Daria's Poem "Of Whom I Often Think but Rarely See"

I met Nancy* in a pub in Wuppertal, we had shots of Korn and pints of  Wuppertaler Malz and she told me her remarkable story. She was born in Cadiz. Her mother, Sister Allegra, was a nun of the Daughters of Charity (DC) of St. Vincent de Paul in Jerusalem. At an inter-faith event she met Father Ara Melikian, a priest at the Armenian Patriarchate of Saint James. It may have been the Devil, may have been the Lord, but they fell instantly, permanently and violently in love and started an intense and passionate sexual relationship. Armenian Orthodox priests marry but DC nuns are sworn to purity. They broke their vows of marriage and chastity (respectively). They could not fight the physical urge and serpentine temptation and, had sex with passion most unbridled several times a week. It was not long before Sister Allegra noticed changes in her body and suspected that she was with child. Saying that she wanted to be closer to her Spanish roots, she requested transfer to the Cadiz DC monastery where her aunt, Mother Catalina was the abbes. She confessed of her sins and condition. The monastery had an orphanage, a hospice, a library, a soup-kitchen and a soccer team. The abbess said that she will be protected until she gave birth, and then she can decide what to do. 

A year and a half later, Sister Allegra returned to Jerusalem with a beautiful baby girl that she said kept for her sister. Father Ara knew the truth and demanded his daughter. He threatened to destroy her, so Allegra relented. The baby was baptized Daria Darianian as a member of the Armenian Apostolic Church.

Nancy said "I was that child". She grew up in spirituality and did so well in school that she was admitted to study Languages and Literature at the University of Wuppertal. She was already fluent in Armenian, Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish, French and English, so German came naturally. To support herself, she became a exotic dancer (she hated to say "stripper"). She said she was an "Hija del pecado**" and hated her parents with fierce passion: hypocrites, blind guides, snakes, and a brood of vipers, she called them. 

She became a poet, and her first book, ”Sad Leaves, Happy Trees" was an huge critical success. It drew  on her night-time experience. The opening poem, "Of Whom I Often Think but Rarely See", was nominated by the Deutsche Mittelwestliche Literaturgesellschaft*** for the annual prize of debut poem by young poet (Nancy won a diploma and  €150).

I was fascinated by her story. Nancy borrowed a pen from a waitress and wrote me a Haiku on a napkin:

                                            Who/when/where sees you naked,

                                            Doctor, nurse, girlfriends, boyfriends, cool,

                                            Des todos modos.

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* her name was Magill, she called herself Lil, but everybody knew her as Nancy

** a child (daughter) of sin

*** German Mid-West Literary Society

The cleverer of you will identify texts from the Beatles, Bob Dylan and the Bible (Matthew 23.33)

Food Adventures in Toledo

In November of 1995 I went to Toledo to see "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz" in the Iglesia de Santo Tomé and the Museo El Greco. 

After the visits I walked the quiet, narrow streets with small houses, peaceful atmosphere away from the tourist area. I was happy. Happy and hungry, that is. I decided to turn left at the next corner and then turn left again at the next corner and go into the first eating place I see. There it was, El Peñón, a tavern for locals with a menu only in Spanish. I managed "una copa de vino tinto, por favor" and looked at the six items on the list. The second from the bottom read "Codornices a la Toledana". I thought it must be a local specialty. When the waiter came, I pointed to it "Este, por favor, señor.". He seemed pleased and said something at the supersonic speed Spaniards use in normal conversation. I smiled "Si, claro, muchisimas gracias".

It didn't take long and I was staring at a plate with two beautiful, plump, juicy birds in a fragrant sauce. That is how I learned that codornices is Spanish for quails. They were delicious. I had more wine and crusty bread and was even more happy (and hungry no more). I carved out the two wishbones* for keepsakes.

 . 

Outside, back on the cobbled streets trying to figure the way to the bus station, I happened upon a nice English couple studying the city map. Always happy to share a good experience, I said to them: "If you want a really good lunch go to that place over there and order the quail, want me to write it down for you?". They smiled gratefully and said ”Cheers, mate, our Spanish is proper, codorniz, right?” ”Yeah, that's the one."

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* furcula (from Latin) is a forked bone formed by fused clavicles in birds. It is known popularly as wishbone,

String Quartet and Peanut Butter in Setúbal

The city of  Setúbal is by far the most Portuguese of all Lusitane cities and that is why I selected it for my research. The site was to be Taberna do Largo on Dr. Francisco Soveral, close to Mercado do Livramento. When I first walked in, I knew I had the right spot.

I was looking for singles with sad faces. Sad faces are easy to find as many Iberians are set in a permanent frown, the challenge was to get them to talk. 

Alonso was at a table with a beer and a small plate of snacks. He is a composer who makes a decent living scoring movies and TV series, which allows him to work on his symphony. I asked the question for my project: "Did you recently break up with your partner?" He said he did. He confessed that, after a rehearsal, he had sex  with the girl playing the oboe. "How did your girlfriend find out?" Alonso said that he told her, as he thought they had a good thing together and he didn't want to lie. "How did that make you feel?" "Sexually abandoned." "What do you do after a break-up?" Alonso looked even sadder: "I compose a string quartet, this one is Opus Two, Number Six." Suddenly he jumped up and said he had to rush as he just had a great idea for the Rondo of the fourth movement.  

Iria sat at a table in the back with a glass of wine. She is from San Leandro, California, USA and teaches MTM* at the Politecnico Setubal. I asked if she recently broke up and could we talk about it. She told me that after a department party, slightly drunk, she had sex with a pretty PhD student called Lolo. A few days later, as she thought they had a good thing together and didn't want to lie, she told her partner the truth. They broke up. "What do you do after a break-up?" Iria told me that she eats peanut butter sandwiches with Sriracha on cornbread. She has to order the peanut butter and Sriracha on Amzoron**. I asked if that helps and she was close to tears and just shrugged. 

I thanked her and wanted to leave when she grabbed my arm and asked me what I do after a break-up. It was only fair to tell her the truth. "I listen to German love songs from the thirties, forties and fifties. Zarah Leander, Marlene Dietrich, Hildegard Knef." Iria asked if it helps ... I just shrugged.

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* I did not know what MTM is but didn't ask as not to interrupt

** You know which one I mean 

Of Truth and Consequences

We were dating for almost two years, and things were good with us. Her name was Ilona Kerekes, and contradicting the meaning of her last name, she was slim* and tall.

We talked on the phone every day and, at least twice a week, I picked her up at her building or at the store and went for dinner at a place on the Lower Ossington strip and then to her place. I would spend the night most of the time (not all of the time). On summer weekends, we would take a leisurely drive in the country and find a romantic inn with old-fashioned, comfortable rooms where a proper breakfast was served at your table, not as buffet. We would jog and swim in the lake: things were good with us.

A few months into the relationship, I decided never to lie to Ilona. I don't know what came over me. Gentle reader, I must confess, admit, and acknowledge that I am a very successful and accomplished liar since early childhood. I was born with a remarkable talent to tell lies and honed and perfected my skill. I can (and will) get away with incredible shit.

A couple of days ago, Ilona called and asked if I was free "tomorrow evening". She said she'll pick me up after work to "go somewhere". I said, "Yes, sure." While Ilona drove, I asked where we're going, she just said "You'll see." We rolled into the parking lot of the "Imperial Bowling and Entertainment" and inside were greeted by thirty or forty friends who shouted "Surprise!!!!" That's when I remembered that it was my birthday.

I hate bowling, I don't understand how anybody can enjoy it and what's the point, but I put my best face on and ate disgusting chili-dogs and drank beer from large paper cups, did Jägermeister shots from small paper cups and thanked everybody for being there and put my courtesy coupon carefully away in my wallet.

Towards the end, after we had the horrible cake in the shape of a red-and-white "35", Ilona  asked me how I liked my surprise birthday party. Operating under my new no-lies policy, I told her how grateful I was and thanked her for the effort, the nice thought, and the beautiful intention, but I hated every minute of it and tried to hug her and kiss her. Ilona's face got dark, she shoved me and walked to the door shouting, "You can take an Uber home, you cretin!" There I stood wondering if  things were good with us.

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* kerek, in Hungarian, means round or rotund or wheel, kerekes is rounded

Three Musicians Walk into a Bar

On the evening of Wednesday, August,4th,1926, three musicians met for dinner at the restaurant of the Moscow Metropol Hotel (the notorious, exclusive place for elite party members and foreign visitors). It was the invitation of the great Igor Stravinsky, 54, one of greatest composers of the century. Maxim, the formidable maitre d',  gave them a fine corner table where they would be undisturbed. The twenty year old Dmitriy Shostakovich was very excited to meet the legend. The third man was fellow composer Sergei Prokofiev, 35. Shostakovich and Prokofiev knew each other from the Petrograd Conservatory where Dmitriy was admitted as a thirteen year old prodigy and, they met again at the founding meeting of the Russian Association of Proletarian Musicians in June of 1923, 

Hotel Metropol Moscow

Dmitriy had never been in such a fancy place, had no idea how to behave and what to do. He was thrilled when Stravinsky talked about the young man's successful premiere of Symphony Number One earlier in the year. He mentioned the enthusiastic pubic reception which applauded for minutes and made the conductor play the Scherzo as an encore. 

Stravinsky, as the host, ordered for all three: Rye Blinis with Smoked Salmon and Caviar, Red Beet Soup with Sour cream, Grilled Sturgeon Medallions with dill potatoes, Stuffed Chicken Breast with Rice and Vegetables and, for dessert, Charlottes. They drank  a lot of Vodka and Khvanchkara wine with the meal. Young Dmitry was eagerly waiting for a spirited, meaningful and profound discussion on music but to his immense disappointment, Prokofiev got very drunk and talked only about his new lover, Lyudmila Kvitornova, a nurse with large breasts. He met her after his longtime girlfriend Svetlana Pashtevetskaya left him for, Piotr Rublev,  a neighbor who owned a Zündapp motorcycle with sidecar. he said that, out of nowhere, Svetlana called him on the telephone in a terrible state, crying and telling him that he was the only one she ever really loved and he should forgive her and take her back. When he asked about Piotr, she said that the secret police came late one night, took the motorcycle and sent Piotr to Siberia. Prokofiev kept on drinking and crying and, before he passed out, confessed that, when Svetlana left him, he so was desperate that he wrote an anonymous letter to the OGPU denouncing Rublev as an anti-Soviet element with bourgeoise tendencies. As nothing happened for a few months, he forgot all about it and then met Lyudmila.

Stravinsky paid the bill and, helped by Dmitriy and Maxim, loaded Prokofiev into a taxi. 

Dmitriy, who came in for the dinner from his home in Leningrad (the new name of St. Petersburg  since 1924) walked to the apartment of his friend Malkin, a fellow musician. Malkin promised to wait up to hear a very detailed account of the meeting. Now Dmitriy wasn't sure what story to tell.

Of the Double Legged Penguin

The day before we bought the house, I strolled about in  the neighborhood to do a "butcher"*. I saw the "Hawaii Bar" at 999 Dovercourt Rd. a short walk away, seedy enough to be comfortable. Across the street was the Portuguese "Progress Bakery" with very decent espresso, fluffy Kaiser buns, crusty cornbread, and creamy Pastel de Nata all baked there fresh daily. Just a block away was "Rosso's Italian Barbershop and Salon". Signor Rosso was cutting hair from nine to six weekdays and his old friend, semiretired Paolo, helped out Friday afternoons and Saturdays.

For years, every third Wednesday of the month, after work, I went for a trim and to read three-day-old copies of Il Messaggero and La Stampa. There were always a few elderly Italian gentlemen hanging around talking among themselves, respecting the unwritten rule: no politics, no religion. After they saw me coming in regularly for about a year, I became a "vicino", they would greet me with a friendly "buongiorno dottore!" and would switch from their incomprehensible Calabrese to standard Italian to include me i the conversation. There was one thing I didn't like as a life-long Inter fan: Rosso had this huge picture of Juventus prominently on the main wall. Whenever Rosso boasted of how well Juve had done over the weekend, I reminded him of the 2006 season**.

We would watch fascinated the lightning-quick fandango of Rosso's super-sharp, silvery pointy scissors as they danced, dangerously close to the ears and scalp of whoever sat in the chair while he chatted and laughed with us. Rosso was proudly showing off his unbelievable hand-eye coordination achieved in fifty or so years of cutting hair on two continents. 

One Wednesday,  to my surprise, I found Paolo in the shop by himself: "Buongiorno Signor Paolo, dove è Rosso?" he replied: "Brutte notizie, Rosso ha subito un distacco della retina e lo ha fatto l'operazione d'urgenza." To which I could only say "O diomio, merda!" 

The silver scissors have stopped dancing forever. The store is now a dubious dry-cleaning and alteration place. 

I get my hair cut three and a half blocks down, on Ossington, at "Kebede's Men's Barber" which has fresh Toronto Start and Globe and Mail. I speak not one word of Amharic*** and we chat about the province and country being led by liars and crooks, and how he cannot afford to retire. That's OK by me because I cannot get a twenty-dollar haircut anyhow, anywhere within walking distance. 

Almost forgot: if you, gentle readers, wonder what's up with the title and how it is connected to this story, I am not too sure about that myself.

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* British, informal "take a look" comes from the Cockney "butcher hook: look."

** FC Juventus Torino was relegated to the second league following a match fixing and financial fraud scandal

*** official language of Ethiopia

Good TV

The limited series "Deeds Done" was not given much of a chance. Still, the compelling story and the main character's unlikely appeal drew an ever-growing fan base (which translated into very respectable ratings). 

The main character is Ras Collins, whom the writers made brooding, of suspect personal hygiene, a monomaniac with strange ideas of justice, right and wrong, and actions and consequences, yet somehow magnetically attractive. Neighbors, acquaintances, his fellow Law School students all think him a weird jerk with a habit of asking question after question, not waiting for answers, entitled to be rude to anybody with impunity.

His sister Dana, a girl of rare beauty, working as a governess, and his mom, Polly, love Ras unconditionally and defend him. 

In the series pilot, Ras kills Alyona, a wealthy usurer, to steal money and valuables she held as collateral. Liz, who witnesses the crime, also becomes a victim. He plans to use the money to help the needy. Ras had earlier published an essay with a distorted idea that special individuals are justified in taking any action, even illegal and violent, to right social injustice. 

Ras returns home weak, feverish, and delirious, torn between guilt and hope. He is nursed by Ramon, a university buddy secretly in love with Dana. 

Detective Petrus, in charge of the investigation, calls in Ras for several discussions and tells him that he has read his article. Ras senses that Petrus knows the truth, and the two embark on a bizarrely choreographed intellectual relationship and mutual understanding.

There are several parallel plots. Dana agrees to an engagement with Luz, a rich lawyer of shady ethics. Zak, whom Ras met at a bar, is a drunk, degenerate gambler who lost all his money, causing his daughter, Sonya, to become a prostitute to support the family. Zak, later,  dies in an accident. Ras realizes that Dana and Sonya make the same sacrifices: they sell themselves in different but similar ways.

In a strange twist, Mike, a casual laborer who saw Ras return to the scene of the crime, confesses to the murder. Petrus is not convinced. Things get complicated when Dana breaks up with Luz to be with Ramon and Sonya, who was a friend of Liz, falls in love with Ras. Ras, in distress and tortured by conscience, decides to confess. At the trial, the prosecution acknowledges the guilty plea and the mental state of the accused and asks for a lenient sentence. Sonya has a few moments with Ras, who first rejects her but then accepts her love and her promise to wait for him. There is no dry eye on the "Fans of Deeds Done" FB group.