Stinking of Grace

Richard Koman
Jul 28, 2017 · 10 min read

And other snippets from Italy, July 2017.


Stinking of Grace

“My time is running out,” the old man said.

“Only you’re not old,” she said. But the truth was in the grayness of his beard and the eyes of blue in her face.

She kissed him again, wetly, passionately, but his eyes turned away and he thought of young, beautiful bodies, divorced from minds and voices, only bodies.

Her caretaking was burdensome, overbearing, reminded him of his mother. And this was the life of running away from his mother — a world travel, living in hot and oppressive climates, facing the calls of the market, the strange and unpredictable games of scams and honest market sales.

He remembered one hundred women, or two hundred, all professing love and stealing money. When he had no money, they stole a watch, or clothes. Always he fell back into their perfumed traps, again and again, was happy to, if only for the moment of sweet female breath, of soft skin and full breasts, if only for a moment once a month, of being in the presence of holy hole of womanhood. He lost himself in the scent, the sensation, the haze of waves of pleasure and a touching of God.

After, the money was gone and the watch. And the sense of God was gone, too, and there was only el Diablo with His shame and poverty. And his mother looming over him, calling him back.

Then he made his way to the church and he sat in the cool marble, staring out the empty space, the repeating arches of alternating black and white.

The whole place stunk of grace. The mathematics of the godhead.

He looked at the statue of the Virgin and the man on the crucifix. Found some respite from whores there.

Outside, there is a reflecting pool and he catches his image in the water. He found he was no longer a manchild but saw the years on him, the grayness of his beard, the determination of his nose and the sadness in his eyes.


Unencumbered by Meaning

The image struck him soundly, and so he told her that time is running out. She knew it, too, although she would not admit it. After all, it had taken her so long to get over the age difference and she had — loved him because of it, found herself revolted by men her own age.

But now the soldiers were coming down the old stone streets, shouting and laughing in a language she did not understand and could never understand. She chose not to understand, so that her existence always had a dreamlike quality.

She was unencumbered by meaning.

The sense of things was too mundane for her to bear, because after living in so many places where she was led to understand, she found only shoe shopping and angles of construction, of the age-old and boring betrayals.


A Writer

There is just the slightest breeze at six o’clock after a blistering hot day. The water is out and no telling when it will return. Siesta is over but it’s not time to work again.

The man pulls a hardback wooden chair to an old wooden desk and pulls towards him a pure white piece of paper. The fountain pen waits patiently in an ink well.

Let us say, it is the end of one era and the beginning of another. Let us say, in the next room children play with iPhones and tv screens blare.

Or, let us say, the goats bleat outside.

What is he writing? He is not a novelist. Let us say, it is a suicide note. What shall he say? It is not enough to say goodbye or make apologies. Is he a good man or a bad man? Do these words have meaning in these times?

A Vespa drives by — a boy with a beautiful girl behind him.

The hills are so still.


The great man rises from his chair and checks the rope. If this is solid, the world will continue. He sits again and closes his eyes. It is necessary to flow back through time and let all the rivers of the past flow around each other, covering the ground.

He does not start at the beginning but simply waits for a single image to appear.


Hot pebbles, cool water

He left the church on Sunday and stood frozen on the concrete step in front of the priest.

There was a girl on her knees, wailing on the blue tile floor outside of the thick brown doors. People streamed around her but she did not move, just cried and waited and wailed and beat her fists into the floor.

He alone stood waiting for her. And the young priest stood behind him. Finally she looked up, and the priest passed them both and shut the great doors behind him. The sound the door made was deep and tonal, like a single note of a cello.

He said nothing but extended his hand and her face streamed with tears — did not stream, the flow had stopped — but she was wet with tears and he did not dry them from her face. Just took her hand. She rose.

They walked hand in hand down the via, past ancient houses and churches even older than that they had left. He pointed out the ancient home of the di Vigo family and started a long lecture on the tyrants of his lineage.

She said nothing but watched his lips move and his feet step. The words were a long stream of water but she could not touch the words. They were like hot pebbles in the cool water. She could not touch them but she could float in the river of his being.

Her mother had shown her how.

How one floats like that. When she was small. One day her mother dressed her in her Sunday dress — just like today but she was only 5 then. Sunday best and they walked as if going to church. She held her mother’s hand and listened to the swish of her ruffled clothing. The delicate and strong fabric accentuated the curve of her round and pregnant belly. Her hair long and black hung down and the curve of her breasts peeked out like memories of infancy just out of reach.

They did not stop at the church but walked down to a stream and across a bridge of logs and rope, into the forest and finally into a clearing.

The madre laid the child on the ground and covered her with leaves and branches and brush. Only her face was uncovered and the mother placed a star on her little forehead.

She spoke not in Spanish or Italian but some far more ancient language the girl had never heard before. An incantation. A blessing. An indoctrination.

Her mother leaned down and kissed the girl’s lips and she could smell all the herbs of her garden and then a strong, musky smell. She wanted to open her eyes but could not. But she could see her mother’s face and could see into her belly, could see her brother in the womb, like a silver fish in a bowl of rich, alive water.

The mother spoke a steady stream of unknowable words, incantations and the girl screamed with pain. Her limbs jerked and flanched but she was covered with forest and did not become naked. The fire consumed her. The word pebbles dropped on her like fire.

Jula

Jula brewed the tea on a white ceramic stove. She watched the steam rise in swirls from her cup, became entranced, saw each plume of steam like a dancer. Then it was just steam and she took the cup and sat down on her solid wooden couch with the blue cushions. She slipped her sandals off and pulled a jeans-covered leg up, wrapping one arm around her knee.

She lifted the cup to her nose and felt the heat, calm now, and took a whiff of the dreamtea. She almost took a sip, then put it down on the distressed side table.

She picked up the phone and called Francesco.

“I’m going to start now. Come in 15.”

She listened to him. Added: “No, no. I am starting now. The timing is perfect. OK. Good idea. See you.”

She went to her door, glass and frosted, and unlocked it. Sat again. Picked up the tea again. Took a deep breath, held it (a long time), then exhaled slowly. She drank.


They all sit in a circle, not quite human.

Almost. But with various ears, noses, hair, fur, whiskers.

She wonders if she is human? Or what aspect of animal she is.

She wonders if all the animal aspects are external, visible. She might look like herself but be a killer inside. She looks at her companions more carefully.

A male has sharp claws, which she did notice at first, but is completely clean shaven.

Another male boasts a long, red beard. She thinks he is a pirate but then he opens his mouth to reveal fangs.

A female has a furry face and sharp, alert ears but she seems kind.

There is an old man with leathery, snakelike skin.

A little girl with spots.

An old woman bearing spikes.

In front of them all is a little animal in a cage. A girl in a cage. An animal. A girl.

It roars. She cries. It whimpers.

Jula looks at it with fear. With longing. With compassion.

Her heart breaks.

She leans down close to the beast. Stares at it through the cage bars.

The cage is short, maybe a foot high and made of rusting metal.

She reaches out for a rusty edge of a bar and scrapes the reddish material away.

A hand grabs Jula’s wrist — hard — it hurts. Jula looks up at the man grabbing.

His claws sink into her flesh. She pulls away. He shakes his head no. She removes her fingers from the flaky rushy metal.

He smiles. His teeth are filed flat and short. Jula finds the smile odd and distressing.

The male pulls his claws out of her and blood pours from her arm — four springs of blood.

But it doesn’t hurt. The blood stops. The male says: “Be careful. It is very valuable.”

“What is it?”

But the man with the claws only shakes his head. She looked at her arm but there were no wounds.

“It is called a trevalismonk,” Red Beard says. “One of a kind, incredibly rare, and it belongs with us.”

He looks at her. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

Jula had no idea, only that she felt this strange connection to the creature. «Where did she come from?» she asked.

«How do you know it’s female?» Red Beard asked. But Jula knew.

«It is time to feed the trevalismonk,» the old woman said.

Jula turned to face her. Spikes protruded from the woman’s face every inch or so and the face started to blow up bigger and bigger.

«Let me feed it,» Jula said.

But the Spikewoman picked up the cage and placed it on a tree stump. She opened the cage and took out the trevalismonk. She held it gently in tentacle arms.

Jula shook with anger. The Spikeface took some food and placed it in Jula’s hand. She held the poor creatures jaw in her spiky hand and moved the jaw up and down. The animal coughed and shook. But the Spike woman held the head tight. Another bit of food and another.

When it was over Jula pulled away. «What the hell was that? The poor thing can’t chew its own food! How long has it been like this?»

«Oh, many years now.»

«That’s terrible. Let’s take it to the sanctuary!»

«No! No! No!» boomed Red Beard. «We cannot do that. They will take it away from us.»

«But it can’t live like this,» Jula cried. «This is inhumane – it’s no way to live, caged. Like a bird with a broken wing …»

They would not hear a word of it. Jula did not sleep a wink.

The moon was bright and the frogs were loud in the pond. Her compatriots slept soundly. The poor creature was locked in the cage and the key was nowhere to be seen.

Jula was left to only feel deeply the little one and she knew that she too was being felt.


Fraso’s breath was soft and warm on her skin. She opened her eyes to see his eyes over her. She gasped with the recognition of her own apartment.

Her heart tugged. She dropped to her knees. She shook her head.

“It’s not time,” she said.

“It is.”

“I have to go back. I have to rescue the little thing.”

He looked at her.

“The trevalismonk?”

Now she looked at him. “How did you know?”

“You should not have found it so soon,” he said.

He looked at her tea. “Oh,” he said.

“I wanted to know the truth,” she said.

The truth comes in small droplets. We grow to meet them one by one.

“This upsets everything,” he said.

“I wanted to bring the wild thing to the hospital, to fix its jaw, if it could be done, so it could live a long life in safety if not.”

“But it has been caged too long. It can’t live wildly. Are you willing to live safely, caged?”

“Who were those … people?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just people who have had their own struggles. They could not survive without additional help.”

“You helped them?”

“I’ll take you back. They have had their help. Close your eyes.”

She did.


Red

Red. Rouge. Rose. Maroon. Royal Red.

Blood red.

The princess can see nothing but the red light, blinding her, filling her eyes, not just her sight but the physical eye.

She feels her way along the smooth stone walls. The mortar crumbling beneath her fingers, she finds the iron bars and feels the cool/warm night air. From the air she knows she is high in a tower.

The full moon is a disk through the redness.

She continues to circumnavigate, to feel the width and length of the room, to find the long bars that go from floor to ceiling. She is in a place she has been a long time. The red light finally dials back and she can once again see her surroundings.

With some relief, she recognizes the stones. She placed them here herself, lovingly built the walls of her fortress.

Richard Koman

Written by

Noise, amounting to nothing.

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