Epoca to Greece and Greece on Fire by Nancy Snipper

 
   Beautiful rugged Greece. I mourn for you as your bushes, flowers and the other infinite formidable formations of your unbridled nature - now made fragile - are swallowed up in the hell fires of angry gods.
Beloved Crete: may your soul be quenched by your hundred natural sources of silken mountain waters to forever drown the crimson demon of fire raging across your eternal terrain like a rapacious warrior,

 leaving your land scarred in blood-drip.

Epoca to Greece

And then came the strangers,

Byzantine monsters with huge mustaches spiraling upwards to unblinking black eyes.

Men madly popping up churches with mushroom-capped roofs,

chirping away to people who had no cotton batten to put in their ears,

chomping and chirping while chipping away at the gods of Greece

finally producing unrecognizable pieces of marble.

Strewn bits of bodies unto the earth

 like ashes after the cremation

              Athena,

                           Artemis,

                                         Apollo

      all gone

Still, the temple,

less pagan than the untiring Turk, cannot be defied,

This structure is sky-struck

as each grain, pebble, rock of marble

  Climbs up

                 up

                      up

                            up

                                      into the blue

Hitting through the barrier of silence…

                                                                      Floating.

No song, no prayer, no chorus of 1000

harmonious voices can ever sing praise to her

beauty and grace in a true, honest way.

So, one must be content to say, or speak

             that her sleek symmetrical archways frame vistas of green

                that her strong climbing columns are uncannily serene

                   that her smooth solid steps are precise and cut clean

                          that a delicate majesty in form can be seen

Golden and always there,

She rests like a lord unto the hill

                                                           Never to be forgotten.

                                                                                                   

Two incomparable countertenors in stellar concerts: Febuary 25 and 26 2011

(Review by Nancy Snipper)

During Montreal’s Highlights Festival, The Theatre of  Early Music presented two special concerts. In the first one titled "The Lark and the Nightingale", Michael Chance and Daniel Taylor sang soprano-like pitches of such immeasurable beauty as they articulated the profoundly moving music and lyrics written by Henry Purcell (1659-1695). Profound in their religious and lovelorn themes, Purcell’s songs sublimely suited these world-class singers whose exquisite voices sonorously evoke a century international audiences are nostalgic for. The program’s setting was apt as well. Within Montreal’s graceful yet understated Chapelle Notre-Dame-De Bonsecours, Taylor with humour and modesty also gave the stage over to renowned musicians whose instruments artfully brought back the Early Baroque period. The lute (Sylvain Bergeron), viola (Pemi Paul), violins (Adrian Butterfield, Christina Zacharias), recorders (Mathias Maute, Sophie Larivière), cello (Amanda Keesmat) and organ (Christopher Jackson) were in perfect unison as they lushly filled this lovely chapel with instrumental concerto titled, "On the Death of Henry Purcell", composed by recorder/flute virtuoso Mathias Maute.

Encores were endless; perfection can produce such adulation for artists who touch our hearts in the purest way. These artists did. 

Daniel Taylor

Michael Chance

The following evening’s concert titled,” Come Ye Sons of Art” featured the choir and orchestra of The Theatre of Early Music with Daniel Taylor conducting. He also sang as did Michael Chance. They repeated some songs from the previous evening, including, “Strike the Viol”, “Fairest Isle” and a lovely duet whose song’s remarkably beautiful refrain of “Oh no, Oh no” highlighted their notably lush harmonies. Another repeat from the previous concert was Matthias Maute’s “Concerto on the Death of Henry Purcell”. He masterfully performed again with Sophie Larivière. There was absolute clarity and ease despite the alacrity of tempo and notes most prevalent in the two allegro movements.  The concert’s title song featured full orchestra, choir, and soloists that sent rapture up to the imperious vaulted ceiling of Saint Léon de Westmount’s Church – concert’s venerable venue. Tenor, Jacques-Olivier Chartier, and sopranos Hélène Brunet and Jana Miller, along with the rich bass voice of Daniel Lichiti beautifully interpreted the lyric segments whose themes were of love, nature, religion and royal jubilation. In its entirety, the finale’s long vocal and orchestra piece was in fact an ode composed for the birthday of Queen Mary II in 1694, by Henry Purcell, one year before his passing. One must mention the virtuoso playing of British-born Adrian Butterfield, first violinist who received his training at Cambridge University and whose recordings are world renown. Amanda Keesmat on cello was remarkably strong. In fact, all the soloists, including trumpeter Alexis Basque and lute player, Sylvain Bergeron have performed centre stage in prestigious halls in North America and Europe. 

My Life ... Our Lives / My Mother / Body Breach / Through the Peep Hole

                                                Poems by Nancy Snipper


 My Life… Our Lives

In the hagged dawnship

of dew-encased protection

another day overcomes the odds

beguiling us all into a routine

of untouchable chaos.

My Mother

She was a Picasso princess

Angled in lines of irony,

comedy and tragedy

that converge into laughter.



 

                                        Body Breach  

                                                     Scabbed spindly birch bough

                                                     cracks

                                                                 cracks

                                                                                cracks

                                                                                           over the plate-glass lake

                                                                                                

                                                                                            then

                                                                                

                                                                                                       dives

                                                                                       

                                                                                                                       into

                                                                                                                                the

                                                                                                                       shattersound         

                                                                                                                        of

                                   

                                                                                                      splitting  ice.                   

                                                                        Such sudden swift surrender

                                                                        comes with

                                                                             divine

                                                                                          acceptance.

                                                       Not so with my father.

                                                       His fall took the form

                                                            of a slow bend

                                                       born from a resistance of knowing

                                                          that the unknown bowel below                                

                                                                                          was waiting to engulf him.

                                 

                                                      Leukemia’s gravity weighted him down,

                                                       whittling him into a ghost of  bones.

                                                                                     And as he crumbled
                                                                                                                      bit by bit

                                                                                                        into that darkest

                                                                                                                     deep,  
                  

                                                                                                             the black hush                   
                                                                                                                       of

                                                                                                                    midnight         

                                                                                                                ushered in

                                                                                                                     his final 

                                                                                                                             bow.   


                                                      There were no stars that night.

***********************************************************
 

Through the Peep Hole

Turn the key

of the door.

With curious steps

 walk some more.

                  Ah… this is where the sobs are coming from.

            Lying on her bed

               curled up in fetal fetal,

                  she has locked in her loneliness

Such disturbing sounds for those she loves

to have to hear

would only be referred to the professional ear.

I Am Number Four / Numéro Quatre by / par D.J. Caruso

                                                        “They are here, they walk among us”

The Loriens have been totally decimated by the Mogadorians. Nine teenage Loriens were protected and are now on Earth. They make up what is called ‘The Garde’ and all are endowed with special powers called legacies. The Mogadorians are hunting them down one by one, but can only kill them in a set order. The nine are accompanied and protected by their Cêpan (guardian). 

The story begins with Number Four, using the name Daniel Jones as an alias, lives in Florida along with Henri his Cêpan.  While swimming in the ocean, he realizes that Number Three has just been killed (each kill manifests itself with a scar on the ankles of The Garde). Both flee to Paradise, Ohio. Number Four registers as John Smith in the local high school. John decides he wants to quit running and lead a normal teenage life. Henri reminds him as to why they need to continue running.

 The scenario heavily borrowing from Superman and containing elements from “The Invaders” (a 1960s TV series), Twilight Saga among others; is clichéd in many aspects. The acting was not outstanding and the characters failed to engage.

                                                     « Ils sont là, ils marchent parmi nous »

The Loriens ont été totalement décimés par la Mogadorians. Neuf Loriens adolescents étaient protégés et sont maintenant sur la terre. Ils forment ce qu'on appelle 'La Garde' et tous sont dotés de pouvoirs spéciaux appelés legs. Les Mogadorians  les pourchasse  un par un, mais ils peuvent seulement les tuer dans un ordre établi. Les neuf sont accompagnés et protégés par leur Cêpan (gardien). 

 L'histoire débute avec le Numéro Quatre  utilisant le nom de Daniel Jones comme un alias et vit en Floride avec Henri son Cêpan.  Tout en nageant dans l'océan, il se rend compte que Numéro Trois a vient d'être tué (chaque mise a mort se manifeste avec une cicatrice sur les chevilles de la Garde).  Les deux s'enfuir au Paradis (Ohio). Numéro Quatre ce registres dans l'école secondaire locale comme John Smith. John décide qu'il veut quitter la fugue et de mener une adolescente normale. Henri lui rappelle à pourquoi ils ont besoin nécessité de continuer d’être sur la fugue.

 Le scénario fortement emprunts de Superman et contenant des éléments de "The envahisseurs" (une série télévisée des années 1960), la série Twilight  parmi d'autres; est cliché dans de nombreux aspects. Le jeu des acteurs n'était pas exceptionnelle et les personnages s’est pas à enclenché.

The Powder Case by Nancy Snipper

 

The door to the bathroom closed quietly. Mrs. Jilasi always did things quietly. Today as always, she was putting on her lipstick in a ritual of silence. She swiftly applied the cherry-flavoured gloss, anticipating a moist shine as it slipped red across her lips like blood from a mosquito bite. Mrs. Jilasi knew she had applied it just right by the scent her nose caught – not too far down, not too high up.

             It was one of the many tiny tasks she mastered at a specific appointed hour of each day, part of a repertoire of actions that one would normally do without thought, but for her, these little rituals were coups of accomplishment. Mrs. Jilasi was nearly blind.

Her enjoyment of makeup was blunted by the fact that Henry, her husband was not standing at the mirror peering over her shoulder, smiling, quietly saying,” You look so beautiful.”  This upset her far more than the fact that she could barely see, particularly at this very moment. Was this the day that she would bid a final goodbye to the shimmers of light amidst blackening blurred forms? 

             She continued to apply her lipstick, then her eye shadow, and finally her powder in front of the milky mirror that had become one of her familiar points of reference. After all, it had reflected her image in its glass for exactly 60 years and three days, as long as Henry had been with her. Was it always like this? Did he come to mind every time she applied her powder, or was it just now? For the life of her, she couldn’t get a focus on this troubling feeling. When had he left her, four years ago or four minutes ago?

            A knock on her apartment door broke her reverie and caused her to drop her powder case, which did not drop quietly. Rather, it emitted a cracking sound that Mrs. Jilasi found most unnerving. Indeed, it was a thud. What’s more, she had no idea where her case had landed. It could be sitting in the sink or on the toilet seat covering; it seemed to fall in that direction. Or was it on the floor by her feet?  A step to the left provided the answer, for in that single moment, she felt it crack into pieces. Not a heavy woman by any means, she was astonished, yet perversely pleased by that fact that her 100 pounds could still crush a powder case which felt strangely heavy in her hand.                 

            The event would mean her wrinkled skin of various shades of age would not be covered up. This was distressing, particularly since someone was knocking at her door. Should she answer it, or was a lady without powder an eyesore to any visitor?

This pressing decision irked her, but at the same time, made her mind leap into fast gear, much like a tiger jumping out of a cage or a heart that was racing far too fast. She abhorred the feeling, yet right now, she relished the spurt of adrenalin that made her feel a tad younger, more focused. Still, an unmistakable throbbing overpowered her limbs. This was new, and for that reason alone, Mrs. Jilasi was frightened. Was it her powder case that really dropped; was that the last thing she was holding in her hand?

            Suddenly she couldn’t remember. A fog was swirling around her. The knock continued growing louder. Her hearing seemed to magnify each of the four knuckles hitting the door. Too bad she had forgotten to dust the desk in the hallway of her spacious apartment. Would the visitor notice that?

            Much as she tried to find her case, it was the floor’s smooth surface she felt against her left cheek. Her arms seemed to lose all sense of feeling. Numbness buzzed throughout her body. Really, it was only a powder case; another could be bought. She was in the dark, completely. “If only he were with me, but he’s not.  Gone for good.”

            And as Mrs. Jilasi ran through a list of stores she frequently visited for make-up and other toiletries, she could not for the life of her remember from which store she had bought that perfect powder compact. This added to her stress, and her heart picked up its pace. This time, however, the pleasant rush she usually felt by the unexpected was not at all present. She felt uneasy, tight and not herself. A wave of nausea overpowered her, and soon the floor was covered in the fish she had enjoyed the night before.

            Yes, she had to dine alone, but wasn’t it like that every night since Henry had left her?  A stench swept through her small bathroom, magnified by the fact that Mrs. Jilasi had suddenly urinated at the time her powder case slipped from her hand. Too much to bear, sweet Mrs. Jilasi closed her eyes, sparkling blue eyes that weren’t doing her much good any way. At 89, everything was a blur or a faint form of something - a dark shroud.

            She was quite a dish when Henry had first held her hand, and slipped a sweet little imitation diamond on her fourth finger, asking her in his shy way if she would care to spend the rest of her days with him. She had loved him from the moment she first met him, four months before the ring slid on her finger. He was a flyer of spitfires with the RAF, and this greatly impressed her – his dark manly uniform with a few medals hanging over his jacket right pocket. His eyes were brown and gentle, and in them, she saw sadness that spoke of war and friends lost in fields of blood. 

        Six years her junior, Henry settled into his wife’s doting, much as a puppy resigns itself to his new master. Domestic docility seemed to both gladden and aggravate him. But as for Mrs. Jilasi, Henry was her everything. And for all those years of marriage, his smile, caress and kindly ways made up for each little annoyance that comes when two people are bound to one another, living together, having to stretch each dollar, burying hushed hurts, voices feigning sweetness, eyes with flat stares or a door closing a tad too loudly.

Such thoughts cluttered Mrs. Jilasi’s mind as her body lay on her bathroom floor, and the last thing she recalled was the store where she had purchased the fish - Loblaws.

She had paid five dollars for it - far too much for that sliver of halibut.

And as she whispered “halibut”, a familiar face appeared directly over hers. The word ‘halibut’ turned into ‘Henry’. Her loving husband had come back from the dead. Why could she see his face so clearly?  Then she noticed two figures – strangers dressed in white and blue jackets. They were carrying some kind of white bed.  She could see that too. But it was Henry who was bending over her.

“Henry, I can see you,” she said quietly, for that was her way, to speak quietly, only this time she noticed she had no choice in choosing the volume of her voice, for she was quite tired.

“Dear Hilda, don’t move; you’ll be fine; you suffered one of your spells, only this time you were out much longer than usual. When you didn’t answer the door, I retrieved my key to let myself in. You know how I hate trying to find my key; I never remember which pocket I put it in. You always get to the door faster than I can find it. But this time, you didn’t. I knew something was wrong. I found you lying here, and called 911. Never mind the mess. I’ll tend to that in a second. Can you really see me? Are you feeling better now?  How is your vision? Did you forget to take your medicine?”

But now was not the time to go into that.  He knew though she would be fine. She could talk, even sit up. As she slowly reached a standing position, her husband supporting her on one side, a paramedic on the other – not need for the stretcher, she gazed at herself in the mirror. Colour returned to her cheeks and her red lipstick seemed even brighter than before.  Her vision was as good as new, well - as good as any diabetic’s was at her age. Behind her stood Henry, his face reflected in the mirror. He handed her the broken powder case. Then a slow smile came to his face, and he said, “You look beautiful.”

Hungarian Film Week: February 25 till March 03 2011 at Cinema du Parc

Come and discover Hungary as Cinema du Parc presents an eclectic program of nine films from directors who are of Canadian-Hungarian origin plus a photographic exhibition entitled Kamera Hungarica (Curator - Tamás Wormser. Artists: Gábor Boros, Alex Brzezinski, Júlia Ciamarra, Anne Kmetyko, Doreen Lindsay Szilasi, Sándor Sipos, Andrea Szilasi, Gábor Szilasi, Antal Wormser, Leó Wormser).

The films being screened are:

Biblioteque Pascal by Szabolcs Hajdu 2010: In trying to regain custody of her four-year-old daughter a young woman weaves a fantastic, wild and surreal tale.

The Investigator by Attila Galambos 2008: A man will do whatever it takes to keep his dying mother alive.

Traveling Light by Tamás Wormser 2008: An intimate documentary that follows five nomadic artists.

Glass Tiger 3 by Ivan Kapitany 2010: Another episode of this old and rusty caravan.

Delta by Kornél Mundruczó 2008: Narrative about an unconventional brother / sister relationship.

Catcher: Cat City 2 by Béla Ternovszky 2007: An animated parody of several blockbuster films, mainly James Bond.

Faith, Fraud and Minimum Wage by George Mihalka 2010: A rebellious teenage girl wrestling with the true nature of miracles.

The Adventurers by Béla Paczolay 2008: Road movie about three generations of men travelling across Transylvania.

Dealer by Benedek Fliegauf 2004: A day in the life of a drug dealer.

For more information: http://www.cinemaduparc.com

Semaine du cinéma  Hongrois: Yuri Berger 514-730-7010 / ybcinéma 1@gmail.com

Cinéma  du Parc : Jeanne Charlebois 514-281-1900,  jeannecharlebois@cinéma duparc.com

Semaine du Film Hongrois : 25 février jusqu'en mars 2011 03 au Cinéma du Parc

Découvrez la Hongrie avec le Cinéma du Parc pendant le présentation d’un programme éclectique de neuf films des réalisateurs qui sont d'origine Canadienne - Hongrois plus une exposition photographique intitulée Kamera Hungarica (commissaire - Tamás Wormser. Artistes : Gábor Boros, Alex Brzezinski, Júlia Ciamarra, Anne Kmetyko, Doreen Lindsay Szilasi, Sándor Sipos, Andrea Szilasi, Gábor Szilasi, Antal Wormser, Leó Wormser). 

Les films sont présentés sont :

Biblioteque Pascal par Szabolcs Hajdu 2010: en essayant de reprendre la garde de sa fille de quatre ans, une jeune femme tisse un conte fantastique, sauvage et surréaliste.

L'Enquêteur par Attila Galambos 2008: un homme sera faire ce qu'il faut pour maintenir la vie de sa mère mourante.

 Voyager Léger par Tamás Wormser 2008: un documentaire intime qui suit cinq artistes nomades.

Glass Tiger 3 par Ivan Kapitany 2010: un nouvel épisode de cette caravane vieux et rouillé.

Delta par Kornél Mundruczó 2008: Narrative sur une relation entre frère et sœur non conventionnels.

 Catcher: Cat City 2 par Béla Ternovszky 2007 : une parodie d'animation sur plusieurs films de succès, James Bond en particuliers.

 Faith, Fraud, and Minimum Wage par George Mihalka 2010: une adolescente rebelle à la prise avec la vraie nature des miracles.

 Les Aventuriers par Béla Paczolay 2008: Road movie  sur trois générations d'hommes qui traversent la Transylvanie.

Dealer par Benedek Fliegauf 2004 : une journée dans la vie d'un trafiquant de drogue.

 Pour plus d'informations: http://www.cinemaduparc.com

 Semaine du cinéma Hongrois: Yuri Berger 514-730-7010 / ybcinéma 1@gmail.com

Cinéma du Parc: Jeanne Charlebois 514-281-1900, jeannecharlebois@cinéma duparc.com

The Ruthlessness and Wonder of Love by Nancy Snipper

 

THE RUTHLESSNESS AND WONDER OF LOVE

    The first time Margo met Alex, his appearance was disheveled. He had piercing

blue eyes, scraggly blond hair, and was wearing an old knitted sweater that draped over

his excruciatingly thin body.

    “Here is a fellow who has just been released from some half-way house,

  and sniffs turpentine,” she thought. “I hope his painting skills are better than his taste in

  clothes.”

Margo instantly judged people. Often she was right; more often wrong.

    He was painting the house she had just purchased. He rarely spoke, and when he

did, she had to make an extra effort to listen. His voice was horrifically monotone. He

never looked Margo in the eye, and he had a strange habit of squinting while loudly

inhaling when he spoke,  which was hardly ever.

    Sometimes, he would point very strongly to a wall, muttering something in his soft

 voice.  Margo decided he had some hearing deficit - hence his strange intoning.  Still, the

 house was painted in record time. Margo was impressed.

   Three years went by. One day, Jim, Margo’s live-in boyfriend who was more

like a brother than a lover to her, spotted Alex carrying flowers in a waif-like manner

to the next door neighbour’s house. She peered outside her window and giggled at this

man-child.

   The male occupant of that house happened to be the brother of Joyce, a colleague of

Margo’s with whom she taught English as a Second Language. The fact that Alex had

done a lot of work for Joyce’s brother right next door amused Margo, for Margo was

intrigued by coincidences.

   Joyce had recommended him to her with a warning: “He’s a good painter, but he

speaks like a poet and is very shy.”

     Now 42, Margo would come to rue the day that Joyce brought Alex into her small

 home, and eventually her life. He was 11 years her junior – a fact that ultimately didn`t

 work in her favour. It would take seven years for her to recognize this.  Margo

 never applied common sense to matters of the heart.

    One morning, Margo noticed a fresh crop of crocuses growing in the back garden.

“It must have been Alex, who planted them. He must have jumped over my fence to do

the deed,” she mused to Jim.

   She was impressed by the fact that Alex sought no thank-you in return for this

 generous gesture.  From that day on, she nicknamed him Angel Alex.

 “What an intriguing fellow,” she thought.

    One day, Alex rang her door. Jim responded, announcing Alex had dahlia

bulbs for the garden. She didn’t see him, but the box carrying these bulbs was placed in

the furnace room by Jim.

    A phone call was due.  Jim had no idea how to plant these strange looking bulbs

 that resembled  rotten potatoes. Perhaps their owner could inform her. Alex came

 over and showed her how to plant them. He also brought seeds that day, and without

 ever looking at her, explained in a hypnotic fashion how to plant them. She found

 him difficult to follow. His knowledge about gardening was impressive; his humility

 equally so.

   Margo was a busy woman. She was a writer, teacher and drama animator for her own

theatre club. Her varied projects necessitated the need to remain focused, level-headed

and practical, but once Alex began talking slowly without emotion, throwing a shield

over his underlying sensitivity, she became entranced by his total love affair with

those beautiful earthly wonders; and when he described the scent of a lily to her, she felt

his rapture. “What an unusual person,” she thought.

   One day, Alex came over for another garden visit. He stayed late.  He was sitting

in the adjoining living room. With uncharacteristic spontaneity, Margo brought up from

the basement stacks of paper files containing her life’s work of poetry. She proceeded to

share her love of music with him, playing practically every classical CD she owned. She

particularly stressed the Yo Yo Ma recording of Bach. He sat at the table, elbows on it,

cupping his entire face into his hands. She took this as absorption.  In fact, it was

boredom, as she would find out much later.

    On another occasion, Alex stayed to watch a television program about successful

women. Suddenly, he launched into an invective about stupid business women with

 their papers and briefcases.  Being a Classics graduate and possessing a calm

 character on most occasions, she found his anger and seething hatred frightening. She

 had never heard such obvious loathing. It wasn’t so much what he opined; it was the

 manner in which he did it.

    Once Alex stayed at night far too long for pizza. Jim wasn’t there. She told him she

really had to go to bed. He left stating he was feeling sick, a refrain she was to hear very

often in the future.

.

   Lights. It all happened over the silly things. Poor Jim couldn’t install them. Margo,

tiring of Jim’s ineptitude, bullied him into calling his father to find how to do it. His

father was good at such things, but he wasn’t a talker, particularly on the phone.

    Poor Jim. In trying to install the little buggers, frustration thrust into full gear. He

yelled at her saying he had no idea what he was doing. Once again, she made him feel

useless.

   When you aren’t in love with the man you’re living with, no matter how much he

adores you, his little mishaps become his vulnerable sores, that in her case, she refused

to treat, other than with disdain.

    The relationship was bearing down on her. Jim was a severely depressed man whose

 unhappiness held no fascination for her. He lost patience, something she had

 lost with him five years prior to this particular incident.

    “Everything I do is wrong,” he yelled at her in a pathetic manner.

 She remained impassive. He left himself open for secretive ridicule. She loved him, but

 it was a love that was not of the flesh, and hence, not the kind of love that she was

 yearning for.  That day she kicked him out for good. His tears had no effect on her. She

 was cold and definite in her decision, though she had no idea where she was heading. In

 that moment, she erased ten years of waiting for this man who desperately loved her to

 make a man of himself in bed and at work. The day he left, his life changed, and so did

 hers.

    Margo rationalized her cruelty, recalling when he crashed her car going to work at

night because of a burglar alarm going off – his  arrogant boss had called him telling him

to “check it out”.  Margo had to take a taxi to help him sort out the whole dam thing.

Jim had been drinking. It was past 1:00 in the morning.

    For an entire year, he had lied to her about going back to M’Gill University at night -

 she used to drop him off , but he never set foot in the building - as he later confessed.

 These two events alone were enough for her to send him into oblivion.

   When you have hopes for a man, and every important facet of a serious relationship

never arrives, no matter how much he loves you, no matter how brilliant he is – which

Jim was, it’s time to put him out.

   She was heartless and unforgiving. She sent Jim packing, his plastic bags in hand,

the door closing on a chapter in her life with a dear man whose compassion and

uniqueness she was unable to appreciate until it was too late. Her lack of sexual feelings

for Jim, and his disinterest in sex, only became obvious to her when she took up with

Angel Alex very soon after Jim’s departure.

    Alex came over and smoothly installed the lights. She was impressed. No drama, no

mess. He stayed very late. She began to bombard him with questions about his family. He

was extremely shy and smiled demurely as she gazed into his eyes that spoke of solitude

and innocence – the perfect combination for childless Margo.

    Alex had two brothers and a sister. His mother had died from a heart attack

the day after her release from the hospital. Margo felt sorry for him. She also felt

appreciation for his quiet manner of expression. She realized he was intelligent and

articulate, not at all pedantic, as Jim was.  In fact, he was totally different than any man

who had entered her world. He was detached, without emotion, and spoke in a hushed

robotic manner. Still, Margo felt his sensitivity was undeniable.

     Cupid’s arrow came in the form of a single question.

“Who do you think was telling the truth, Anita Hill, or Clarence Thomas?” Margo was

 testing Alex as he was getting ready to leave for his home where he lived with his oldest

brother, sister and father. She was referring to the old sexual harassment charge Anita

Hill had brought against Clarence Thomas who was up for appointment as a Supreme

Court Judge. The world had buzzed loud about the hearing. Margo was surprised to

discover Alex knew about the case. In a succinct manner, he turned the question back to

 her.

“What did she have to gain by lying?”

     He was right. It was an insightful reply, one that instantly showed Alex’s

inscrutability, born in a context of  protective selfishness. Margo would come to wish she

had noticed this facet of his character more than his answer to her question. Gain

through lying was something Margo had never applied to her own life; Alex, on the

other hand, made it his modus operandi. Mindful and cautious at work, Margo was too

exhausted off-hours to apply such wisdom  and focus to casual strangers. She called it her

‘sabbatical of the mind’, a condition that kicked into full force in the company of

Alex.

   

    He began to do small renovations around the house, leaving very late. She once tried

hugging him, as he wafted past her in the narrow entrance.

“No touching,” he said emphatically.

     If only she had heeded him. Once, when coming up the basement stairs, she gently

 took his hand and ran it across her cheek. That simple gesture carried a depth of

 tenderness Margo had never felt before. Alex did not reject it, but smiled.

    Margo spied Alex working on the upper balcony next door at Joyce’s

brother’s house. She was wearing a short skirt from Athens she had picked up in the well-

heeled neighborhood of Kolonaki in Athens, Greece, while on assignment as a guest

journalist for the Greek National Tourist Office. Alex smiled down at Margo. She

entered her house.

“Shit! I can’t believe I’m falling for that creep.”

   Buckets of tears. She was lying in her bedroom upstairs, yelping and sobbing for

him, like a dog in heat. He was in the basement. He refused to come near her. Finally he

did. He approached her bed, reluctantly.  She told him she wanted to comb his hair, and

he let her. She then placed his head between her small, firm breasts. Was this the boy she

had so longed for and never had?

   Margo doesn’t remember the first time they had sex - strange - considering how much

she had wanted it with him. The two-week, post-Jim episode of seduction was thrilling

for Margo. The wonder of it consumed her. Would he come to her if she lay on the floor?

    He did, often. That was the excitement. They would roll around together, their

bodies sealed, clothes on and grooved into the magnificent indentations and protrusions

of their forms. Margo felt it was their souls as much as their bodies that were hastening to

their climactic union. It would take many more years before Margo realized Alex did

not feel the same way.

   Alex stayed over most nights and spent weekends with Margo. But he often sought

refuge in the family’s Lachine home, for Alex was a loner. Lachine was about 15 minutes

by car from Margo’s home. Alex felt safe in Lachine with his father and brother there. He

always headed home after Margo criticized him over this thing or that. Often, he left

abruptly, slamming the door. Weeks would go by without hearing from him. So she

would call him. When her charm made no dent in his armour, she resorted to shameful

pleading.

  “Come back, Alex. I miss you, and I’m sorry about what I said. Please honey, don’t

 punish me any longer.”

   Margo had a lovely voice. It made up for what she lacked in appearance. She would let

him know how wonderful he was, and that fights were normal in relationships. Her

maternal manner and sincerity softened his resolve. The promise of a fine dinner sealed

the deal. They would reunite in the sweetest ways, and Margo’s exhilaration cried out in

love for him.

    Summers became winters. Margo began to believe Alex was more in love with his

garden in Lachine and the old ladies that invited him for lunch whenever he mowed their

lawns and shoveled their driveways.  She had never met all the widows in Alex’s life,

but she viewed them all as his surrogate mothers; his had died the year she met

him. Nevertheless, she desperately clung to her beloved - despite his increasing

 indifference towards her.

      Darkness descended on Margo. More fights, then silence Alex left her life the same

 way he entered it –  quietly.  On a cloudy, rain-soaked day, he walked out. He never

 returned. It was just after he had installed a new set of lights.