Atu (4) It was late afternoon and I was still heading on the same bearing at full speed. The sun was beginning its’ occult with the earth behind me and in the sky Venus Erycina was assembling her tacky jewellery and drying her stockings, getting ready for another night on the Zodiac, I imagined Mercury fishing through his mother’s pockets for some loose change to get a hamburger while Phoebe and Diana could be seen peeping over the edge of the Earth thumbing through post-feminist literature no doubt with an air of dissatisfaction and bewilderment. Rahko and Tecciztecatl smoking dope in the basement and sneaking out for a case of light beer and playing game after game of pool and who probably never had the presence of mind to even notice what was happening anyway and are no friends of mine, the first-world layabouts. In the distance behind a couple of hills I saw a large plume of wispy grey and black smoke, risen into the air some hours before and now appearing to hang from high up in the around like dead snakeskin, floating in the warm windless atmosphere billowing up from some still burning place not too far off. Pokey was clutching onto me loosely and not moving but I was pretty sure that she wasn’t sleeping because that Datura tends to keep things going for a few days before you slip into that engorged semblance of normal cyclical human sleep patterns and she must have instinctively known that it helps to keep your eyes shut at the beginning and not move or you might get carried away and do something to hurt yourself. I rode towards the towering black ribbon of smoke and soon I could smell the rich bouquet of destruction and I wondered what I would arrive to, what horror was in store for me now and as my horse tore over hill after hill I swear I could feel the heat growing and hear the fingers of the fire that sounded like snapping branches getting louder. I came upon the last hill and could finally look down at what I was riding into: a medium-sized town in the midst of a hellish inferno already half-consumed by a fire that now just taking it’s time in destroying the rest; you could almost see the inferno lying back picking it’s teeth and smiling at it’s good fortune at being let loose in a place that would be easy to burn to ashes and redistribute harmlessly and anonymously across the plains by the winds. I gripped the reigns tightly and dug my heels into the horse’s flanks and made down the hill towards the town and Pokey tightened her hold around my stomach never moving her face away from my back and I could feel her hands turning into tiny fists as we neared the terrible scene and an astral shudder shook through my body as if I was about to dive headfirst into the fire myself. My animal landed on the dusty wide high-street with a thud of hooves and night had fallen by this time but thanks to the blaze around us it was not too dark for me to read the huge wooden sign arching over the start of the main road and squinting I managed to make out the name of the town – ‘MeilenVonüberal’l. “Thank God!” I said out loud, “We’re saved – they’re Germans!” But then, in between the reflected amber dance of shadow and light that played on the wooden sign from the enormous tongues of fire rolling up and about the decimated buildings in the background I could make out a small unmistakable Red-and-White flag painted next to the name of the town and the hideous truth hit me like a ton of bricks and I froze to a stone – “Fuck me…” my voice now guttural and trembling uncontrollably, “They’re Swiss.” Horrified, I rode slowly into the. There was a Schokoladefabrikant right there at the start of the town and a Käsefabrik next to it – ‘the foreign bastards’ I thought to myself shaking my head – my mind moved on to investigate the curious fact that it was only the middlemost buildings that were being ravaged by flame and a few others dotted around the place that burned quite individually as if the fire had started in few specific places and was still moving in a furious languor towards consolidation; it was not Bigrid here alone. No, Vesta, Pele and Vulcan too – they were all out on the town tonight, and they were horny. I looked for people and saw a few in the distance; women with elaborate whalebone dresses and frilly petticoats being helped onto carriages, men in caps and top-hats hauling bags onto wagons and strapping sacks onto horses, I also heard children crying, men shouting and women screaming but yet no immediate examples of violence; it was all hell and no demons, an apocalypse by proxy. In this adjusted and admittedly relieved mood I slowly made my way down the high-street looking around at the chaos surrounding me and even Pokey relaxed a bit and observed the scene with indifferent ignorance; had she seen Pasadena though she would have understood how people could have faith in a small place such as this, even one that can be obliterated in a few hours and void itself of all the proud upstanding citizens whose bonds before must have seemed unquestionably sanctioned by whatever God holds the carrot-and-whip of progress that we all pray to with things that are stronger and more real than prayers every day: The true modern god; the God of creamy cheese and toilet rolls too fat for their roll-holders. I passed a shop that was as yet unscathed by the rampaging blaze that had a poster nailed to the post out front. It read: Dārznieks / landscaper pieejams: Gardens, ieklāšanas un uzturēšanas. zvanu Bendiks par 07654 123 1123 Helvetica, I noted grimly. I continued further down into the town where buildings to my left and right were falling apart piece by piece in a glorious incandescent death rattle – the patio roof of a shop to my right buckled and faltered with the sharp crack of breaking wood but managed to hold itself up on its posts if only for a few more dismal minutes – from my horse I peered into the window of a shop and Pocahontas tapped at my back and with her hands saying something about the contrasting ethnicities in this place (she was holding them out in front of me as she sat behind) she relayed to me with hand signals that she saw a display shelf of what she could clearly discern to be traditional Latvian style cooking and pickling although she had never been to Latvia, eaten Latvian food or even met a Latvian person - îrâgi kotletes, Alexander Torte and bowls of rich Janis' cheese – I looked myself and to my surprise I found that the little native was right. As I peered further into the shop being mercilessly combusted from within I saw next to the shelf in front of five large jars blackened by the fire a flaming sign that indicated that the shop also offered Skabu kapostu zupa and Sorrel soup – I could stand it no longer – “What the fuck is this bullshit?” I asked myself out loud. What were the goddamn Swiss up to, I wondered? Sorrel soup? Those first-world bastards would never eat or sell that stuff, it’s too ‘ethnic’ – they’re the kind of people that print emblems on chocolate that’s too expensive and too bitter, the kind of people that look down their nose at you in the check-out line just because you all you ever buy is bargain-bin microwave food and beer while they buy nothing but the best fresh vegetables and mixers for Bourbon – the swine – and how everything Swiss is better than everything else, like the simple prefix is a guarantee of quality; Swiss rolls, Swiss watches, Swiss army knives – hell, I’ll bet they’d lead you to believe that Swiss Shit on toast would taste better than marmalade given half the chance – their whole fucking utopian ideal is just the ‘goody-two-shoes’ element of our eternal dialectic struggle between chaos and order that if ever resolved in the way they intend would reduce the whole human race to a sickly-sweet and sterile thixotropic soup equivalent to the mass of the collective weight of the average man multiplied by the population of the human race on the planet which at the time of this writing would be approximately Five hundred and eighty-eight million, nineteen thousand three hundred and eighty-seven point nine kilograms of invertebrate sludge with the consistency of baby-shit that smells like air freshener and has bits of genuine leather watch-straps and designer spectacle rims and Bose car stereo systems and tiny fucking MP3 players in pink and blue and touch-screen mobile phones floating around it. Someone sauntered out into the centre of the high street with a flaming torch in hand looking away from us. Hearing my horse the person turned round to me in a start and I stopped the trot and we all immediately tensed up: “Rueben!” Gabby called out after a second of looking at us indirectly. “Gabby?” I answered while examining her for signs of broken bones or flesh wounds – she was dirty and had bits of ash in her hair and on her face and clothes but otherwise appeared to be completely unharmed – I couldn’t believe I had actually found her – she had probably followed the smoke trail just as I had. I was filled with a pride and gratefulness that I had found Gabby and saved Pokey from certain death all in one day! But what of this town? What merciless beast had torn this peaceful place apart with clearly no provocation and driven the inhabitants scampering out – it was unforgivable, even if they were Swiss – into the hills in fear of losing their lives? Gabby lit a cigarette on her flaming torch and said “You would not believe the day I’ve had.” then realizing that I had someone with me asked “Who’s your friend?” Pokey peered out from behind me but said nothing, she just began to tremble violently and whisper a few words in her native language over and over – she was feeling the full width and breadth of the Datura by this time, just as the five of us had for the last six months and unless you’re really determined about it then all identities and memories stored in your mind take on a permanent state of flux and transmogrification; they become shape-shifters who assign meanings to themselves from minute to minute like people in dreams; relations become mere conventions that can be switched and transplanted and at only at times do you remember even the most familiar of faces and at other times forget them completely – I shuddered at the thought of the white she-devil. “Her name is Pocahontas. I saved her from starvation out in the hills after she – well that’s not important now, Gabby – we have to get out of here; this place must be riddled with Sw-” Suddenly Gabby’s eyes widened and she said, “Hey listen Rueben you want a drink?” and she indicated to the right, tossed the torch on the ground and went back inside the place she had come out onto the street from. Pokey and I dismounted. I tied the horse to the rails outside the saloon next to Muffy – Gabby had clearly made this her base – and followed her inside. Once we had entered the saloon it was plainly evident that Gabby had started drinking from well early on because there were many glasses and bottles on the bar counter. The room had high ceilings with a glass chandelier hanging from the middle of it but aside from that and a few pictures it was devoid of any decoration and was currently smoky as hell with fire was licking out from the corners of the roof. The joint was really probably nothing fancy to begin with I thought – just a couple of tables throughout the room and a big brass Espresso coffee machine in the corner – I’ll bet they sucked at that thing all fucking day long, the bourgeoisie continental assholes – there was a staircase that led up to a narrow indoor balcony that had a door in the wall on the second floor. Right in front of me though, next to the bar stood two middle-aged men, one with a pronounced paunch who wore a hat and had a grey moustache, and another thinner man who was dressed in a white collared shirt with a bow-tie. They seemed worried. I greeted them with a singular tip of the hat while sidling past, not wanting to get pulled into a conversation and went to stand at the part of the bar where Gabby was already pouring some whiskeys for us. A lot of people in Pasadena agreed that she was a mean drunk but she insisted that most times it was them antagonizing her to violence and I often found myself having to tell her that I always believed her on the subject for the most part but privately avoiding confronting her about things that we disagreed on when she had been drinking. “Gabby, what the hell happened here?” In one gulp Gabby drank the glass of whiskey, threw her head back before slamming the glass on the bar-top and in the next second vomited it all back up on her boots. “You shouldn’t take any air in when you do that or you’ll be sick.” I wanted to sound helpful without coming across as patronizing. “Rueben.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked tired. “I want you to meet Bertrand Donders, Bert for short. Bert, this is Reuben.” She turned to the fat man small-eyed man with the moustache and clasped her hand on his shoulder. He remained immobile but his little sweaty pig-like gaze darted up to meet mine and he mumbled something. As I said he was sweating and I was pretty sure he was Swiss and didn’t want to get too friendly so I just nodded to him again. Gabby tilted her head and continued “And that’s…ah, you - stz.” She gestured to the thin guy “” “Eustaces Laroque.” Jesus – he was French – What the hell were the Swiss and the French doing out here in a town in the middle of the prairie? “He’s French, Gabby.” I remarked in a flat tone. “En fait je suis Canadien-Français.” He corrected me. “Jesus Christ!” I dropped the glass in my hand and it shattered on the floor. My head reeled; French Canadian – this was all too much for me – could this place actually be some heretofore incredible and otherwise unknown nexus of these apices of first-world democracy? The taxation must be through the roof – “Gabby,” I searched for the words, “what the fuck happened here?” “I started the coup Rueben. I was doing it for the Latvians – I felt I saw an injustice and they wouldn’t have done it themselves.” The Latvians – I knew it. And where the hell did she learn how to stage a coup? She was gifted at some things, was our Gabby – but besides that something about it didn’t sit easy in my mind the minute I got into this town; I must have sensed that it was no ordinary fire: it was the blazing post-coital glow after the molten ejaculation of a Vesuvian discontent that had built up in the throbbing groin of society that had finally found a vessel to fill and after feverish pounding had finally spurted out onto the very faces of the people who – I looked around for Pokey but she was nowhere to be seen – the people who no doubt contrived this monstrosity thinking that it would never change, that the tables would never turn and all they had to do was hang on to power for long enough and everything would work out for them without ever having to bend to the natural force of change however it manifests and which would no doubt seem to them as anarchy or disorder in the face of the convenience that they had entitled themselves to and had come to expect without having to walk even a few feet in the shoes of the men who hammered the nails down into every plank of the very floors that they walked on. All I saw when I got here were the Latvians in lower-paying service or labour type work. They were driving the carriages, serving espressos, working on building sites – all that type of work while the Swiss and the French Canadians were town planners, lawyers, politicians and the like – all the white-collar positions and seats of power were held by the citizens of these two countries – ” burning piece of roofing the size of a coffee table fell to the floor behind me and the two men were clearly startled and more nervous than ever, “So I spearheaded a revolution to overthrow the seats of power and establish a system of equality across the board by burning down the court-house, the Mayor’s office, the Parliamentary buildings and the schools, publically executing the Sheriff and so forth-” I had heard enough. “Good work Gabby.” I turned to Bert with his fat, piggish face and suspicious little eyeballs and I got mad. I got really mad and stared into his eyes with my best piercing gaze. “So now the tables have turned, Bert. How do you feel about that?” Before he could answer I stepped up close to him and poked him in the chest which he clearly didn’t like. The other fellow was starting to get really twitchy too. “What was it, 1993 when Latvia got out of of Soviet Occupation? Yeah, that’s right fuck-head, the Declaration of the Restoration of Independence of the Republic of Latvia. You know it, it was adopted by the Supreme Soviet of the Latvian SSR. Remember the ‘Popular Front of Latvia’ , late 80’s and early 90’s? Remember Glasnost? No? I’m going to tear your fuckin asshole out, Bert” Bertrand looked confused. “Okay, I’ll make it easy for you, you anti-sematic racist swine. Think back to 1991 before the collapse of the USSR when Gorbachev was head of state.” “Eh - hey, Reuben,” Gabby began but I was nowhere near finished. “Okay, forget about USSR – think about Latvia you parasite. I would say that those poor bastards have had a tough enough fucking time, wouldn’t you? World War II they were being shared out like candies between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. And then came Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact – Thirty-two thousand two hundred and fifty Latvians was it? Killed or deported along with thousands of others from Estonia and Lithuania, cities and towns raided by Soviet Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del troops, state administrations liquidated and replaced with Soviet Cadres because the whole goddamned world was too busy with the Nazi invasion of France - ” I turned to the French-Canadian and spat on his shoe then continued at Bert - “Until the Nazis did arrive on Latvia’s border in Operation Barbarossa – re-occupying the country, administered under Reichskommissariat Ostland and so even more Latvians lost their lives, then in 1941 they had to fight on both sides of the conflict or risk deportation and even death until they were once again re-occupied by the Soviet Union after the fall of the Nazi Regime in ‘45 where attempts by national communists led by Eduards Berklavs to gain a degree of autonomy for the republic and protect the rapidly deteriorating position of the Latvian language were suppressed right up until the aforementioned Resolution on the Occupation of Baltic States in ‘89 who’s government only became members of NATO and the European Union in 2004 finally managing to denationalize privately owned property confiscated by the Soviet rule, returning them to their original owners or compensating them for it and also privatizing most of the state-owned industries and finally beginning to undertake the Olympian task of dragging the whole fucking country into the 21st century and orienting themselves along the Western ideologies of democracy where you and your money-grabbing exploitative capitalist ‘system’ have once again placed them in the underdog position, these citizens of this picturesque country on the Eastern Shore of the Baltic Sea that belongs to the eco-region of Sarmatic mixed forests, a lush and thriving eco-system full of deer, wild boar, moose, lynx, bear, fox, beaver and wolves and not to mention Latvia’s approximately 159 species of Non-marine molluscs – you make me sick, Bert, you hear that? Sick.” Bert blinked a few times and coughed into his hand nervously. “Well, as impressed as I am by your knowledge of Latvian history sir, if I could be so bold, you’ve unfortunately got the whole thing backwards.” “Eh?” Backwards?” I wasn’t intending to be chronological – that was clearly obvious – what an asshole. Bert narrowed his eyes on me and the tone of his voice took on a slightly more forceful edge. “I might as well just say what I think – you can do your worst to me: I think you’re both bloody mad.” To this remark Eustaces took one step backwards and pretended to inspect something on the floor but Bert continued unfalteringly, “Meilen Von überall is not some bloody fascistic state or regime. We’re just a normal town run along the guidelines of any first-world democracy.” “Listen, Bert” I began but he steamed on, the blowhard – “We have free healthcare for all of our citizens, free education and a democratically elected parliament. Many members of the Latvian population of this town are highly-educated, some not, but all of them are afforded the same opportunities and are subject to exactly all the same laws and policy as the Swiss, French-Canadian and the Papa New Guineans.” “Wait, the Papa New G-” “We have a first-class education system, a working welfare-state, private and government funding available for all new developments and businesses, a healthy economy with tax at just about 17%, four official languages, an university, a well-maintained sewage system, an economy based on sustainable-growth strategies across the board whether it is in agriculture, production of textile, food or luxury goods, three theatres, an art gallery, a flawless infrastructure, sport, art and education programs for the deaf, blind and other special-needs citizens, adult-education programs and until very recently a near non-existent crime rate.” I sensed that the last comment was directed at Gabby by the way he gestured to her with a sideways nod when he said it. “Ha!” I retorted, “You can save your pro-establishment rhetoric for the campaign trail Berty, ‘cos this-” “Reuben!” Gabby shouted at me. Something was getting to her - she was probably ‘tense’. “Stop it! – he’s right Reuben. That’s what I wanted to tell you – I completely misread the situation.” Bert straightened the lapels of his jacket and brushed some ash off it, “She wasn’t leading some ‘Latvian revolt’ – she scared the shit out of them, they couldn’t get a word in edgewise – truth be told they were the first ones to leave the place – they wanted the same thing we all want – an education for our children, the opportunity to buy a home and find work – a chance to afford the good things in life,” “Yes!” Interrupted Gabby, “And that’s what I want too.” “What are you saying, Gabby?” “That – all that! I want the chance to buy Le Creuset cookware, to make découpage floral candles and find eco-friendly ways to save money! I want to be able to choose which bathroom suite suits my personality best; am I a Savoy-contemporary girl, Deco-inspired with gentle curves and elegant lines, individual looking with a modern twist or are my tastes more adventurous: is what I really crave in fact to wash my face and perform my ablutions in and amongst the space-saving though not apologetic fixtures of the Monte Carlo range which is full of confidence, charm and classically sculpted white-enamel contours? Should I get the Sun time Bambi bistro outdoor garden furniture set with its ‘just relaxin’ but still-all-about-business’ look or go the whole hog and buy the Provence marble set with a 2.7m crank and tilt parasol, 1.8 meter table with a genuine Marble surface and honeycomb centre that delivers good looks and practicality, easily accommodating six with its light-weight aluminium and easy maintenance black textilene reclining and foldaway chairs?” I had never heard her talk like this - and what the hell is decoupage? “Shit, they both sound pretty good Gabby but-” “No Rueben, you’re not getting it.” “I get it!” – I didn’t really – “I do get it already but what I’m saying-” Gabby stopped me short by suddenly grasping my collar and holding it while she spoke – “Listen to me Rueben, you may think that these things are trifling and unimportant – Espresso coffee or Macchiato, what brand of shoes you prefer, whether your diet is protein-rich or high in fiber – you, Rueben are one of those uncompromising people who think that the only thing worth doing is actually creating the stuff – you want to start the revolution but don’t know how to enjoy the new order that replaces the old, you want to paint the masterpiece but when it’s done you don’t have a place to hang it – what you don’t realize is that the first real ‘art’, the first brush that was thrust into our hands and that we were told to paint with was our own life and that’s why these choices are important: it is precisely with this apparent minutiae that we create the greatest piece of art we could ever possibly hope to – a ‘life’ which is both a verb and a noun – every single one of us has been given the chance to be themselves, and that’s why it’s important to decide which underpants to wear in the morning.” Fuck me. I thought to myself, the bitch was right – well, she was wrong – I didn’t want to create anything and she didn’t actually wear underwear of course, we all knew that, but in a way she had a damn solid point. No – more than that – it was a moment of pure truth. My heart was beating hard and trying to claw its’ way up into my throat – “Gabby – you have opened my fucking eyes!” I turned around and clasped my hands on Berty’s shoulders and gave him a kiss on the lips, which he didn’t seem to mind – he was European – “God damn it – I’ve been hiding from my own life this whole time! It takes a hundred times more strength to actually live than it does to sit back and avoid making those decisions! it’s so easy to be anti-establishment and criticize the system but the real skill is to make it work – I want to do that too Gabby, Bert – let’s save this town together – I’ll get Carl and Harlan to come and help and we’ll start afresh here – ” “What about Bill?” asked Gabby, stepping forward to me. “I’ll make sure that if he steps so much as 20 meters within range of the town he’ll be shot dead on the spot.” “Oh Reuben!” Gabby screamed, jumping into my arms, “This will be fantastic – a new beginning! What do you think, Bert?” I turned to Bert but I couldn’t quite read him. He seemed exasperated and somewhat confused, like a man who had lived too much in the space of this one day; like as if a shrug was the only thing he could muster but he was the type of person that regarded shrugging as infantile. I turned back to Gabby, “Look,” I said quickly, “Let’s go out and save the town while we still can and restore it to what it was – let’s restore ourselves back to what we were supposed to be!” She nodded to me but momentarily lost sight of me so I just took her hand and we ran outside into the night where we saw Pokey just standing there in the middle of the street like a cold lost waif in the dead of winter with our two horses, holding their reigns loosely in her hand. Upon arriving at the scene we had to stop dead in our tracks and our enthusiasm took an almost physically crippling blow: All around and everywhere we looked we could see only a world that was in the very last stages of being digested in the belly of the flaming monster or had been already been completely reduced to smouldering Black and Orange embers. I looked down the high-street and on either side of it the buildings had slumped forward in a grim decay like old people who had passed away their armchairs alone in the night or that lay shattered on the floor like fractured hardened bodies of ancient corpses entombed in carbon at Pompeii. The two of us had nothing to say: there was simply nothing left. After a second though, a small feeling of hope lit up in my heart and I remembered Gabby’s words: that was still real, that feeling, that desire for normality and I grabbed her shirt urgently and said “Listen we still have those two in there to help us re-create Meilen Von überall from scratch! They’ll -” I turned round to the bar and cutting my sentence short the roof fell down to its foundations and then the whole building collapsed in on itself squarely, neatly and with a final bright spiteful flourish of spiralling windborne sparkles and a thundering roar no doubt crushing and cremating Bertrand Donders and Eustaces Laroque instantly with its last self-gratifying or maybe ‘nullifying’ act of immolation. There was no question about it, the town was dead: The last of the fire was before us and it would not be here for much longer because the party was over and the lights had come on and it was just milling around hands-in-pockets kicking shit about the town – the town, I acknowledged that we had killed which made me feel depressed, although I still felt that Gabby was more responsible for it since she was the one who set fire to it, scared off the Latvians and systematically dispatched every the figure of authority execution-style. She was looking glassy-eyed into the dying fire and I felt sorry for her. I walked up to Gabby, put my arm around her and said “I just want you to know, Gabby, that I will never forget what you said back there and that I promise to build this thing with you no matter what it takes.” I realized that she had a piece of Datura sticking out of the left side of her mouth. “What the hell are you talking about, Rueben?” She chewed on the plant silently without looking at me. She seemed tense. “Oh thank God – never mind.” I sighed a genuine breath of relief and we all mounted our horses, Pokey and I on mine and Gabby on the reluctant Muffy and we left Meilen Von überall, myself with a wistful air of ‘what could have been’ and Gabby chewing on a rough piece of Datura root that she had no doubt saved throughout the day. In my estimation it would take us about ten hours to get back the herd, not counting the intervals we would have to take for Gabby’s dawdling but today, far from simply ‘not minding’ her obsessive habit, I presently found myself just glad to have her back.
Copyright © 2011 Rube |