outside... in the past the Almightiness is not split... All is in the past... The Almighty is always by His will capable of looking back... whenever, wherever, whatever... Imagine that this world is all in the past...then from that perspective let us answer the scientist's question... WHAT?

What was thrown into the foundation of the past?

...The word...

...Photon...

...From the hand of the Almighty observer, flew the one and only...the one single photon..."

"That is also a chronoton," I thought to myself.

"...that photon flew all over... through the entire eternity... in all possible directions, trajectories and combinations, except to where it had already been... Why did the path of the photon not overlap past paths...? For that we have to answer the question WHEN...?

"...The speed of the photon is such that its own time is irrelevant, almost to total non-existence... almost means only the time when it is present in the preceding position... if it was there, it was there for some time..."

At that point, in my mind again I interrupted the monologue of Theologian. I thought that it would be so appropriate to introduce here, my concept of the chronoton. The self-interference of time.

There would have been no need for casuistry like:

if it was, it was... if wasn't, it wasn't...

Meanwhile, Theologian continued:

"... this almost doesn't allow the photon to disappear completely from a set position, and also doesn't disrupt its moving to the next position. It's as if the particle of light smudges itself along the trajectory of its flight... So obviously, when the photon arrives at a point where it has been before, it finds the point already occupied... by itself... And stumbling into itself, practically stuck to its own path, the particle of light becomes massive... and is given a new name by the scientists...The mass grows, increases as a result of collisions with itself... Thus, filling up all the empty gaps, working through all possible trajectories of flight, through quantity the photon gains new qualities... At the beginning of its life, the photon is like a lattice, a net... however adding up, multiplying, increasing, intensifying it becomes a monolith, a massive organisation, endless in space... And when there is no more place to go...when there is no more space to fly in... the colossal weight of photon's head, leans against the immense, infinite, compressed body-tail... crashes the system into instant collapse...

"...As we said, the scientists know the answer to the WHERE question... Everywhere and nowhere... Meaning in the past...

The system, the structure grew out of one photon, expanded into a vast, boundless monolith of the universe and instantly disappeared... But the photon in it, in the past, still flies and flies, and never arrives... No matter which part of the world we observe, we see everywhere an expanding, streaming-out universe of one very busy photon. We shouldn't be concerned ... it's not our business any more... We have more important matters to sort out. Such as:

...Who are we...?

...To answer that, let us once again remember the dual nature of the observer... That helps us to understand our role in the world... We are part of the system that is inside. That part can sway the cause-and-effect mechanism in our reality (the past world of the past photon)...The other part is outside. It observes the world of the past, from the perspective of the present and of the future. We can't go there. Neither present nor future are accessible to us... But, silly us, being inside with the windows closed, we are trying so hard to look outside to explain the whole world... to observe the future! And we can't.

"Anyhow the future is only a part of the past... Understand? We live from the past... into the past... A bystander outside can monitor all the twists of the past... In our turn, we insiders can observe them in the same fashion, with the exception that we are deprived of the luxury of seeing a full WHEN spectrum... We are confined to the, so to speak... past-past...The past-present and past-future are inaccessible for us... Nevertheless, in the past-past we are the sole boss...we have the free will to carry out our observations as we like... The method is well known to everyone: It all depends. Depends how you look, regard, evaluate, measure...

"...For the German philosophers of mid-twentieth century it was Gestalt Psychology... For Niels Bohr and Albert Einstein it was Principle of Uncertainty... For you, Champion, it is the Emotional swells mind-set... Whatever you want to see in that monolith of the past you will... Beam your eyes on, spotlight, a black photon, for example, and call it a particle of light...Remember we mentioned the superstring with tail-photon... which is almost released from prison...? It flies into the future... But, you see, there is no such thing as a totally free superstring... A superstring is always a part of the sticky penitential system...

Although it might look like it's free from its past, still... no...it can never separate itself from its past... Some can call it a sticky penitential system, some can call it the Law of Gravitation...

Yes, so heavy is our past...

"...The best proof that we all live in the past world is the Law of Conservation of Energy: Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, it can only change from one form to another... Just think! Being in the past it stays in the past. Cannot disappear from the past... Where can it appear from...? And disappear to? As much as was in the past, exactly that much remains in the past... It could be constantly interchanged between forms, but the sum remains constant... Perhaps it is not even energy, E...

...Possibly it is just a rolling and unrolling past: minus-T, that revolves, rotates, spins under our pressure...

Well, it all depends...

"...One famous method is the fat Greek lie - linear geometry...

They imagined a point... moved the point... got a line... moved the line... got a plane...moved the plane...and so on, isn't that so...? Sure, if we move it in one direction... But what if we try to turn the whole process the other way around...? Try to turn a plane into a line... the line into a point... No, can't do... No matter how much you shrink the line, still some kind of "thickness" will remain... Shrink, shrink....until we think its enough...stop it...arrest it with our opinion....There it is, a singularity! Imaginary point... Yea, but it's according to our imagination... Still, in fact, it represents quite a tangled "fat" complex system... When it moves... it really moves... To all possible directions and dimensions... Not by rulers... not by lines... Neither by Euclid's straight, nor by Lobachevsky's curves... When we discussed the flight of the photon, we meant exactly that kind of movement... to all sides at once... The trajectories of the flight, filling space would have different code names... Some call it lines, some curves, some straights... we would call it Yo-Yo! The child's toy yo-yo, you know... that spins and rolls the line... in and out...

...The magazine for puzzled scientists, "Scientific American", tells us: To make a star, gas and dust must fall inward. So why do astronomers see stuff streaming outward?...They can't grasp the Yo-Yo... The soft and round monolith which is very, very heavy to grasp... Although if one is permitted to kid a bit with rulers and linear curves, one can fabricate quite a beautiful picture: E = MC«... ...The fat Greek lie of the singularity... a waltz with a curvy lady... although she is single now, nevertheless... before you, she did have some admirers...

The already-mentioned Einstein, tried to touch her curves, find her waist...

E = MC«.

We in our turn will try to Yo-Yo-twist with her: E = -T (energy equals the past).

-T = MC«. But still it is only a method of observation of now in our common past... that common past, Champion, that relates all of us...

"...You with us... You see, Champion, you don't have too many original ideas on how to organise your perfect day... so we'll help you to spotlight, photonograph the road to the present...

...Presently you are privileged to observe a Mission... A Mission that has been assigned to you, placed on your shoulders by Saint-Cosmologists... Sometimes our members move through darkness to reach their goal... They use different means... Mimicry. Camouflage. Disguise... They penetrate, infiltrate into different Unions... Take action on behalf of one or other organisation...

"...Recruiting operatives is sometimes done by members planted in different Churches and semi-legal political groups...They are all Saint-Cosmologists... There is a special function, a role for you as well... the role of a devotee, martyr... You are expected to exhibit Heroic conduct... act as a far-seeing, foreseeing General... You will perform your Mission knowing that there is a system of belief behind it... knowing that there is vast purpose behind the Mission...!"

MISSION:

"In order to get yourself into the present, we must attract the attention of the Almighty bystander...We have to destroy the world of the agitated, troubled inner observer that persistently stirs up the past... To achieve this we have to complicate his nature... That is possible by exposing, exhibiting our knowledge of the outside world of the present and the future... Knowledge carries a particle of power...!The insider acquires the features of an outsider... This goes against the original design of the bystander...On our way, we must liberate people from evil-doers...

...In the first place, we must destroy Totalitarist-liars, who pray to the Green Buck... the worshippers of the monetary model... We must establish our own model of the world by eliminating their blind system - Dollar-Gestalt world...

...The way out is an organised mass-suicide... In the fashion of whales that beach themselves amongst a holiday crowd... The way is to demonstrate the desire to reunite, join with the Almighty bystander in the present... On the way, we must destroy clans of pagans that praise Totalitarianism's past... Generals like you, Champion, should consider it a great honour to strike into the heart of the house of cards... citadel of papier-mБchИ, bunkum universe of the past...

...The material world is an invasion of the realm of light... You will rescue the particles of goodness imprisoned in matter by the powers of darkness...In the black abyss of the monolith that belongs to the past, a star will flash... blaze up... The star that will awaken people to the present...

...To fulfil this goal, you must follow the plan, which will be revealed to you soon...Through this plan you will join a group of martyrs... Along with those Cosmologist-devotees you will board a plane... hijack it... And write your name into the book of immortality... the book of eternal present existence...

...By using the plane as a missile, you will destroy the enemy's tower of power..."

Right there in the darkness of the room, from the hands of Theologian I received a card.

Later, after the rendezvous, I photonographed the presence of the card in my hand, and saw a photograph of Mother.

The photograph must have been taken quite recently, because she looked unfamiliar with her new haircut.

Shall I really spell, spill it out, that that day I returned to the university hostel in a state of "happy" tears. Before the meeting, I had thought I was dealing with a bunch of newborn utopian terrorists...Yeah! Now I knew that I was in the evil hands of spiteful obfuscators, ancient obscurantists ... ManichФists!

ManichФist arseholes!

They knew so well that science teaches the uniqueness of existence. Opens up the presence of invisible realities... And religion requires one to believe that the other reality is in charge of the uniqueness of existence... They sensed the possibility of climbing aboard a fast-moving van, claim the position of the "producer" of the show...

What kind of show...? Body-piercing shop... To prick your private parts and imagine yourself spiritually advanced...

Yea! Yea!

I'm your damned foreman

But you haven't much to do.

And you wouldn't be missed.

You can get cold feet

But not by any sign will show it

A little bit of sabotage?

Not with that foreman bastard

Breathing down your neck.

I watch you like a hawk!

Are your hands clean?

So you will dirty them!

You're confused and unreliable?

I'm not surprised.

You're getting nowhere.

You're inside of me!

I had fire in my belly

In those days...

Well, well. Nothing I could do. So be it... We'll fly the plane... The plane of fortune. Moreover, all the possibilities of my fortune have already been exploited, lived through by the photon-chronoton. Maybe, taking the route of a "Kamikaze", I will spotlight with my Gestalt-vision, photonograph something noteworthy. People have told me that I'm mortal. The only way to prove this is to die... Whatever the case may be, Theologian should feel sorry for billionaires as well.

I knew one. He was a great boxing lover. He always said: "I lived a long amazing life, accomplished many remarkable things. And life goes on, and on, and on... and never ends. What a bitch..."

Please, children, never play with fire, even if you think that your hands are safely hidden under the school desk... Matches aren't toys! Though in that dark room with Theologian, I greatly regretted not having a matchbox in my pocket. Had I struck a light in the darkness, the face would have appeared! I would have seen what kind of mug had that suicidal Moby Dick.

I could not. Now, unfortunately, for exercise in my empty pocket, I had only my own dick...

THE TECHNICAL PART

The plan was simple... Simple as a horror itself. In the chosen target country, we were supposed to hijack a few passenger planes once they were in the air. All simultaneously. For every plane there was a different course of action. Special setup.

An individual approach so to speak... One of the aircraft was supposed to be seized by attackers armed with guns. The weapons were expected to be allowed through the airport by bribed customs officers on the control gate. Bought by the Cosmologists, of course... It didn't matter if an alarm-bell went off, or a danger signal, or even thunder. For good money, any office worker could go deaf for a minute or two.

The large number of attackers was planned to be a factor in a capture of the second plane. Tickets were bought by the Cosmologists for some twenty-odd people from all over. Those twenty had to carry with them specially-produced, innocent looking but effective weapons. Umbrellas with specially forged spikes. Decorative spectacle frames with removable blades. The blades were easy to set onto improvised handles, made out of medical and cosmetic bottles.

The sudden appearance of a large number of people in the same place, at the same time, all doing the same thing, that was a factor already well known... Checked out before... Remember those acts of conceptual gathering? Done by so-called Flash mobs! A group of people would be summoned via a special Website on the Internet. They were called together to a certain place to perform some kind of silly act. Like loud, unstoppable clapping for a minute or so, in a public place... Or lying on the pavement in the shape of an embryo... Or an unexpected pillow fight in the central square of the financial capital... What was surprising, was that there were so many keen participants!

Those who wouldn't think twice what the real reason was for being brought together. They didn't know that those were training sessions. For them it was a kind of funny harmless mass entertainment.

Yo-Yo! Sure it was! Harmless? Just imagine, if one such a group of jokers appears carrying jars of some harmless stuff to "fill up" a city reservoir that was drying up... Then another group of jokers appears with jars of other harmless stuff, to "help" with the water shortage... Then symbolically they all empty their jars into the water filter simultaneously... Not difficult to guess what happens as a result of combining two "harmless" chemicals...

A chemical compound! With no one to blame...Yea! Yea! Conceptual art!

The speciality of my own group of hijackers was hand-fighting.

They were all the same kind as me! Those who could easily manage without any weapons but their hands. The Elite! That was guaranteed to get them onto the plane without a hitch.

All the groups were supposed to arrive in the country a day ahead of the action. Those that needed weapons had to fetch them from so-called airport "baggage lockers". On board the aircraft we had to join forces with some of the Cosmologist-pilots who had been specially trained and licensed in the country of attack.

Our combined forces had to overthrow, neutralise the original unsuspecting pilots. Only one person in every group knew the point of destination. In my case, even though I was called General and was acquainted with the plan of action, they didn't really consider me trustworthy, so the carrier of the target details was not me...

On board, our group of six was placed in business class, from which there was easy access to the cockpit. We had to wait for our chance to penetrate up front. If no chance arose, I would have to break the door with my bare hands...

First we would neutralise the air-attendants and after the "Open Sesame" our group of five would "replace" the crew. In my turn, I was assigned to go to the back of the plane. To the economy class and keep an eye on the crowd... My job was to watch and disarm any agents that might be present. To secure our mission against home-bred heroes. To render harmless any foolish and panicky passengers, who might suspect that they were flying to not where they left for. Not to the intended point of destination...

I was not supposed to come forward to the front of the plane until the operation was over... Piece of cake! Smooth sailing! Smooth and airy! Like wind through digestive organs...

The most ridiculous thing about the whole affair was that it was impossible to blow the whistle, inform on them. Who would believe that some group of Kung-fu masters would fly into a foreign country to hijack airliners? No evidence. No case. Just gossip... The police would have laughed into my face, and considered they were dealing with a psycho. Really, the best proof that I could have provided was to tear a rugby ball to pieces, but that would have been an even shorter route to the loony-bin! In any case it wouldn't have stopped the Cosmologists. They would have postponed the mission for a short while. In that while would have exterminated, eradicated, executed me. My parents too would not escape the consequences. They had given me the photograph of my family for a good reason... My refusal would have incited the ever-present bamboo fly-swatter. The Cosmologists let me into their secret. Shared the benefit of their photon with me. Initiated me into their past. I will not get out of that spotlight so easily...

Run...? Escape...? Where to? There are different kinds of "escape". One of the escape routes is to follow the Cosmologists...They consider what they are doing is a good deed. They think that they relieve this world of an evil force. They wish the world good... Only their measure of good... Ho-ho-ho... is dubious, questionable... We create our own circumstances.

As they say: One day at a time... As they say: We live timelessly, alas, always in ONE day.

So, let's try to charge it with joy... come what may. Why should this ONE last day not be turned by me into a perfect day. Into the celebration of light. It's all in my hands... At the same time, I'll see how positive emotions can create such a celebration...

BANZAI!

Time of departure. Control gate! Hand luggage... nothing suspicious... Keys... from my pocket into the plastic tray, through the X-ray... No more need for them... Well, better to take them back, not to arouse suspicion. People don't usually throw away their car keys or house keys...

The gate didn't beep... Don't worry, I don't carry a knife.

Don't worry, I don't carry a gun. Your plane is "arms" free...!

You're safe...

BOARDING

Business class. Ten people, including our six... The Six: Myself, four young Cosmologists, one of them a pilot who had joined our transit group in the airport, and finally the sixth, an elderly Kamikaze...

The front of the plane was attended by two stewardesses...

All the flight attendants were women... Yo-Yo! Go through the performance! The comical show of how to "survive" a plane crash... what clownesses-stewardesses...

TAKE OFF

Unbuckled at last... One of the flight attendants went to fetch coffee for the captain... Three Cosmologists followed her...broke through the open cabin door... The forth - closest to the second attendant took her by the throat... She couldn't let out a squeak... The pilot-replacement sat quietly in a corner... waited for his moment... The rest, myself and the elderly Kamikaze, blocked the passage between business and economy class... He ordered me sternly to my post... the back of the plane... to control the crowd of passengers in economy class... The door to the pilot's cabin was now open... The Five would know what to do without my assistance...

Well, the Kamikaze's command showed that he knew what he was doing... He was the one in charge! The director of the flight.

He was the one in the group who knew the "point of destination"...

Through the whole length of the airplane I walked towards the tail. Nobody suspected anything. In economy class the flight attendants were busy with their routine jobs. From business class not a single sound was heard. What professional hands!

Even as I was walking down the aisle, I recoiled. Reversed my direction. Bifurcation. Epiphany. Against all instructions, I turned back in the aisle and headed back towards the front of the plane... Why???

You see, among the passengers I saw two nuns. The older one looked like Mother Teresa. The other nun... Yeah... was Smarty Pants... Smarty Pants from my recent... distant youth.

I recognised her immediately, but it seemed she hadn't spotted me. My course was changed. I decided to return to the "forbidden" quarters. Business class, from which I was constrained by my orders.

Yea! Yea!

Brakes squealed

As the car drew to a halt

You craned your neck

To look through the forward windows.

You had been in hell

Many times before,

But not as an illegal entrant.

Over the border and back -

Short and sharp.

Short and sharp -

Without them even knowing you've been there

You stopped

Where there was no one in sight.

What now?

Get the hell out of here!

Short and sharp.

Short and sharp!

The Cosmologists had carelessly forgotten to lock the cockpit cabin door. Like a tornado, I whirled, twirled, twisted myself, past business class, past them into the cabin. As I charged in, I spotlighted, photonographed the situation. The original pilots, two flight attendants and the passenger-witnesses were piled up along the left side of the plane. Perhaps that was the Cosmologists' way to help them find the road to the present.

The pilot's cabin was empty! Airplane on autopilot. The conspirators were indulging in some kind of gathering or ritual performance among themselves. Surprised. Flabbergasted. Taken aback on seeing me. They had no time to blink their eyes.

The pilot replacement was with them. No good! I needed him myself. The conspirators didn't remained bewildered for long.

The next moment, we all stood face to face. We knew what to do! Their pilot was shielded behind the quadrupled Cosmologist body.

Yo-Yo! They didn't move. They halted. Froze. Had they really watched me before? Learned my methods...? How far had they progressed? Let's see. I've been in the business twenty-odd years. Deserved my business class ticket. What about you, dudes? Let's evaluate your skills! Measure our experiences, side by side...

The lesson number TWO: Never attack stationary...

They knew that by moving they would provoke evil from out of my hands. So, they moved not. They passed the first test...

Well, what about the state of your reflexes? Could they really stay calm? Whatever they face... Could they withstand, cope with the STATIONARY move?

Did you ever see the documentary about the mongoose, which stands and stands and stands motionless, then suddenly springs upon the cobra? Yo-Yo! Lying next to me was a magazine. With the speed of light I flung it into the face of one of the Cosmologists. His reflexes betrayed him. Instinctively his hands were raised to cover his face. Counter-action! In an instant, both of his elbows were smashed... He fell senseless. Onto the floor.

And the name of the magazine? "Scientific American"!!! Ho-ho-ho!

The rest of the group got the point! They in their turn, wished to test my reflexes... Stay still as long as they could. They would have given the world for any weapon from a terrorist's arsenal.

If not yet the unobtainable atomic bomb... at least a simple one with TNT... a mere hand grenade... an elementary cannon... basic machinegun... rifle... pistol... would have fitted the bill...

Anything!!! To correct the situation! Even a jar with some toxic gas or deadly bacteria... Any fast-acting remedy for my presence, standing looking at them like that. To see me lifeless, defunct, paralysed, suffocated, dead and gone... Please, no more of me!

They looked offended, affronted, slighted, dismayed, let down ... Why is the most lethal weapon in the world always in the hands of those that represent injustice...? For a jug of acid they are ready to sell their souls. For a poisonous spider - the whole world! Nothing. Nothing left to grasp on. All is in the past.

Though there is a spider. Me. Me - Yo-Yo man! Million-eyed, million-handed, million-faced spider! The soft round one, which is so "heavy" to grasp.

So, can you tackle this monster with your bare hands? Can you bring down the comrade that you yourselves identified, developed? Eh, you, chronotons of the past! You fly towards the future, yet don't equip yourselves with a briefcase packed with all the necessary components, tools, dimensions. You are so flat and planey, one-dimensional without it!

And in the current R.TIGHTRAVINE all one-dimensional monomials have only ONE end!

Into my face they threw:

-- The first one - a plastic cup.

-- The second one - a paper napkin.

-- The third one (the elderly Kamikaze) - a lollipop.

Yo-Yo! At last, they understood! If before boarding the plane, I was a dummy in their hands, now they were completely in my hands. They understood! Then rushed to kill their Cosmologist-pilot. To eliminate the one remaining person that could fly and land the aircraft.

For me, as well, it was not the time to play by the rules.

Moreover, there are no rules without exceptions... Forward, march! For the first time in my life, I had to crush those round, kind skulls...

Hey you, Cosmologists, the difference between you and me, is my ability to improvise! I'm willing to ad lib, make things up as I go along... Who knows...? Worth a try... Just three rugby balls to smash.

The exception only confirmed the rule! The heads of three-headed hydra crumbled in my hands like empty candy wraps!

But, alas! Someone had just enough time to break the neck of the replacement-pilot. I'm sure it wasn't the elderly Kamikaze. While he still could, he was shouting some sort of orders to the group...

That voice I recognised unmistakably... from the beginning... already when he ordered me to go to the back of the plane.

Yo-Yo! The Cosmologist-Theologian himself was the "leading actor" of our troupe! He must have thought that our flight was the most reliable...

I bent over his body and said into his dead ear:

"I beg your pardon, if my arguments in our philosophical discussion have dealt such a powerful blow to you. When you come off the past round to the present, remember one thing...

You yourself never can experience the joy of being, if you snatch that joy from somebody else... Life is a conspiracy in which only one person is involved... YOU... Others are just the other part of you... That is I, who AM telling you that - double Champion in the Olympics...!"

Behind me I heard some hiccupping sound. It came from the "elbowless" one, who had begun to regain consciousness.

"Bear with me, buddy! Set your mind at rest while our plane is on autopilot... like a photon, that flies, and flies and never arrives...

You see, one can produce a fake leader not only from a cunning priest but also from a cunning scientist...You Cosmologists, so often you play priests, play God... Now that I have become an instant believer, in my turn I will play Cosmologist...

"Every person deserves, has a right to die, but in your case, you see, you have yet to deserve it... So, before it's too late, change your colour, light up! If you wish to repent, I'm here for you... Will hear your confession... If you ask me why I know so precisely where the world's truth lies, and where the line of righteousness is drawn... I'll tell you...

"I know, because just now I came across a person... the only person in the world that I can trust... Came across and followed the example, the lead, the sign... By seeing myself through the lens of righteous eyes, I reopened my righteous side... I strongly recommend you follow my example in this one... Just look, you are in my hands now... I'm cool...You, on the other hand... are almost without hands... Judge for yourself...your head is still intact... so compose your wits."

Having finished the mission of the organised mass-suicide of whales, I called quietly to a flight attendant from economy class.

I escorted her to the headquarters, as a precaution closing her mouth with my hand.

When she saw the whole horror, she bit my palm. That was okay! Just her reflex reaction! She didn't faint though, brave girl!

"Explain to the rest of your crew," I told her, "that we need to contact the flight control authorities on the ground, and to land the aircraft with their help. I know that it's impossible. But you have to... you have to try... Try your best not to show any stress in front of the passengers. There are not too many passengers... but if you need my assistance just tell me... One more thing...

Can you ask the elderly nun in economy class to come here ... the nun that looks like Mother Teresa... Tell her that one of the passengers up front doesn't feel too well, and needs her holy blessing... Tell her quietly... to her ear!"

When the elderly nun arrived, the flight attendants were already yelling loudly into the radio. Briefly I described to the nun what had just happened. I asked her to read to the wounded Cosmologist some chapters from the New Testament. The Gospel of St. Matthew. Particularly to put emphasis on the Sermon on the Mount! Physically the man is wrecked, probably finished. However, moral guidance is vital for him now...

He is familiar with the construction of the world. It's time for him to learn how to conduct himself in it...

So, my dear imaginary listeners, that's it! If the "photon" arrives, I'll repeat my story with the greatest of pleasure. Increasing the number of interesting details, for sure. As you can see, now is not the time... And if the "photon" does not arrive, then the story will be suspended in the air. Either way, I have one more thing to do...To go back into economy class, the main issue. To live through an ideal day of my life. I allow you to follow me with your spotlight. No matter from which angle of the universe you photonograph me. I'm not tight-fisted. Won't hold everything to myself. I will share the experience... Only, just like any human, I'd had a relentless, compulsive, unstoppable desire to entertain others...

A piece of advice from this former clown: Inside every day there lies a chain of miracles. That is the constant! It is constant, like the speed of a photon-chronoton in a vacuum.

By performing our "tricks" in a righteous manner, we are returned a miracle that exceeds our expectations...

By performing them in a sinful style, that very chain crashes upon us, bringing us down, demolishing our expectations...

Remember! Never be ashamed of taking advice from a person who has no scientific qualification. A man who presses a gun against your temple, doesn't need a special qualification for that.

And for sure you haven't seen many scholars jumping into a fire to save a baby from a burning building. On the other hand, plenty are keen to plunge into the sacred flames of science. They are worse than Buddhists... those well-recognised fighters for non-existence.

THE ONE AND ONLY DAY

I approach her. Smarty Pants. And take the seat next to her, Mother Teresa's seat.

"Hello!"

As if it was just yesterday we said goodbye. I have a comfortable feeling. Shared silence! The silence that was forged through many years of sitting together at the school desk. It still remains such easy way to understand one another.

The seats on board are situated in twos on each side of the plane and threes in the middle row. I notice that the seats tremble slightly. Perhaps the airplane encounters some minor turbulence in the air. The air just beyond the thin skin of the machine. I cannot take my eyes off those trembling chairs.

My seat has a folding table in the left armrest. There are not many passengers. I push myself into my seat and shift its position level with Smarty Pants. By doing that I partially lose sight of her face, and begin to feel more lonely than ever!

Smarty Pants wears thick dark woollen stockings. Her knees are covered with the uniform cloth of her nun's habit. Memories begin to flow. I remember the school uniform. The one that left her knees exposed. Those knees dressed in those synthetic tights before the blast. The thought comes into my mind:

`It must be so hard to go down on burnt knees and pray...

Like me, she too had a family... Why had...? Most probably our families even now are running, buzzing, laughing, preparing some delicacy in the kitchen, tidying something up... Father sits in his armchair listening to the radio... Both our fathers... I too can listen...'

I take the earphones that still retain the warmth of Mother Teresa, and put them to my ears... Morning Vatican Missa!

A sudden realisation, a horrible doubt, slams into my brain.

"What if Cosmologist-Theologian didn't have any mass suicide in his plans...? What if he only wanted to land the plane elsewhere? And me... What have I done...? Me, the Champion, out of this simple plane I have created a miniature of the world. A model of earthly existence. Simulacra... Up front - a pile of dead bodies. At the back - a bunch of innocent dreamers flying to nowhere... Once again goodness overflowing, brimming over!

Perhaps his intention was to land the plane in some secret country... On the border between Paraguay and Bolivia, for example... We'll never know... And why are there so a few passengers? Out of season...? In a couple of days (?)... there'll be no empty seats... no seats left... The Cosmologists chose their timing well..."

I continue to watch the trembling seat. Then take my eyes away and look around... Diagonally across from us, on the floor of the aisle, next to the seat of the middle row, I spot two beautiful china vases. Perhaps the owner was afraid for their safety. Didn't want them in the luggage hold, and managed to persuade the flight attendants not to put them into a locker, wanting to keep an eye on them. The vase surfaces are covered in intricate feint patterns. Very skilfully executed work!

They give me hope! Since the owner has taken such scrupulous, conscientious, good care of them, the vases must reach their destination... A handbag on the seat above them is made of bull's skin... The owners must be Americans... softies wrapped in thick skins. Yea! There they are, sitting in the right row just opposite their precious possessions.

Through the glass of the window the air looks thin and cold.

Down below the clouds are bathed in the light of the rising sun.

On the edge of milky flow, tender stems tremble and glow...

Unknown before - Bright horizon...

No, Theologian! Don't you get it? Instead of the chain of the black-and-white beads, we are capable of, even proficient at seeing multitudes of colours...and the bridge... our bridge to the other side is a rainbow! There are some cavities, gaps in your monolith!!! They don't allow the monolith to collapse, disappear into non-existence... Because the secret lies not in what or how it is done. The secret lies in how results are shared. The gaps in the rainbow are as expressive and significant as its colours. The gaps are links. Blanks. Spaces. Indication of a connection. Token of a covenant. From those gaps a new day rises. A day that brings a new beginning. A beginning not to promote Darwin's doctrine of survival of the fittest, not to push forward the evolution of dinosaurs, but rather to see those dinosaurs extinct.

Try to replace the word fittest with the word victorious. Put it in a new light. This is how it's going to sound:

In the world of evil, we see the survival of the victorious.

In the world of good, we see the survival of the VANQUISHED.

It's our choice to be either humans or dinosaurs.

Man can call himself the pinnacle of evolution only when he renounces fighting. He wins a battle only when he pre-decides not to reap the fruits of victory. When he gains a victory and gives it to the defeated...

Suppose Theologian is even partly right... and the universe can contain in itself all possible scenarios. Then every single situation has a great number of facets.

The first scenario: I defeated the enemy but could not save the pilot... Looks like a defeat?

The second scenario: I defeated the enemy and saved the pilot, who under my supervision lands the plane... Looks like a victory?

The third scenario: I defeated the enemy and saved the pilot...

Inside myself, a very unhappy man on the plane.

The fourth scenario: I defeated the enemy, couldn't save the plane... Inside of the condemned plane, I myself am happy!

And so on, and so forth... Now, if we had been in a position to choose... What would we have chosen? You'll say: defeat the enemy, save the pilot, land the plane and feel happy! Yo-Yo! You really think that's possible? Surely not! All-round happiness is ungraspable. The white-and-white beads of the necklace are impossible to differentiate. Just think! We are such lucky bastards just to be able to breathe... still we don't applaud our every breath...

To grasp happiness we need to overcome ourselves! That is a heroic act! We feel right when we can see our own righteousness. It's a most difficult thing to let go, to surrender, to fall on your knees... but only then does it mean victory, only then do you gain. In all other cases, happiness is a normal delusional state and unhappiness is idiocy.

There are many facets to every situation. But it is of no consequence to me as I have made my choice. I chose the fourth scenario... I chose...? Ha! Ha! Ha! A happy passenger of the condemned, illusory world of the plane... The person who laughs first.

Light pierces and pierces the darkness of the plane... Tints the space inside with colours of spotty paint. Semi-transparent. Intricate work! The seat covers are wrapped in semi-abstract drawings. Remind me of scattered autumn leaves on a bamboo mat.

Two middle-aged American couples leave their seats. Chattering enthusiastically to each other in the aisle. One of them produces a digital camera and takes couple of pictures of his companions.

Morning steps in confidently. I narrow my eyes and look straight into the rising sun. The glowing intensity dazzles my vision. In the darkness of my eyes, closed immediately in response, the trace of the blazing star is imprinted. Slowly I regain my vision.

Again, in front of me I see the trembling edge of the seat.

Against the background noise of the mighty turbines, my ear captures a multitude of multilingual conversations...

Opposite me, on the left side of the plane, my eyes focus on a family with two children. The children scream, shout, run up and down the aisle... Nobody spoils their fun... All arms of the law, grown up aunties-attendants attend the front ... trying to land the plane...

Strange, despite the people's buzz why the airplane seems so empty, blank...? The blankness signifies an invisible presence.

Soon the children must exhaust themselves. Catch a morning nap...

I'm wrong... they carry on tap-tapping in the walk-way...

The loud conversations of foreigners make me feel so alone...

In front of me, it's not the seat that trembles... trembles my loneliness... The loneliness of being together:

"2 x 2 = - 1"

From my pocket I draw out a picture of Mother and show it to Smarty Pants.

"Your mother doesn't look like you"

"Bad photographer... Despite his claims that he knew all about light photons..."

Smarty Pants bends and extracts from under her seat a small leatherette handbag. The edges are worn and look desperately bare.

"You know, today is the day of a very rare astronomical phenomenon. I hope we can see it from here. It's about to start. Venus crossing the face of the Sun."

From the bag Smarty Pants digs out two pairs of cardboard spectacles. Instead of glass lenses, I see pieces of foil.

The second pair was probably intended for Mother Teresa...

All prepared beforehand... That's exactly why she's Smarty Pants...

We observed the small dot of Venus as she first appeared just on the edge of the blazing Sun, then slowly began to move across of the burning ocean of fire... A lonely rower, trying to cross that vast, infinite space...

Yea! Yea!

It's no good.

It's becoming just that bit too much.

And a big concern to me!

How the hell can we keep control,

If you're pissed half the time?

Even when you're not drunk,

You're hung over.

This is the end.

You're out.

Even in his dreams,

He was aware of tears on his cheeks.

"I ought to be able to cross the river of life"

He said.

"That might be enough

That must be fucking enough!"

It so very hard to go down on burnt knees... And at the same time hold your hands suspended in the air. A position inaccessible to evil! Like my surgeon father, guarding the sterility of his hands before an operation... Like a soldier kneeling in defeat, who has lost his innocence with the lost battle...

Despite the awkwardness of this angelic posture, I would like everyone to accept it. Because that is the only acceptable posture... the position of a lonely navigator finding his way through the vast boundless ocean.

And maybe... oh, Yo-Yo, may it be...the ocean is not boundless...? Because the other end of the rainbow has to be somewhere.

Well! The seventh day is a day of rest.

Hands raised, Yo-Yo man!

This is the end!

The End

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Аннотация: SYNOPSIS Stitcher is a fictional novel of approximately 120 000 words, with South African historical background. The book is not easily classified, perhaps simply unusual literature. Stitcher consists of three independent but related parts. The first two parts are intertwined into a work called Straight Line of Flycatcher, and the third part is called Terroristrap. Flycatcher is the contemporary narrative of a freak (nicknamed Stitcher) born with a physical deformity, essentially consisting of Siamese twins with two separate heads and upper part of the body, but joined at the waist into a single abdomen and pair of legs. The first twin (Shiva) is the author of a historical novel, set at the time of the Anglo-Boer war, and written in conventional style. The second twin (Vanessa) is writing a diary, which reflects her everyday environment in an extravagant stream-of-consciousness style, in which names, phrases and verses are expressed in the peculiar fashion of a person of mixed Anglo-Afrikaner origin. Flycatcher thus presents the writings of the two twins alternating in the chapters, distinctly interacting as they unfold. Surrounding these writings are the notes (in Red Ink) of a psychiatrist, Doctor Rotkod, who is in the process of treating the freak creature as his patient (whom he calls Rat King), wanting to confirm the choice he has made in the treatment. From Doctor Rotkod"s perspective, in his hands lies the fate of the most unusual individual he has ever come across. The interaction of the three sets of writing reflects the long psychological war between doctor and patient. The third part of the book, Terroristrap, is a psychological thriller, the short autobiography of Doctor Rotkod"s son. It is structured as the monologue of a hijacker, who shares the memories of his life and his views with an imaginary listener on board an airliner hijacked a-la-September-11. The protagonist is a mathematician, a philosopher, a rapper, a fist-fighter and finally, terrorist. He is trying to comprehend the structural principles of the World from the standpoint of his complex, multifaceted personality. It was the erroneous decision of his father, Doctor Rotkod, in treating the patient Stitcher, which produced in the protagonist his leanings towards terrorism. This story may be viewed as the psychological vengeance upon the doctor treating Stitcher, who until the last moments of his notebook does not grasp the essence of this Stitcher-universe. But what is the Stitcher-universe? "Imagine yourself to be an individual with your own physical reality together with a transcendental life of dreams and illusions, to whom is stitched another individual with his own physical reality. This is an imposition. But because of the physical attachment, imposed upon you is the transcendental life of the second individual. That is an accidental obligation. An accident which, by the way, is mirrored in the other person. This is the World: Imposition plus Accident - the accidental obligation to witness the dreams of others." The idea of the book is to reflect the history, philosophy, physical and metaphysical aspects of this world as a possible result of the interference of one subjective being with itself. The supernatural dimensions of the book are implicit, rather than explicitly expressed.

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Stitcher