Misrememberie

This week's sentence was taken from E.M. Forster's 'A Room With A View'.

It was:
'It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown.'

Misrememberie

It was a small room and very dark after the dazzling sunshine. The intense blues and greens of the square outside were replaced by smoky browns, massive dark-wood dressers leaving only squeeze-room around the big family table, spread with a dull orange plastic tablecloth. I saw why Ana's parents had chosen to greet me outside; there was no room in here for their ubiquitous and effusive Lusitanian hugs and kisses.
We sat. Rosalinda, painfully Portuguese; small, fat, black-shawled, grey-haired and very likely the image of her tall, slim, beautiful daughter twenty years hence. José, his English worse than my Portuguese, dashed into the kitchen, returning with a small parcel wrapped in newspaper.
Ana conspiratorial: 'Don't act grossed-out! It's pig's ear in jelly. Pãe makes it himself.'
The old man leaned forward, urging me with gestures to open the package and devour its contents. I decided to play along; the foolish foreigner falling for José’s favourite joke. After all, I like pork; what could be so bad?
With a display of reverence, I unwrapped the parcel. There on a bed of sodden grey newsprint, glistening in a coating of gelatinous ooze that looked suspiciously like semen but which I hoped was merely pork jelly, nestled what was unmistakably a whole pig's ear, mercifully sliced into bite-sized pieces. Anticipating José’s laughter I picked up a piece and put it in my mouth.
If it was a joke, he was playing it to the hilt. His expression was one of genuine concern as to the quality of his gross offering.
Not wishing to give offence, I felt compelled to eat the damned thing. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. In texture it was not unlike tough raw squid, if ever a squid harboured such a disgusting quantity of gristle, but I fought back a wave of nausea and chewed doggedly on, nodding and smiling in such a way as to hopefully satisfy my host's expectant expression as to the incomparable deliciousness of this most rare and delicate morsel.
Saved by the old man raising a glass, I eagerly joined him, the lubrication allowing me finally to force down the revolting gobbet.
I grinned widely and nodded my thanks, praying that my demonstration of enthusiasm would not produce a whole barrel of pork gristle from the kitchen.
I need not have worried. The ice broken, great bowls of avocado salad and piri-piri prawns materialised on the table, accompanied by José's home-grown pink olives, marinaded in orange and herbs and a small mountain of the fabulous local bread, chilled vinho verde and (with a cackle from José) a bottle of throat-stripping aguardente.
Lunch over, Rosalinda beamed at her daughter and dragged her into the kitchen. José slammed a carved box down on the table, opening it with great ceremony to reveal his personal, home-made set of dominoes: teak with inset brass dots.
He grinned. I had become part of the family.


This is a deliberate mis-remembering of two separate meals, one in Cascais and one in Sintra.
My first meeting with Ana’s parents (Mãe and Pãe: Rosalinda and José) involved José sacrificing one of his scrawny chickens, which he grilled on a workman’s brazier in the road outside. It was one of the best pieces of chicken I had ever tasted.
Even though I was vegetarian back then the Portuguese had no understanding of the concept (we’re talking late 1980s) and so chicken, pork and fish were on all the vegetarian menus and I didn’t want to abuse their hospitality.
The pig’s ear was part of a feast laid on by João and Carla. They presented us with Feijoada, which is a traditional festival dish including (heaped on a gigantic platter) black beans, bacon, smoked ribs, trotters, tail, various sausages made from the more adventurous parts of the pig, and of course the ears. It was fabulous apart from the ears, which were pretty much as I described them in the story.

I still have Pãe’s infamous dominoes, which he presented me as a gift. I soon figured out the reason he was unbeatable: the handmade teak dominoes are beautifully grained and all slightly irregular in shape and he had simply learned what each one looked like from the back so always picked the pieces he needed to win, the sly old fox.

Thursday Night Fever

This week’s sentence was taken from Wilkie Collins’ ‘The Moonstone.’

It was:
‘The Thursday night passed, and nothing happened.’

Thursday Night Fever

The Thursday night passed, and nothing happened.
God frowned.
'That's odd,' He mused, 'Thursdays haven't done that before.'
If all was right with His Creation lots of things ought to have happened on Thursday night. But they hadn’t.
He checked the BOOK.
‘Hmm.’
It looked like the moon had failed to rise, stars remained untwinkled, none of the albeit nocturnally themed and somewhat furtive activities that He had ordained had come to pass.
He had a thoughtful little rummage in His beard.
'I bet it's them buggers downstairs.'
God began to fume. Fuming is never a good sign in a deity, especially one signing Himself ‘THE’ rather than ‘A’ deity.
He banged on the floor until a small, somewhat irritable red face appeared above the skirting.
'Wot.' it squeaked.
God glared.
'Where's Lucifer?’
'Indisposed.' replied the imp.
God took a deep breath.
'You forget I am omniscient. I know full well he's sitting on Jane Austen and watching Project Runway. Tell him to get his pointy red arse up here, pronto!'
The imp disappeared. After some rumbling and a relieved squeak from Miss Austen the face of Beelzebub poked through the wainscotting.
'If it's about that Tea Party nonsense I'm sorry. I can never resist temptation. I'm the smegging Devil, you know.'
'It's about Thursday.' boomed God, adding a touch of reverb for good measure.
There was a pause.
'Ah.'
'Lucifer, I've seen that look before.'
‘Well it’s your fault for keeping me so bloody busy. I just wanted a night off, that’s all. Celebrity Enema was on telly and it was the semi-final. You never let anyone in up here so I have to run around all night collecting the souls of the damned and I’m frankly sick of it.’
God looked thoughtful.
‘Celebrity Enema, eh? I missed that one. What happened?’
‘Sheesh! You shoulda seen it! Jennifer Lopez versus Dick Cheney? It was awesome! Arse-gravy apocalypse!’
‘And I suppose it’s the final this Thursday?’
‘Damn right it is. And if you think I’m going to miss that you are sorely mistaken.’
God raised an eyebrow.
‘I suppose one more missing Thursday night can’t do any harm. How about you come up here and we watch it together? Bring some decent beer this time, and leave that awful Austen woman downstairs.’
‘I dunno, God. It's too bloody quiet up here for my liking. I mean there's only you and the boy, everyone else is downstairs. And you two bore the arse off one another.'
Jesus rolled his eyes.
'You don't know the half of it. I've had to turn the other cheek so often He's had me spinning like a top.’
‘Look,’ interposed Satan. ‘How about you send the lad downstairs for a bit? I mean you both need a break and there’s loads to do down there. Then me and you can sit up here and watch the telly and have a bit of a chinwag and a beer. Just like the old days. Eh?’
And lo, the following Thursday night passed, and nothing happened.

With Apologies To Anton Chekhov, Master Of The Open Ended Short Story

This week’s sentence was taken from Boris Pasternak's 'Doctor Zhivago.'

It was:
'The hotel staff were being driven frantic; the incident in No.23 was only one more nuisance added to their daily vexations.'

With Apologies To Anton Chekhov, Master Of The Open Ended Short Story

The phone had rung for ages. The hotel staff were being driven frantic; the incident in No.23 was only one more nuisance added to their daily vexations. That aside, room service were going to get their arses kicked if his breakfast wasn’t delivered in the next half-hour. In the meantime he slouched to the bathroom. Showered, shaved but still angry he reached for the phone again.
Then he saw the gun. To tell the truth he had seen it several times already but it was only now that it registered. Once the initial shock had passed he sat and looked at it.
He was reminded of Chekhov: 'If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there.'
He wondered who was writing his story and hoped they did not know their Chekhov. A writer should remove anything inessential from the story and now here was a gun placed nonchalantly on his nightstand, bringing with it an implicit threat from a dead Russian playwright. He decided not to be around for the next act.

Maggie was in the lobby.
‘What the hell is wrong with room service this morning?’ She said.
He shrugged.
Yanking her shapeless hat down over her head she checked herself in one of the big old mirrors and made a face like a lungfish.
‘Ah, screw it. I’m going out for a smoke. Coming?’
‘Sure.’
They sucked in traffic fumes and nicotine washed down with what might have been coffee from the stand on the corner. Maggie coughed up a lung.
‘Jeez, that’s better.’
‘There’s a gun in my room.’ He said.
‘What the fuck? Yours, I hope.’
‘I don’t own a gun.’
‘So what are you doing with one in your room?’
‘I woke up this morning and there it was. Actually, I didn’t notice it until I came out of the bathroom but it must have been there all along.’
‘D’you have company last night?’
He shook his head.
‘So what’ve you done with it?’
‘Nothing; it’s still lying there. I just got the hell out in case its owner came back.’
Maggie ground out her butt and tossed her cup in the trashcan. ‘Let’s go take a look.’

The gun was gone, which scared him more than if it had still been there. At least with it on his nightstand he knew where it was; now there was a gun in his story and he had no idea where it might turn up next. Consequently, nowhere was safe.

Maggie found the manager outside No.23.
‘There was a gun in No.42 but now it’s gone.’ She said.
He didn’t reply, just stared fixedly through the open door into the room. Maggie followed his gaze.
‘Holy shit! What the hell happened in there?’
‘You honestly don’t want to know.’
She looked up at him.
‘You know what would really make Anton Chekhov spin in his grave?’
‘No, what’s that?’


Note to self:
If you cannot think of an ending to your story, simply leave it hanging and call it Chekhovian. After all, a great many of his 800 or so short stories simply sketched out a situation, played it along for a bit and then left the denouément to the reader.

As the man himself said, when Suvorin accused him of doing just that: 'You confuse two concepts: the solution of a problem and its correct presentation. Only the second is incumbent on the artist.'

Which gives me a good excuse not to bother thinking up an ending.
Plus of course, I liked the idea of making Anton spin in his grave by introducing the gun and then NOT having it fired. And of not explaining the incident in No.23.
Or it could just be that this long, cold winter has given me cabin fever and I'm writing and talking gibberish.
Hey ho.

February

This week's sentence was taken from Ken Kesey's glorious 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.'

It was:
'Out along the dim six-o'clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring.'

February

February. Daybreak.
I stepped outside and the chill hit. Bitter. I shook like a wet dog, my body sucking the last feeble warmth from my insides. I hadn’t eaten or slept since I couldn’t remember when.
Out along the dim six-o'clock street, I saw leafless trees standing, striking the sidewalk there like wooden lightning, concrete split apart where they hit, all in a fenced-in ring. Crab grass, rot and detritus strangling the shattered kerb at the impact zone.
I blinked. I saw grey: grey street, grey sidewalk, grey houses, grey sky. One big grey cloud, dark, mottled, livid like a bruise, hanging low, draped, drizzling over buildings like a damp duvet from horizon to horizon.
Dirty snow still hung around in patches like crusted scabs. Old grey snow so hard and sharp it could cut you, hunkered down gritting its teeth, marking the target for the next cold front, due in later today with another two feet of fresh reinforcements.
Down the street I saw Ralph stumble off to look for work through a yard strewn with broken Christmas sculptures, past last summer’s barbecue, tipped over and rusting in the long grass, past the long-dead Chevy Impala up on blocks, paint faded and peeling, off to wait for the bus in the freezing rain.
I saw the street pitted with potholes, littered with filth. Where I used to park my car leaned the crumpled blackened brazier round which me and Ralph had shared our last beer, warming our hands burning all the crap Arlene had left behind when she walked out on me and laughing long and hard and bitter. Shit, that was months ago.
I saw the rain turn to sleet. Stinging cold whipped up from Erie lashing down at my face. My teeth chattered and I hugged myself, wondering what the fuck I was doing out there. Too numb and too dumb to go back inside I carried on staring at the madness around me.
All along the street I saw plywood nailed up over windows. I saw dogshit, broken glass, plastic bags, gang tags, sodden cardboard, wrecked cars and the hopeless despair of the broken American Dream.
I saw drab lives shivering subterranean in dank, dark rooms, the deep and desperate helpless hurt of decent working people betrayed by imbecile greed.
I saw bright colours splash like blood, painful against the grey. Foreclosure boards. KEEP OUT! This house is no longer your home. We would rather it stand empty and rot than let you live in it.
Closing my eyes I saw blue skies, laughing children, Ralph and Norma, Arlene and me drunk as skunks, kicking back on lawn chairs and shooting the breeze, sharing our hopes and dreams long into the night.
And I saw myself standing here, unshaven and unwashed in dressing gown and slippers, no longer comprehending the world I was seeing.
Shell-shocked. What the fuck happened?
I saw the bus carrying Ralph off to look for work.
I stepped in front of it.

The Fan

This week’s sentence was taken from Louisa May Alcott’s ‘Little Women’.

It was:
‘A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash.’

The Fan

Despite their occasional meetings they had never met.
The room was always dark. Twice now he had glimpsed the hands: heavy, scarred, age-spotted, yet always immaculately manicured. Expensive suit. Understated.
And the voice. Surprisingly soft. Mellifluous. In almost three decades that was all he had ever seen or heard of Bartleby himself.
Now they sat, sipping scotch in stygian gloom, idle chatter after Mac's debriefing from the Macao job.

One thing …
There was always a noise. A kind of soft clatter that reminded him somehow of his time in Indochina. It finally registered.
'So what's with the fan?' he ventured.
There was a long pause, Bartleby breathed slow and deep. Mac could almost hear the man smiling.
'It was a gift.' Bartleby spoke at last, snapping it open and handing it to Mac, who strained his eyes to make out the detail. 'Carved bamboo. Meiji period. It was found on him when he died.'
'You know I have to ask.'
'J.Edgar.'
Mac couldn't hide his surprise.
'Okay, I'm impressed. Is that all I get to know?'
'Tolson.' Bartleby enigmatic as ever. Mac screwed up his brain to squeeze out the connection.
'Clyde Tolson? Assistant Director FBI?'
Bartleby took another long breath.
'Their relationship was an open secret within the Bureau. In ‘72 it looked like it was going wide. Tolson panicked; he'd lose everything. He couldn't trust the FBI so he came to me.'
Another pause while Mac reeled at the enormity of what he was hearing.
‘I made it look like auto-erotic asphyxiation, though of course it was hushed up. Hoover’s death was officially attributed to a heart attack. He had high blood pressure. There was no autopsy of course. Tolson saw to that.'
Mac swallowed hard. Bartleby continued, as calm and measured as if he were reminiscing about a family vacation.
'They found him naked but for the items with which I chose to array him. A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. The sash made a nice contrast with the purple of his face.'
‘Holy crap.’ Was all Mac could think to say.
‘Tolson inherited Hoover’s estate. They even buried him next to the old queen.’
‘And you?’
‘And me?’ He sighed. ‘Tolson gave me the fan. And later I got unlimited funding and plausible deniability for the unofficial agency for whom you have killed so many people over the years, Mister Mackinson.’
‘Sir,’ Mac, suddenly scared. ‘Does your telling me this mean that my life is now in danger?’
‘Your life ended back in Cambodia. I gave you a second life, an act of generosity on my part that you should do well to remember.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mac wondered who was standing behind him in the dark. When the shot would come.
But it never did.
‘As for the tale I just related? Of course, I could be lying.’ Bartleby chuckled.
‘No, Mac, your life is in no more danger than usual.
Go now. But please leave the fan.’