Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 15 Read online

  At first Trelkovsky lives the montage of city-life with Buster Keaton-like calm. One moment he is listening to a howl of the damned, bellowing from a bandaged-wrapped hole, the next he's groping a pretty girl at a Bruce Lee picture—Bruce archetypically crunching down on his enemy as the bandaged girl must have crunched when she hit the ground. One experience is spliced onto another without emotional transition. It's as if Trelkovsky is dropped into a different film every five minutes and has lost the ability to be surprised. He just concentrates on figuring out his role in each scene.

  Back at the apartment the tenant gets to know the building's well-worn details; the clanking pipes, the creaky floors, the shared bathroom visible to all through the airshaft. He also discovers telling articles left behind by the suicide; a single dress in the closet, a tooth packed into a hole in the wall, and a postcard of a sarcophagus. The dead girl was interested in Egyptology (it was fitting that she was mummified) and the film uses these visual hieroglyphics to evoke the layered past, and the enduring presence of the dead.

  Despite the building's stark loneliness, the tenant has nothing resembling privacy or space. Apartment dwellers try not to acknowledge how much can be picked up about their neighbors’ lives, but Trelkovsky's neighbors complain they “can hear every word [he's] saying!” They're constantly at his door and his smallest movement brings wrathful knocking on the walls, floor, and ceiling. The tenant learns to walk on eggs but the quieter and more insubstantial he becomes, the louder his sad outbursts echo through the building. Through his interaction with the other residents—and the building itself—the tenant begins to understand that he has a specific and inevitable role to fill.

  Renting an apartment is a convenient and simple business transaction—a way-station on the road to permanence—but temporary spaces have a history and they claim a part of us. A building, a city, is like a coral reef that grows on the remains of its inhabitants. Capturing this accretion, The Tenant is a universal and blackly comedic allegory about the way we live on top of each other, yet valiantly and agressively defend our space.

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  Mounds Keep Appearing

  on the lawn, except when covered with snow: a city from the Mound Builder era.

  One wag frowns pronouncing it gophers, one shakes his head pronoucing it moles offering methods of killing with wagging heads.

  Rather than killing, I bought two sonic rockets, that once buried were to chase the catacomb residents to large fields in all directions.

  "To chase away burrowing rodents, you have to think like one,” the directions said. But, plagued by dreams of families forsaking homes, the rockets were dug up, the batteries saved.

  So, it is back to stepping around mounds, wondering what subterranean life is listening under foot, and trying to see designs in newly dug mounds.

  No longer plagued by dreams of the underground homeless, I read words on Vibrasonic Molechaser boxes:

  "Don't let your molehills become mountains."

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  In Kansas

  The Greeks had many gods to blame for misfortune:

  We can only conclude God is absent, doesn't care, or is doing it for our own good.

  I sought Dorothy's reassurance that it was a dream without the wish to be in Kansas;

  perhaps I hadn't chanted

  "There's no place like home” often enough—then too, I hadn't her red shoes.

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  I Heard That

  when a person falls between a passing train and platform they become a twisted corkscrew ribs down

  And when removed their guts fall out—before they just feel numb

  In my passing, I've learned falling is not a requirement for numbness

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  Lord Goji's Wedding

  Richard Parks

  The training of young monks at Hanaman-ji in Kyoto was rigorous, and the old monk in charge of their training sometimes used blows to reinforce the lessons, and sometimes he used stories. The young monks were generally in agreement that storytelling was the harsher method of the two: the sting of a blow would fade in an hour or so, but a story could have them puzzling for days on end with no real understanding in sight. So it was with some trepidation that fine spring evening when the young monks noticed the gruff old man looking especially thoughtful.

  This was always a bad sign.

  Two of the more optimistic monks were already seated zazen and made a decent show of being in deep meditation when the old monk entered the training hall. Perhaps they thought to escape their fate, but the older boys knew better. They simply waited.

  And waited.

  The old monk simply stood in the doorway, looking at them for a long time. “You're young,” he said. Normally when he said such a thing, it was clearly meant to imply that “you don't know anything, so be quiet and listen.” Not this time. The old monk said it as if reminding himself of something he'd almost forgotten.

  "Cushion,” he said after a while, and the two closest acolytes scrambled to bring it to him. He kneeled down there on the floor and made himself comfortable. One of the two “meditating” monks let out a gentle snore and the other sighed, opened his eyes, and punched his companion awake. The old monk finally started speaking.

  "Long ago in a place not very far from here, there was a young scholar of good family. His name was Goji. He took his religious training at the local temple and was so moved by the piety of the monks and the purity of what he was taught there that he was actively considering a life in the temple. All that changed when he fell in love."

  Several of the youngsters visibly relaxed. Clearly this was going to be one of those “sins and distractions of the world” fables. So long as they could sort out the story type and extract the lesson the old monk expected, they knew there would be no problem. The old monk just smiled a wistful smile.

  "Now, in that same temple there was a most worthy monk. Most worthy indeed. He knew quite a few things, and was always telling what he knew, for he believed that sharing knowledge was the act of an enlightened being."

  The old monk fell silent again, and one of the younger monks was moved to ask. “Then he was an enlightened being, Master?"

  "It was said of him,” the old monk replied. “He never said it of himself. Weigh that in the scales, for what it may be worth."

  The young monks just looked at each other, and after a moment the old monk continued his story. “He was invited to the wedding, of course, as one of Lord Goji's favorite teachers. It was summer, and the monk was taking the breeze on the engawa when the bride's wedding party arrived. It was his karma that he would be the first to greet them, or perhaps it was everyone's karma present, for it happened just that way."

  "What happened then, Master?"

  "He greeted them, of course. It would have been rude to do otherwise. Since the girl was of noble family she was escorted by five samurai and several maids, plus servants bearing her sedan chair, and all in summer clothes and colors. The bride herself was wearing a shiromuku of such pure whiteness that she seemed made of snow. She was veiled, as is the custom."

  He paused again, and again one of the younger monks asked a question. “Master, I have sometimes wondered ... in China a bride wears red, or so I am told, for the color is considered lucky. Why does a bride in our country wear white, the color of death?"

  The old monk shrugged. “Perhaps because both marriage and death are transformations. Also, among old samurai families it was an indication that the bride came to them in the same spirit that blank washu comes to the calligrapher. As the paper takes the ink, so would she accept the family colors and mon of her groom. In the old days I believe the wedding costume was actually taken and dyed appropriately after the wedding was done. However, dye would not be enough to let this bride become part of Goji's family. No, that was not possible."

  "Why, master?"

  "She was a fox. For that matter, so we
re her attendants."

  The young monks gasped in such perfect unison that perhaps the old monk wondered, for a moment, why they could not chant the Lotus or Diamond Sutras with the same precision. Or perhaps he thought nothing of the sort.

  "She was of ancient and noble family, as I said. But she was not human."

  "How did the teacher know?” asked another.

  The old monk shrugged. “He couldn't fail to notice. Years of practiced meditation and discipline had given him the ability to pierce many of the illusions of this world. Not all, perhaps, but many. When he saw the wedding party, he knew what they were, even as he greeted them. Foxes, every one."

  "The young lord had been cruelly deceived,” said the oldest boy.

  "Perhaps,” said the old man.

  "I don't understand,” said the oldest boy. “You said she was a fox."

  "I did and she was. As for your not understanding, well, listen to what happened then. You still won't understand, but you'll know more. So, as I said, she was a fox. The teacher requested a moment alone with the lady to bestow his blessing. As he was a respected guest, her retainers withdrew to a discreet distance, though the bride of course remained veiled in her chair. He approached her with every outward sign of respect and he whispered the following words to her: I know what you are, Lady. Leave now and never return, or your beloved will know, too."

  "How do you know exactly what was said, Master?” asked the youngest monk. The oldest boy punched him then, but the old monk just smiled.

  "It's a story, young one. How can I not know what I have decided the words should be?"

  The youngest monk blushed furiously even as he rubbed his sore arm. Still, he must have assumed that his embarrassment couldn't get any worse, since he asked another question. “You are saying, then, that this story isn't true?"

  "No, I am not saying that."

  Now the oldest boy frowned. “You're saying it is true?"

  "I'm not saying that either. Now be silent and let me finish."

  The young monks subsided though they looked, if anything, more confused than before. If the old monk noticed he didn't show it. “The lady made a small sound, rather faint. A bit of breath, perhaps, no more. Behind them there was the whisper of sliding screens. A servant had informed Lord Goji of his bride's arrival and the young man was on his way. The monk spoke to the bride again, saying: I see what you are and I will not allow you to deceive my pupil, for whatever your designs might be they cannot be to his advantage. You are a fox, and no human girl at all. Begone while you can."

  There might have been no more questions then, but once more the old monk fell silent. One might think he had forgotten that he was telling a story at all, or perhaps the words had slipped away from him. He seemed puzzled, almost, looking off into nothing as if whatever was missing now might, perhaps, be there instead.

  "Master, wasn't the teacher afraid of being cursed? I've heard that foxes sometimes do that."

  The old monk grunted. “Why should he fear, he who saw with such excellent clarity? How could he fail to see, or speak what he knew? What heed of curses when there might, at the end of the day, be a profaned wedding instead?"

  "What happened then?"

  "The lady lifted her veil and the monk could see her beauty, despite the fact that he knew it was illusion, and she said: ‘I know what I am, good monk. Yet I love Lord Goji and mean no harm to him. If you can truly see what I am, then you can tell if I speak the truth.’ The monk, of course, said that this did not matter."

  "Master ... did it matter? What would you have done?” asked the youngest.

  "What would I have done?” The question seemed to confuse the old monk for a moment. Then he shook his head. “It is useless to speak of what might have been done. What matters is what was done. The monk's spiritual power was great. So great that, when Lord Goji came out to greet his new bride, he saw what his teacher saw—a fox. She smiled at Lord Goji, and she said: I would have made you happy. Then she reverted to her true form, she and all her attendants, and they fled from Lord Goji's house. They were never seen again."

  "What happened to Lord Goji?” asked the oldest boy.

  "He searched for her, for a time."

  "Why? To punish the fox for deceiving him?"

  "To find her,” the old monk said. “As to his purpose, who can say? I'm not sure even he knew. Yet, before he began his search, he said this much to his teacher: Master, I was happy."

  "That sounds rather ungrateful,” said the youngest.

  The old monk shrugged. “I suppose. However, I don't think he ever found her. In time Lord Goji returned, shaved his head, and joined the temple. He became a fine monk, one of many more fine, pious monks just like him."

  The old man rose slowly and carefully off of his cushion and started toward the door. The young monks watched him, frowning as one. Finally the oldest could stand it no longer. “Master, is that the end of the story?"

  "It is,” the old monk said, not even pausing.

  "But master,” the oldest persisted. “What does it mean?"

  "Meaning is an illusion, too,” said the old monk. “but if you insist, I'll tell you—It means that I was a fool."

  The arguments started before he was even through the door. Some monks insisted that their own teacher was the wise teacher. Others insisted just as loudly that he must be Lord Goji himself. Others said it was just a made-up story, similar to the tale of Madame White Snake told in China and the old monk was simply trying to confuse them again. “There are many such stories,” they insisted. “This one is only a little different.” “Yes, but...” someone else would say, and everyone was off again. The discussions went on for days.

  The old monk listened, as he always did, but would answer no more questions. He never spoke of the matter again.

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  The Life of Saint Serena

  Stepan Chapman

  After lunch, girls, as you know, we'll all be walking through the town as part of the procession of Saint Serena the Selfless.

  I'm sure that most of you already know the story of Saint Serena. But I'm going to tell it now for the youngest girls. Listen closely, because Saint Serena is the matron saint of our convent. And what's more, she lived her whole life right here in this very town.

  When she was young, Serena lived in a white stucco house on the Rio Central, with her husband, a car mechanic, and her two growing sons. They kept a dog, two goats, and four chickens. Up until her twenty-seventh birthday, Serena seemed perfectly normal. She cooked meals, washed clothes, mopped floors, and threw dishes at her family roughly once a month, like any normal wife and mother.

  But one windy morning in November, Serena awoke in her bed with the certainty that she'd lost her mind. She looked all over her house for it and then searched her yard. Her worst fear was confirmed. Thieves in the night must have robbed her house, for she'd definitely lost her mind. No one made breakfast for her family that morning.

  Having lost her mind, Serena decided that she no longer needed her possessions. She walked around her neighborhood barefoot, wearing only her nightgown, carrying armfuls of her household possessions and giving them away to her various neighbors. She gave away her silverware and crockery, her pots and pans, her bedding and dry goods, her poultry and her goats, her shoes, her clothes, and her family's clothes as well. Then she put her husband and her dog into a mule cart and took them to the local humane society.

  "Please feed these two specimens for a week,” Serena instructed the woman at the reception desk, “and try to find a good home for them. If no home can be found, you may put them to sleep. And if you can find my two worthless sons, you can have them too."

  "That won't be necessary,” Serena's husband told the receptionist. “My wife has lost her mind.” And so saying he set out for the nearest tavern, to drown his sorrows.

  Serena returned to her house just long enough to write a note bequeathing it to the mice. Still in her nightgown, still barefoot, s
he wrapped her old gray shawl around her and wandered mindlessly down the road that led out of town and into the badlands.

  She saw a fat little boy beside the road. He was sitting on a rock and weeping mournfully.

  "Why so sad?” Serena asked him.

  "My heart is broken,” the boy replied, “and can never be mended."

  Hearing this, Serena resolved to help the boy. “You can have mine,” she told him. She reached inside her nightgown, yanked out her heart, and thrust it, dripping blood and still beating, into the boy's hands. The boy sat speechless with his mouth hanging open. Leaving him in that condition, Serena proceeded—mindlessly and heartlessly—down the road.

  At the crest of a hill, an old woman was rubbing her feet and grumbling loudly.

  "What troubles you, Mother?” asked Serena.

  "My feet are killing me,” the woman answered.

  Serena found it intolerable that a blameless old woman should be murdered by her own feet. “You must have your feet thrown in jail,” she told the woman.

  "And what will I use for feet then?"

  "You may use mine,” said Serena. And so saying she sat down in the road, unscrewed her feet, and laid them in the woman's lap. Then she hobbled on down the road—mindless and heartless and without a foot to stand on.

  In the middle of nowhere, she came upon two men, one tall and one short. They were down in a ditch beside the road, digging with shovels. The tall man groaned.

  "Are you all right?” inquired Serena.

  The tall man leaned on his shovel and wiped the sweat from his neck. “Well...” he said, “we could certainly use a hand here."

  "Actually,” said the short man, “we could use another couple of hands."

  Serena knew just what to do. She unscrewed her left hand and tossed it to the tall man. Then she used her teeth to unscrew her right hand and dropped it into the hands of the short man. The men didn't know what to say. So Serena limped on up the road—no mind, no heart, no feet, no hands.