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Welcome to www.loves-unlimted.com. The poems, short stories and radio plays are available.
A number of the short stories are connected. Nine prose and poem works have been produced and broadcast by CBC Radio, the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, other poems, short stories were published in literary journals. The Rights are held by me. Titles and their synopses are available on request. These works are for a discerning reader who enjoys a good story
IF YOU WANT A COPY OF A STORY ALREADY PUBLISHED or BROADCAST request by e-mail.
My name is Karoly Sandor, (Karoly, is a Hungarian equivalent of Charles.)
BIBLIOGRAPHY, TITLES and more information from email@example.com
Love between different species? A life or death love story from behind a very secret Iron Curtain? Or an affair in your dream that might destroy your reality?
But then about a soft, sweet love as it should be.
Thank you for your time. Karoly (Karl) Sandor.
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LYRICS - compositions - Love songs - poetry.
Publications- broadcasts: As of March, 2016.
“Requiem”, broadcast by CBC, (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.) read by the author;
“Hastings Street”, broadcast by CBC, published by Smartish Pace;
“The Alligator broadcast” by CBC, read by the author;
“Spring distances and other delicacies”, broadcast by CBC, read by the author;
“Winter in Ylorak” and “Beetles”, published in Smartish Pace;
“Orphicarian Reconnaissance, Flight No.4”, “Night Reconnaissance, Flight No.3” and “Checkmate”, published in The Review;
“Densities”, published in Bite; “Carmen Immanitates”,”Drying hair from 1030 kilometers”, “In the Canadian Winter”, and “ “On the Road”, published in the anniversary issue of Smartish Pace“;
"North”, broadcast by CBC;
“Deuteronomy”, published by Prism international“;
"Good bye in Alexandrime”, by Prism international;
“Quinte” published in The Verse Map of Vancouver by Anvil Press.
“Cold Cuts”, and “That Pig”, published in “subTerrain”, Issue 69, Anvil Publishing.
Translation of the poem Bartók Bélának – (For Béla Bartók) by the Hungarian poet Gyula Juhász (1883-1937) from Hungarian into English;
Translation of the poems of Janus Pannonius (1434-1472) Abiens valere iubet sanctos reges Waradini – (Bid farewell on the departure from the venerable Royal Várad) and In Anellum - "(against Anellus) translated from Latin into English, published in The Review;
Translations of poems by József Utassy, Imre Péntek, János Parancs, János Oláh, and Simon Serföző, from Hungarian into English published in Smartish Pace;
Translation of the script of the Hungarian movie, - Az Iglói Diákok, - with Deidre Derworiz, at the University of British Columbia, (also dubbed into English).
1. “About the brown paper bags” and “Message to the architect of the revolution”, published by The Canadian Fiction Magazine; 2. “Harvey” and “The Parable on the Parable”, published in Echo;
3. “The Man from Portugal”, published in an anthology by GUERNICA EDITIONS;
Produced by CBC:
4. “Fingers ... fingers”, 5. “Vimas”, 6. “Message to the architect of the revolution”, 7. “Miss Sigurdson - Vertical Lady”, 8. The radio plays, “Inside” and “The signs of life”, were produced and broadcast by CBC, The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.
My play “The argument“, was produced by the Arts Club Theatre in Vancouver, BC . Canada cont...
For my prose and radio works I used the name Karl Sandor.
Presently I am working on a volume of my poems, and writing a novel as a board game.
In Agrippina , the author, professor Anthony A. Barrett gave credit for “The completed version was read by my friend Karl Sandor, who offered a number of insightful suggestions“. (Foreword, XVI)
In Livia, First Lady of Imperial Rome - By Anthony A. Barrett, page XIII, My friend Karl Sandor read through the finished manuscript and made several observations, invariably to the point and invaluable
Biographical note: Karoly Sandor was born in Budapest, Hungary and moved to Canada in 1957.
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"Indoor tears never dry."Or, "Love song under the bus."
1. Eight bars for a pianist in handcuffs.
The love of his family helps Captain Simon Vojko escape the terror of a state organized harvest of organs from those who are opposing the totalitarian government. But when it fell he found that the old hierarchy still ruled over his life unless....
Eight bars for a pianist in handcuffs. Words: 5653
Simon Vojko in No. 33 did not choose this career. He had found his place like one of a handful of spilled marbles in a dint in the dirt.
The main building of the Central Archives of the Ministry of Interior was twenty-three minutes walk from a well-kept six-storey apartment where some of its officials had two-and- three-bedroom suites for their permanent residency. Although all the tenants had their own cars, twelve of the twenty-two were picked up by a car from their own ministry and four had their own driver.
His superior, Marius Rokov, at the head of The Central Archives, an arm of the Ministry of Internal Affairs independent from the civil judiciary, who was the absolute judge of who should live or die, had a law degree, four years spent in research at the Academy, and the rank only of a colonel. Here, everyone had a deceptively low rank. The real power was hidden in the authority they commanded.
A Captain, Vojko looked after the victuals for hundred and eighty career employees, all privates, thirty-two officers, and eight on the medical staff. In charge of maintenance and supplies, he answered only to Colonel Rokov – a short, round man, in his early fifties, full of vitality. An interesting man who had no friends. That, considering Rokov’s position Captain Vojko had to admit when he gave the idea a second thought, was not unusual. Fans hardly ever exchanged pleasantries at soccer games. One could be supporting the wrong team.
On odd-numbered days he inspected the condition of the equipment at the Dentistry, where high- ranking military officers, agents and state-level civil service officials were executed by an injection in the mouth. On even-numbered days, he paid close attention to the walls and the floor-drains in Ophthalmology, where the enemies of the republic were liquidated. Not literally. They sat on a moulded plastic saddle similar to a bicycle seat and were asked to put their forehead onto the padded headpiece that would help to keep them immobile for the eye examination. Almost everything worked automatically, the one-by-one inch panel in the wall slid aside behind the patient, they were asked to exhale deeply, keep the air out, then the machine shot them. There was hardly any blood ever, no excrement, not even vomit. The ammunition designed for this purpose completely destroyed the Pons Varialis and never exited the skull. Captain Vojko made sure that the taps and hoses used to wash the equipment were in good working order, inspected the floors and walls. He made sure that the tiles were sterile and that the dispensing of the bodies was done following the regulations to the letter. Washed, vacuumed, disinfected.
The labs were running exactly how they were supposed to and if they needed any organ or specimen, they received their supplies as ordered in the Service Manual. He thought it fortunate that the operation of the crematorium was not his responsibility.
Learning about Vojko’s second-place finish at the state chess championships, colonel Rokov called on him, invited him to his office and offered him a drink and congratulations. Amalia, his wife, played better than he did, Rokov said, but she did not play in a club or organization. She had won first place in her high-school district as a student and Vojko should encourage her, and reawaken her interest. The word perhaps was mentioned, but it was for civility’s sake. Colonel Rokov asked him if he needed any help in his department, and finding that everything ran smoothly, he looked Vojko in the eyes and said, “I know you keep everything exactly how it should be.”
A few weeks later, seeing the captain and his wife at the Officers’ Club, the colonel invited them over to his table, formally introduced the wives to each other and Simon to Amalia. They had seen each other in the past – she said she saw him often on her way to her husband’s office. There had been no reason to stop and talk. The women found each other interesting and soon were discussing work and family related matters. In passing Amalia mentioned, smiling, how she had met Rokov and said she was fourteen years younger than her husband was.
The colonel pulled his chair closer to Simon’s and began to describe the particulars of a dream he had the previous night. He found himself in a desert, composing a score in the sand for piano for two hands. Seeing the amused expression on the captain’s face, he added that although he learned to read music he did not know how to play. In his dream, he knew the lyrics already, but now he could recall only fragments. He asked Simon whether he knew origin of the quote “Let the foot rest on the face of the worshiper.” Simon did not know but he said it sounded as if it came from a deranged cleric. Rokov, who mentioned that he sang tenor in a choir when he had enough time to go to rehearsals, told Simon that Sibelius had a dream where he played in a forest for the birds, and matched the colours with notes as if they were brilliant glass beads. He said he was sorry he could not play any instrument. “Perhaps I’ll learn after I retire,” he said, smiling. His retirement was not possible to imagine.
Simon had arranged a date with Amalia before they finished their dinner. He would have a table set up in the corner of the reading room; the door could be closed so they would not be bothered by some enthusiastic billiard player in the adjacent room. If there was a great discrepancy in the standard of their play, she could ask for an advantage. Rokov thought that there would be enough time for two games, but one for sure. They were lucky in that both families lived a short distance from the club. They agreed to meet twice a week: Tuesday at three and Thursday at three-thirty in the afternoon. For a while, Simon would allow her to change her mind after touching a figure but not for long; a bad habit should not be encouraged. Simon had to give his word that he would not throw a game and was not allowed to tease her. Well, he could smile. They all laughed. This was already more fun than they had for some time. Leaving the colonel’s table Vojko noticed that Amalia was looking at the opening at the top of his shirt. Her gaze was innocent, but at the same time so direct, that he touched his collar to feel if everything was in order. He found nothing unusual. In the dining room, the guests were allowed to undo the top two buttons on their uniform unless they were members of an official reception.
He had to promise Colonel Rokov that he would not play his best against Amalia. That will depend how well she plays, laughed Simon. The wives got up and went to check the small library specializing in sports and entertainment, located on the third floor. There was no doubt that Rokov knew where Irene worked: still, he asked Simon. And if he had heard of Wang Lun. Simon said he had not. They left it at that. The colonel always had new jokes for entertainment.
In an extremely private moment, Captain Vojko thought that Rokov reminded him of an intense mass of asphalt. No melting point absorbed everything. One would have to be scrubbed to death to be cleaned off it. Vojko stopped his train of thought right before the station that bore the question: who could have sponsored colonel Rokov, whose trust did he enjoy that his decision could override any civilian or military court decision?
Simon Vojko could only hope that nobody would guess that for the last six months he had been trying to reconstruct the man he was before he got in here, where everybody was happy, healthy, and well dressed whether in uniform or in their civilian clothes.
He decided to treat Amalia as if she were the official opposition in a tournament. He smiled, pulled out a chair for her and offered her a small cushion to raise the seat higher. He reached over the board and, offering his hand, introduced himself. Surprised, she stood up and introduced herself too. She just looked at his face, reached into her handbag on the chair next to hers and gave him a small package, saying, “World famous, a facial, incredibly good, please give it to Irene.” He told her he could not accept it. If she thought that she could bribe him to throw a game, she made a big mistake. She turned her lovely face into a replica of a chastised child’s, her eyes seemed vacant; she sank into her chair, and asked him to reconsider. “Irene might end up with some stretch marks after the third child. I know it’s not for the tummy, but it might work there too,” she said. In the meantime, she opened her purse, took out a hardcover, familiar looking document and without looking at it, flipped it open to the third page and gave it to him. Simon Vojko was dealing with an officer of a superior rank of the same ministry. He did not witness the miraculous metamorphosis that took place: when he looked up from the document, he saw that he was rewarded with a blazing smile. “I am going to pull my rank on you, if you don’t, I will order you to take it,” she said, on the verge of laughing.
Walking toward his apartment in the cooling air of the early summer evening, Captain Vojko imagined his wife’s face seeing the jar of Ganymeda-D. Her eyes would open wide eyebrows raised, the left a little higher than the right. “Oh, you! How did you get it?” she would ask, take it from his hand and hide it behind her back. Then she would step close, as close as her seven-month pregnant tummy would allow, and kiss his upper lip, taking it slightly between hers. A tease in the past, now, as a reward, it never failed to turn him on. The husband was supposed to rub it very gently all over into the skin of his wife’s tummy so her child would be as beautiful as she is, he would whisper in her ear while pulling her to his side. “Hush, you won’t,” Irene would tell him, as if to ward off a child from a candy counter. Simon Vojko had everything – a year- old car, a wife who was the head of the municipal library, two sons and an undisputed spot at the second table on the state’s chess team.
On the third week, on the fifth date, on Tuesday’s game Amalia’s knee touched Simon’s and she did not move it away. The implication paralysed him, he understood, could not move his eyes from the board. Trembling, he excused himself to go to the washroom. He felt as if he had been sentenced to die and had an irresistible urge to urinate. He started to dribble before he opened his pants, once inside lost control and peed his way to the urinal. He put three paper-towels between his shorts and pants, walked back to their table and almost lost the game. She thought she played her best game in years. He saw again how beautiful she was, her happy smile illuminating their corner of the room.
Twice a month, on random days, a lieutenant came from the weapon inspection centre and made sure that the Ministry’s staff and the guards’ firearms were in perfect order. Since the sidearm had to be presented, Simon took it out from the steel case that held the classified documents of his department and kept it in his desk-drawer. He took the gun out of its holster, slid a bullet into the empty magazine. When thrust downward, the magazine locked itself in by its own weight. He could not call Rokov’s number direct and when Rokov’s secretary asked whether the matter was urgent, he said it was not. Then, since it was not, he should go to see him in 25 minutes.
Austere, organized; yet there were small things one could put a finger on that made Rokov’s office different. The suites of ambassadors and heads of ministries where foreign dignitaries and members of their inner circles were privately entertained had video libraries, their own spas, state-of-the-art sound systems and liquor cabinets whose doors were operated by the entertainment centre’s remote control. On the wall in the vestibule of the shower, there were three bathrobes, two shorter with large flowery embroidery and one larger size. Locked inside the floor-length vanity mirror cabinet was the full complement of everything that a sophisticated woman could dream of for her make-up. Beside the chart of the International Clothing size guide in Imperial, Continental and American sizes for women’s dresses, coats, suits, skirts and pants hung two pairs of vinyl-lined handcuffs and a yellow satin cat-o’-nine tails. The small gym that had a sauna was equipped with an adjustable massage-table, a first-aid kit, and an oxygen inhalator apparatus.
The sergeant in charge, sitting in front of the entrance to Rokov’s office, checked his monitor for the appointment, then made a friendly face, nodding him in. Colonel Rokov, compact, massive like a village-blacksmith, walked out of the shower naked except for a towel around his neck.
“Hi, Vojko, Simon, how are you?” Before the other could answer, he continued, “Why are you carrying your sidearm in you pocket, are you expecting a terrorist?”
“No. With your permission I’ll put it on the corner of your desk.”
“I couldn’t care less, leave it or put it anywhere you like, let me turn off this thing,” he stepped behind his desk and pushed a soft pad on its side. “This green light is so sharp that I would rather be shot than look at it,” he explained, as he disarmed the metal detector. “If you don’t mind,” he waved, then walked to the open built-in wardrobe by the shower door, stepped into his shorts, put on his shirt and began to dress up in his civilian clothes. Simon Vojko took two steps forward, reached into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and put his gun on the top of the desk next to the computer keyboard.
“Yes Colonel Rokov.”
“It’s all right, this isn’t an official matter is it? If it is not, call me Marius. By the way, Amalia worships you,” then lowering his voice, doing a mock growl, he said, “you better keep your hands off her, hm?” There was no doubt he was in a good mood. He saw Vojko on his knees by the side of the desk. Amused, he asked, “Are you looking for something?”
“I’m waiting till you finish,” the captain answered.
“Your arse hurts?”
“Are you on your knees in front of a portrait? May I help? If yes, get up.”
Captain Vojko looked up and saw his commander adjusting his tie, waited until he looked at him again, then said, “Unfortunately, I have a problem that no one but you can solve.”
“Are you serious? Don’t be silly. Get up! What’s the matter? Is she underage?”
“Amalia likes me. Your wife wants to have an affair with me. She said so.” He bowed from his waist, neck bent, sat prostate. “My wife is expecting. I love her. I have two sons, seven and ten. I came to see you for your advice. Please help me. Would you look after them if I were gone? I don’t want to have them sent away, punished, ground down.”
“I see your point. I give you my word. You died of an allergy to a combination of . . . whatever? Simple enough. I will have them make a report and show it to you. Is that all right with you? I will arrange it. Or do you want to jump off from somewhere and enjoy the flight? “I don’t want to have them ruined because of me.”
“But then it wouldn’t be because of you, they would go down because of Amalia. She would be happy, and, and, I would send you for a dental check up, that’s what you are afraid of?”
“I am not afraid. Give me your word you will look after them . . . but can’t you tell Amalia that you wouldn’t allow it?”
“I give you my word. I appreciate your man-to-man loyalty. . . . I would appreciate if you would not shoot yourself in here. The blood might not come out of the carpet. It would surely be very hard to get it out of the hardwood floor. You may go to the shower and shoot yourself in there. I will have it cleaned up. It would be an accident. Do you have your gun loaded? Get up and – is your ammunition from our ordnance?”
“Sherry?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Simon Vojko. Colonel Rokov understood that he was witnessing something extremely unusual and participating in it. He sat back in the chair. He took a bottle from his desk drawer and poured a drink from it.
On his knees, Vojko turned toward Rokov then shook his head.
“I met them. I think they are great. The kids. Your wife. You have my word. Go ahead. In the shower. You may shoot yourself there. I will look after everything. You have my word. I’ll make sure that Irene will keep her job: they should – I mean your family – be kept in town and receive your pension.”
Simon Vojko stood up, took his gun from the desk, and walked into the shower stall and closed the door.
No. One cannot press on. There were things that were not negotiable. He would not give it a second thought. He unbuttoned his jacket and sat in the corner of the shower stall. Rokov did not seem angry, but neither did he suggest a way out. By pressing his thumbnail under the lip of the screen, he removed the polished brass floor-drain cover. Concentrating on the task, he pushed down the safety lever of his semi-automatic. Although he was right-handed, he was a left-hand shot. He felt awkward, too clumsy to raise the gun to his mouth. He took the gun in his right hand when he heard a knock on the door.
“Simon? You mind if I look?”
“It doesn’t matter. But don’t come in here, stay outside.”
“Fine. Thanks. I’ll open the door, all right?”
Marius Rokov stopped pulling his armchair across the vestibule, then sat opposite Vojko and lit a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t. A visitor left them,” then without giving a second thought to the meaning of his words Rokov said, “Don’t tell anybody. Before you go, I want to tell you that I heard how you were trying to discourage Amalia. Playing with your tongue while you were eating the soup and cleaning your mouth during lunch to make Amalia disgusted.”
“Did she tell you that on the following Thursday she wanted me to make love with her in your elevator? She had the privacy-key.”
“No. She didn’t.”
“Good-bye, Marius Rokov.” Vojko raised the gun in his right hand, put the barrel in his mouth, closed his lips around the barrel then pulled the trigger.
He heard a click. He opened his eyes then ejected the cartridge. It fell on his lap. Vojko picked it up and saw the impact of the firing pin in its base.
“Would you share the burden of a secret?” He heard Rokov’s voice. “In this institution only the guards and I have live ammunition. You will have to find another solution. Before you do, come with me.” Rokov turned, as if looking for an ashtray, stepped to the open hole on the shower floor and dropped his cigarette in. He offered his hand to the sitting man and pulled on him until the other had straightened up. He started on his way out through the vestibule into his office, stopped in front of his desk and waved to Vojko, inviting him to come to stand facing him. Vojko, the gun still in his right hand, followed the direction of the colonel. They were standing close to each other.
“Simon? Look at me.” The other raised his head and looked at Rokov’s face.
“Don’t move; just look right over my head. It is not up to me to decide what will happen to you if you start fucking Amalia. I hope you don’t mind if I just say, ‘fucking’. You and I will have to do everything she wants us to do. Everything.” The tone of colonel Rokov’s voice changed. The syllables rolled out of his mouth as if they were small lumps of wet concrete. “I was put in charge here because of her influence. She put me at the head of our institution, I am not sure whether as a reward or a warning or a punishment. Do you have any idea what I am talking about?”
“No. I have to borrow your gun. Or stand in a pool of water and electrocute myself.”
“I cannot give you my gun, and all the circuits are guarded by ground-fault breakers. We are high-tech, Simon. I have no idea what your future might bring. You have to do what she wants. If she feels merciful, you’ll be all right.”
“What are you saying?”
“Put your face a little closer to mine,” he whispered to Vojko, who bent forward and became manically alert.
“What do you see when you look over my head?”
“On the wall?”
“Yes, Captain Vojko. You see what’s on the wall?”
Vojko looked at the portrait that covered most of the wall from the floor to the ceiling, which he had seen so often all through his life that he had not taken any notice of it for decades.
“Amalia is extremely close to him. He would do everything for her unless it is foreign affairs. I have no idea what she had been doing to him or him to her. There is a story about who she is, but we all have a story, don’t we? Whoever she was, she wanted to marry me. She was beautiful and I was single. I also had no choice. She does absolutely everything she wants. Amalia is his woman. Actually, I think she whips him with a very soft whip. I cannot tell what she will do once she tires of you. You and I are at her mercy. He could start a war, destroy millions while guiding us toward a better world and my wife, a sexy thirty-six-year-old woman, holds him in one of her little hands and probably beats him with a handful of satin or silk ribbons with the other. I have no idea, wouldn’t want to guess what would happen to you if he,” Rokov nodded slightly toward the oil painting behind him, “finds out.”
“What you think I should do?”
“Go on medical leave; take the whole family with you. I know where you like to spend your time. That row of houses doesn’t even have an address. Stay there for a while. If she wants to ruin you and your family too, there’s nothing anyone can do. She can dispose of anybody in her way. Go and relax for a few days, you always could have a breakdown from overwork or something.”
Simon Vojko had not moved his eyes from the painting. He could have sworn that he saw his wife and children struggling in the snow, their feet wrapped in burlap sacks, shuffling across on the shining surface of the painting. Was the shock of being still alive the cause of a question he was asking, why wasn’t the painting signed by the artist?
“Go and rest. I don’t think Amalia knows where to find you. She’s able to find out but it will take a few days. Nothing you or I can do. I’ll tell her you felt ill.”
“What if I let her win a few times?”
“A dead man talking. Simon, you are afraid for the rising morrow; expect the shit as you must, but don’t throw a game, you son of sorrow, you may come to worse than dust. I paraphrase an English poet. Amalia likes Irene. If Amalia sends for you, perhaps Irene should send a small gift. I am going to get out of here and eat something, you want to join me? I know, but it’s too early for her; I talked to her before you came, she is still at home.”
Colonel Rokov bent toward his desk, armed the metal detector and waited for Vojko, who was pocketing his sidearm, then allowed the younger man to walk ahead, but Vojko opened the door for him.
There was nothing he could say to Irene or the children. The older of the boys sensed that what was happening was unusual and threatening. The disappearance of his snake, Arnold, signalled the beginning of impatient excuses. The boy found that unusual. Simon Vojko had a good rapport with his children. A nine-year-old could not be fooled and was aware that something was not right, yet he could not find clues pointing to its cause.
The phone was on Irene’s side of the bed. It rang only once before she picked it up. Simon Vojko, who had hardly slept the past three days, was already sitting upright. At the other end of the line Amalia said she was sorry to ring as late as it was, but it was extremely important she talk to Simon. Amalia told Simon Vojko that the government would officially collapse tomorrow at nine a.m.; Rokov had called her from the airport saying that he had transferred himself to an unspecified army base and would contact her from there in a few days’ time. Amalia said that it was essential that Simon go to his office and shred the contents of his classified files. When Simon asked about other files, she told him Rokov’s office and the institutions’ computer records had been looked after. She asked Simon, even if he left the country under an assumed name, to keep in touch with her. She had had all her documents changed, made out to Ginger Tchad. No one knows what the future will hold, she said, but for sure, if the files were not destroyed, a catastrophic scandal and a court case would be inevitable.
“The only thing I’m certain of is that it’s the Twenty-third of August and I want to keep in touch with you. It is Sunday. Go to your office at once and do what I told you,” she said, and the phone went dead.
Simon Vojko went to the office in his civilian suit. In his office, he found that the case with the classified files had been moved. The numbered documents, which would have implicated Rokov, were missing. They must have been taken by him or someone else. Whoever has them has a hold on my throat for the rest of my life, he thought, while shredding the papers and microfilms. The shredded papers were so bulky that he could not stuff them into his attaché case. He picked up the shredder’s plastic container and emptied it into the opening of his shirt, then, compressed the bulk in around his waist and chest. He walked out of the building at seven minutes past five a.m. and found that the guards by the entrance door were gone. He walked home in incredible discomfort because of the paper and plastic particles that were working their way down to his boots. He would burn everything behind the house in Gilt-Gadin. The streets were busier than usual and the cars traveled much faster. He saw men in uniform hurrying, some of them running after they got out of their cars. Simon thought that he had enough money for them to live comfortably for four, maximum five years. He must convert most of it into something that would keep its value, then wait and see. There might be temporary food shortages, inflation, even chaos. Might have to leave the country. He would have to find a job. Perhaps at a building supplies outfit. Or buy into a small, smart restaurant. Lie low and sweat it out until things settled. The first thing after burning the papers would be to get some live ammunition for the gun. He would drive the children to the bus. If anybody asked them at the summer camp about their father’s business, they should say he is in wholesale. If there is a summer camp?
Enveloped in dread, the question flashed through his mind, “Where are the other days?” He felt it was essential to have practical chores, details to be looked after, like cutting nails even if it had to be done every three minutes! At times, he felt that only his children and his wife made him different from those who had departed from the living. He was still out of work when Irene gave birth to a healthy baby girl; they named her Suzanne. A week later, she was back at work. In March, Simon Vojko got a foreman’s job at the local outlet of a major building-supplies chain store.
Irene cried when she came out of the bathroom. She saw Simon was still in bed, his chin resting in the crook of his elbow, watching her. During the night, his hair had turned white.
The furnace was on when Irene went into the kitchen to make breakfast, yet she felt that the house was colder than usual. Moments later she found the cause; the letter slot on the door was forced open by a large envelope. She pulled it through and saw the original addressee scratched out. She gave the envelope to Simon, still in bed who opened it. Under the company letterhead of Novaya Pharmaceuticals, he read the typewritten words;
Wang Lun was a famous executioner during the Ming dynasty. He was the greatest master of his profession. He used to stand by the foot of the scaffold smiling gently, concealing his curved sword behind his back. While the man mounted the steps of the scaffold, Wang Lun was whistling a pleasant tune then with a swift stroke beheaded his client. Wang Lun had a secret ambition in life and it took more than fifty years of dedicated learning to achieve it. He wanted to behead a person with a stroke so swift that the head, obeying the law of inertia would remain poised on the neck, in the same manner as a plate remains undisturbed on the table if the tablecloth is pulled out under it with a sudden jerk. The great moment came in the seventy-eight year of his life. Eleven shaven heads already rolled into the dust following his inimitable stroke. Wang Lun’s triumph came with the twelfth man. As the man began to ascend the steps of the scaffold, Wang Lun’s sword flashed with lightning speed across the neck. The head remained where it had been before. The man walked up the steps without knowing what had happened. When he reached the top, the man addressed Wang Lun as follows: `O cruel Wang Lun, why do you prolong my agony of waiting when you dealt with the others with such a merciful and amicable speed?’ When he heard these words, Wang Lun knew that he accomplished his life’s great ambition. An understanding smile appeared on his features; then, he said with exquisite courtesy to the waiting man: `Just kindly nod, please.’
Ps.: The emperor and Wang Lun are gone. Now I got the sword. Keep your head and your composure. If needed I have the medical certificates proving your advanced Alzheimer’s disease. I also have a piano. Cheers, Marius.
On the other side, he read a score of eight bars, composed for a pianist in handcuffs.
(The Copyright score that follows the shape of the handcuffs is by Paul Dombi and is available only in a manuscript form.)
Rokov. A warning. He looked at the score. The notes ran continuously. There was no way out. The bedroom darkened. A soiled bubble only, Vojko felt spinning close to the vortex of the state organized cruelty of the past. Could not do anything. Alzheimer’s? He was in the prime of his life. Marius Rokov and his sword. Vojko felt the blade under his chin. Suddenly he was cold and pulled the heavy down cover tight around his body. He put his right hand around his throat, with his left he touched in the hidden pouch on the side of his mattress the hard pack of his gun when he heard the children’s clamour from the kitchen. They started to make the breakfast.
Fourteen months later Marius Rokov became the President and the majority shareholder of Novaya Pharmaceuticals. His company is selling gold, small firearms, state-of-the-art handheld anti aircraft missiles and human organs for transplants. Already known as a kingmaker in state politics he commands great respect of the highest levels of the government. He is very wealthy and has business contacts all over the world.
Simon Vojko and his family had not moved back to the city. They live in Number 33, on the strip in Gilt-Gadin. He is a foreman, yet works only part time in a large building supplies chain store owned by a one time associate and acquired a 51 percent share of a successful restaurant, specializing in Persian and Indian dishes on the west side of the city. ~~( ;< [ )
From loaves of years
From loaves of years,
In slice of months,
Crumbs of moments.
Behind life’s pastry shop
I stir in the bin of the past
To sooth the hunger of my foolish heart.
2. The gargoyle.
How the gargoyle on St. Dymphna church manipulates, alters the destiny of a beautiful, talented, very rich but lonely girl and a successful, young architect who is under the spell of the year-end fireworks.
During his life-long search for the best musical instrument that would enhance his already considerable talent praising the Lord, minister Malcolm McGregor, in the last seconds of his life discovers ...
4. Love in the Americas
a. Building a Ghost Trap, against infatuation, devils of imagination but not against Death. (The prologue to Love in the Americas.) Following the sample built by a monk from the Enchai monastery in the Sikkimese Himalayas, the author is building a Lamaist Blood Stringcross using the pages of his stories for its construction. The photo taken by and from the archives of Professor Dr. Spielgelberg, of Stanford University
b. The Bull.
In his delirium he imagines that he is a bull in the Arena-New Spring, offering his ears to the woman in love with the matador. The bull has a chance to kill but how will he get his ears into her warm hands?
c. The dancing man.
Since the vision of the girl he wakes before sunrise and obeys the irresistible call to dance, to conjure a river out of stones, a boat from his rose bushes and from the dark, blue mist the girl who would bring the boat. She comes.
7.A Caucasionesque- a Polonaise (Katerina).
He had no other chose, the desire for the woman makes his use of the ancient ritual inevitable. He follows that he remembers, step by step but somewhere he must have made an error. The result is the outbreak of the Second World War
8. Miss Sigurdson.
Relying on the Principles of Chaos was a very bad idea to meet the lover he was often dreaming about.
9. John Sigurdson's swim.
Doing that most of us would want to, John Sigurdson, swims across the Bosphorus, from Asia, to Europe. Hallucinating near the shore, he recalls episodes from the loves of his life.
10. In solitude Orange.
12. Reverend Peter
Yes, he was looking at the pictures, like any twelve year old would, but he was not the only one who knew that the lock was left open. A different biological experiment in the wardrobe with a view was conducted by reverend Peter too.
They fell in love, wanted to get married but Anna's father, a well to do baker would not allow that. The beating on her father's order got out of hand, left him with shaking fingers and a slight limp when he thought that nobody was watching. She married someone else. Years later, when they found small bones in the dough for the next day's bread and could not find the Anna's two small children they were afraid that...
14. The Father, the Son, and forty-two records from Deutsche Grammophone.
The God, who kept court in the ceramic cistern for white wine gave him what he wanted, a son, blue. The short history of the father before the son, who left a poem, disappeared
Treading in the rising pool of his tears he escapes from the fort leaving his only friend Harvey, the Rat behind. Alone, swept by his tearfall into the same dreaded position he escaped from.
A border guard's officer invents a new alphabet, a dance mostly with the lower body. At the time of high tension between the two countries he befriends the section commander on the opposite side of the border and teaches him the new moves. When the authorities ban any type of communication on the other side the two in charge of their section of the border still can communicate and diffuse a crisis that could have escalated into a nuclear war.
17. Message to the architect of the revolution.
He was not aware of the atrocities of the revolution he wholeheartedly supported. In his daymare, facing the evidence, he is looking for the leaders of the revolution who asked for his help to build a new, fair world.
18. The Trombonist.
19. A parable on the Parable.
20. The Robert Pousan story.
21. Cool, beautiful Marko had been murdered. Emma makes sure that that his lover who killed I'm gets away with it.
22. Navita, the snakes, arson and the restaurant on West 10th. avenue. The story of a young woman in love, of courage
And 25 five other stories to entertain you
Ciao, Karoly (Karl) Sandor.