Havana (Unfinished)

Havana (Unfinished)

By

Varo Borja

Papa strode into Caliente with one thing on his fevered brain: Rum. The stock market was in a frenzy, Scribners was being a royal pain in the ass, and Caesarea was singing like some gypsy half-caste dickering with the Devil over the soul of some gente in the hell of the Havana night. Papa had a thirst for something that only Ibrahim’s intoxicants and a night with Marieta could cure.

Papa weighed in at a sturdy 230lbs., mostly muscle but with the bulge of a Bon Viveur and the salt and pepper beard of a man in his mid forties. He was clad in a pair of khakis sent to him by his aging mother in Michigan, a flowery print shirt that exposed a luxuriant swath of chest hair, and a pair of rope soled shoes that he had taken from a dead Partisan in the Andalusian highlands back in ’37. The kicker to this ensemble, which was visible to all present, was the silver .38 caliber Colt revolver complete with Ivory grips courtesy of an old Berber pirate that Papa had met in Madagascar and bested in a game of Russian roulette. Papa stood a good head taller than anyone else in the crowd, but he was a favorite at Caliente. He spent his money well and with mucho gusto, and he rarely made any messes that the staff couldn’t clean up. Ibrahim, the club owner met Papa two paces from the bar and snapped his fingers for a bottle of his finest concoction.

“Como ethta Uthted, Padre? How ith it chu na come see uth por doth themanaths? Chu working on another, como thi dice, boooook?” said Ibrahim in a thick Cuban accent infused with a false hint of Toledo or Seville.

“Buena noche, Ibrahim. I see you’ve got my poison. I want the table in the back, muy rapido. Comprende?”

“Thiiii, thi.” Ibrahim was a host who knew his customers well, especially the big spenders like Papa, and he hurriedly ushered Papa to the back table shielded by palm fronds and out of the lights that made the grease paint on Caesarea’s face shine like the Moorish moon over Madrid. Ibrahim, who was the antihesis of Papa, stood only 5’5” and was openly homosexual. He wore only white silk, single-breasted suits and white velvet penny loafers with a gold coin from old Iberia inserted in each. He smoked from an ivory cigarette holder inlaid with gold, and spoke with a slight lisp so everyone who didn’t know him as well as Papa would mistake him for a Spaniard. Once Papa was seated and made as comfortable as possible, Ibrahim whistled through his two, slightly set apart, gold capped front teeth for Marieta Bonita.

Marieta was mas fina.

Marieta was muy bonita.

Marieta was magnifico,

And Marieta was in love with Diego.

She strolled across the floor like a tan and ebony fox, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the pulsating drumbeat, stopping hearts and breaking necks for a view of her languid loveliness. She was dressed only in a tight fitting linen skirt and a sleeveless, black silk blouse, and Papa’s throat became thick and hoarse at the sight of her. Ibrahim rubbed his hands together and grinned like a gilt gaucho of only the finest stock. He fingered Marieta’s long, jet black hair and snickered like an impish pimp.

“Thee eth muy guapa, no? Chu like thu thit with theeeeenor Padre, mi Marieta Bonita?”

“Si, Ibrahim,” said Marieta with a look of disdain in her honey flecked and amber eyes.

“Bueno, bueeeeeno. Chu lie theeenor Padre, Marieta? Chu treat heeeem ryyyye?”

“Si, Ibrahim,” Marieta was looking at the shoes that her peasant father had made with his own two hands before he had disappeared last December. A tear started to form in the corner of her eye, but it was visible only to Papa and not to her master with the still smoking butt of a Turkish cigarette smoldering in his ivory holder like the dying embers of Marieta’s self respect.

“Bugger off, Ibrahim. Chinga te, and VAMONOS,” said Papa as he cordially took Marieta’s hand and with a reassuring smile kissed it gently and offered her one of the three white wicker seats at the table.

With a bow and a twinkle in his eye, Ibrahim scurried away to chastise the Jamaican bartender for his over zealous distribution of Scotch to a pair of rowdy looking Marines, leaving Papa and Marieta to discuss whatever they wished. Papa gazed hungrily at Marieta, who looked away from him and towards the shadows, trying to hide her tears from the man who had been her benefactor and sometime lover for the past year and a half. Papa knew she loved another. Hell, he was twice her age and more, but she certainly was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes upon, and as he drank Ibrahim’s rum with more force than most men half his age could muster, he began to yearn for her more than for life itself. The band, with the overweight, octogenarian songstress Caesarea Magdalena at the forefront, had segued into a heartrending ballad that brought tears to eyes of the most sober of patrons, and left the more lascivious listeners melting in their liquor. Papa cursed himself inwardly for his lust. He was a married man with two children and he was a public icon to boot. His last novel had sold over 300,000 copies; a statistic in which he took much pride, but he knew his powers were failing. He had always sought after the one, true sentence. One shining example for the entire world to see. He couldn’t measure up. A certain critic, he knew, carried his last novel, and the brilliant marketing of Scribner and Sons had pulled off the miracle that he had failed to conjure up with his old Burroughs typewriter. He needed inspiration, and he had found it. In Marieta Bonita. He was using the time he spent with her to inadvertently boost the morale and rally the troops in his brain for one last, apocalyptic battle with the bastards who said he would never attain the pinnacle, the golden fleece of every writer’s career: the Nobel Prize.

Herido de Sombras

By

Varo Borja

Kiss me with the lips

Of a serpent

Swallow my pride

And spit out my unborn

Children onto the

Oriental rug without

So much as a real

Emotion you’re so

Cold calculating corruption

In that tight fitting

Silky seduction smile

At me and then sell

My soul to the vultures

You ravish me like the needle

And my guts are ablaze

With poison from your forked

Tongue twist the truth

And bury me before I

Stink up the place

With my needless vanity

And unwonted pride

Push me to the edge

And I’ll fall or

Jump this time I

Hate to love and

Love to hate

Myself

Perdido tu amor

No podre ser feliz jamas

Never, never

Again

Herido de sombras

Por tu ausencia estoy

Down to the depths

Of the pit

Where love is no more

And the break of

Day won’t find

Me at your

Feet.

--VB

Romanesque Period

The Romanesque Period

By

Varo Borja

In this essay, I will attempt to describe briefly Feudalism in Western Europe, The Crusades and why they happened, and also the plan and brief description of a Pilgrimage church in Western Europe. This is quite a task, so I will begin immediately.

Professor Gerhard Rempel, of Western New England College, describes feudalism as having three basic attributes: “ fragmentation of political power, public power in private hands, and armed forces secured through private contracts”. Feudalism first came into being in Western Europe during the eighth century A.D., by granting estates to Knights (or the lowest caste of aristocracy, consisting basically of professional warriors) in return for military service. Feudalism differed throughout Europe, with the classic model in effect in Norman France. Feudalism in Germany differed slightly (mainly because it was more centralized; there was an emperor in Germany), and in Russia and the Near East it didn’t exist at all. The main reason for the development of a feudalist state was the influx of the Muslims from Spain and the Near East. Feudalism was created as a means (although a weak one) of defense against these Muslim (or Moorish) invaders. Being essentially decentralized in nature (in contrast with the centralization of the Roman Empire), the feudalist state was divided up into land holdings called “fiefs”. These parcels of land were distributed to the various aristocracy of the region (a process called “subinfeudation”) with the largest portions belonging to the sovereign Lord or King (or in the case of Germany, the Emperor.) The size of the estates were divided by size in descending order in this fashion: first, the Dukes, then the Counts, the Viscounts, the Barons, the Earls, the Margraves, and at the last the individual Knights. The Knights at the bottom of the ladder were relatively poor, and had few peasants (if any) to work their estates. At the very bottom of the ladder were the peasants, who were tied to their respective estates from birth, and had little or no chance of ever escaping a life of constant toil and ignorance.

The basic weaknesses of Feudalism were in the decentralized aspect of the system, which led to infighting between the various Lords (title given to the owner of an estate) and the bickering and chicanery (and general disrespect for authority) associated with obtaining and preserving these “titles”. To succeed in this system basically only two things were needed: a strong right arm and a clever mind. Several of the Duchies and Counties of the Medieval world were created through sheer butchery and backstabbing. In fact, the rapine, infighting, and general chaos were so great that a general code of conduct called “chivalry” was instituted and quickly became fashionable. Although much better in theory than in practice, chivalry was one of the basic proponents of what I will discuss next: The Crusades.

The Crusades were a series of holy wars that were undertaken against the Muslims (or Moors), with the purpose of reclaiming the holy city of Jerusalem. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, the Crusades are listed thus:

It has been customary to describe the Crusades as eight in number:

• the first, 1095-1101;


• the second, headed by Louis VII, 1145-47;


• the third, conducted by Philip Augustus and Richard Coeur-de-Lion, 1188-92;


• the fourth, during which Constantinople was taken, 1204;


• the fifth, which included the conquest of Damietta, 1217;


• the sixth, in which Frederick II took part (1228-29); also Thibaud de Champagne and Richard of Cornwall (1239);


• the seventh, led by St. Louis, 1249-52;


• the eighth, also under St. Louis, 1270.

It would fill volumes if I expounded on the Crusades in detail, but I will give a brief account of why they happened. For centuries, Western Christians had made pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and in particular to the Holy Sepulcher (the Tomb of Christ) to pay homage to the holiness of the Lord. Most of the more notable princes had done this, including the Holy Roman Emperor, Charlemagne, as well as several of the popes from the time of Constantine up until the end of the first millennium. These Christians had enjoyed the protection, if not the blessing, of the Moorish peoples who inhabited Jerusalem and the surrounding area for centuries. However, with the rise of Hakem, a Fatimite Caliph (or Muslim cleric) of Egypt and his hatred for the infidels and purity of Muslim doctrine, the order was given for the expulsion of the infidels from Jerusalem and the destruction of the Holy Sepulcher. Although a definite turning point in the politics of the region, this event didn’t deter the Western Christians from making pilgrimages. In fact, a new religious fervor inaugurated in the eleventh century propelled many Christians, even of the lower classes to make the journey to Jerusalem. This new influx of pilgrims resulted in the general persecution of all Near Eastern Christians, and was one of the direct (or more advertised) reasons for the Crusades.

In reality, the Crusades were a chance (seen first by Pope Urban II) for the implementation of a Holy War (or grand cause) that would supposedly bring out the best in the unruly (at best) Lords of Christendom and end the infighting and slaughter inherent to the feudal system. It would also (supposedly) stop the influx of the Moors into Spain and the Byzantine Empire and act as a dam against the religion of the Muslims. The Crusades were a very complex series of Holy Wars undertaken with much zeal, but with sometimes very spurious motives. In fact, many of the “Crusaders” never even left their villages, and were content with the slaughter of the “infidels” at home, who were mostly of Jewish extraction. The majority of the clergy did not condone the general slaughter of the Jews during the 12th and 13th centuries however, and many persecuted Jews were hidden or given assistance by the various monasteries and local parishes throughout the west.

Perhaps the greatest accomplishment of the Romanesque period (which included most of the Crusades) was the establishment of the pilgrimage churches along the routes taken by the zealous, if ill conceived Crusaders. Many of these churches were built, but for the sake of brevity and to give the reader a general idea of the basic outline of these holy structures, I will describe only one.

The Abbey church of Saint Foy was a masterpiece of the Romanesque period, and will serve as a shining example of the architecture of its time. Built by the work of the Conques monks, this beautiful structure was built before Saint Sernin of Toulouse, but had basically the same floor plan. Based on the general Basilica type from early Christian and Imperial times, Saint Foy contained a nave and a choir that was surrounded by an ambulatory. The choir was the place where the statue of Saint Foy (a small girl who had been martyred at the hands of the ministers of Diocletian; her bones were brought to the church in the ninth century and venerated with much religious zeal) and other holy relics were kept. The nave and the transept (or crossing) were built with much additional space so hundreds of pilgrims could hear the sermon and take the Eucharist (Lord’s Supper) from the priest at the high altar at the face of the choir. Saint Foy also contains a dome settled at the intersection of two perpendicular axes over the high altar (see http: //www.conques.com/visite31.htm for these notes). The Abbey church of Saint Foy was based on the cruciform plan, and had radiating chapels much like Saint Sernin. Saint Foy was designed with utility at the forefront, but it also contains one of the masterpieces of Romanesque sculpture: The Tympanum of the Last Judgment (which is much like that found at Autun, in Burgundy.)

This tympanum (the frieze over the doors, usually at the narthex) is found at the western portal of Saint Foy, and is sheltered under a deep semi-circular arch. It contains 124 figures, and is 6.7 meters wide and 3.6 meters high, and has been preserved to the present day in almost pristine condition. According to http://www.conques.com/, the overall composition is “Very simple: the huge semi-circle of the tympanum is composed of three superposed registers split by the strips which are reserved for engraved inscriptions. In order to fill in these registers, the author divided them in a series of compartments, which correspond to the twenty panels in yellow limestone he sculpted at ground level before assembling them like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle. This division, easy to discern, has been skillfully made given that one joint never intersects one figure or one scene.” The theme of the tympanum is, of course, the Last Judgment, and features Christ enthroned at the center surrounded by images of frightened and hapless supplicants who are either being protected by angels or harassed by demons. Christ’s right hand is raised toward heaven, signifying his acceptance of the supplicants on his right into the Kingdom of Heaven. His left hand however is lowered, damning those unfortunate souls on his left to an eternity of fire and torment. It is interesting to note that this theme was very prevalent during the Middle Ages, and must have been very sobering to all those who entered the Abbey Church of Saint Foy.

In conclusion, I have found this paper to be very informative, not only in an historical sense, but in a spiritual sense as well. My research has shown me how far Western society has come from the times of Holy Wars and the virtual enslavement of a whole race of people to such a failed concept as Feudalism. However, we have not come as far as some might think. The Iraq war has been categorized by some as a type of “Crusade” against the infidel Muslims and their terrorist factions. It’s a shame that people in this day and age of ultra modern enlightenment still believe that such chicanery and nonsense as a “war authorized by God” is a necessary thing, and that the people in charge of such acts of violence don’t have (much like pope Urban II) ulterior motives. Perhaps one day the human race will outgrow this very blatant “tribal” mentality, but obviously it hasn’t done so yet. Maybe like the Crusades of the 11^th and 12^th centuries, we will be graced with a few monuments to the better side of human nature, like those found at Saint Foy and Saint Sernin. Maybe one day mankind will be able to make such beautiful pieces of art as the Tympanum of the Last Judgment without the promptings of hatred or bigotry, and then we will be able to say that we have truly passed out of the Dark Ages.

One Way Ticket

By

Varo Borja

The young, mad fools of my generation went to war without a thought for themselves and a satchel full of pride and blazing hearts that weren’t dimmed in the slightest by the fear of death and the grave. I’m lying here, 68 years old last November, and I’m afraid and I can’t remember my wife’s name. She’s lying in the room across the hall, asleep beneath the coverlets and lace and what not that she collects from the dime store in town. She’s sleeping peacefully, mainly because I’m not lying beside her. I haven’t slept amid all that finery since the ‘60’s. Since she got tired of me lying awake all night and counting the dog tags of the Battered Bastards of the Big Red One.

I remember the snow falling, falling in heaps and all I wanted was a bath and a hot meal and a look at some of them French girls once again on the streets of gay Paris where I left my virginity and my pocket watch. I gave it to a French whore because she fancied it so, and I’ve never regretted it, not one bit. I’ve always had a weakness for pretty women, especially foreign ones with their rouge and their perfume that smells of sin and lilacs. Elizabeth. That’s my wife’s name. She used to love me. She bore me four boys and fixed my supper for going on fifty years now, but I’ve never loved her. I loved that French whore because she didn’t ask me to be anything other than what I was. Hell, she didn’t know but two words of English. Lucky and yes. Damn, if a man don’t need a woman that knows just them two words. I wasn’t about to call her yes, so I just called her Lucky. She was the love of my life.

The scar on my belly feels like so much cloven earth and it still hurts sometimes. At night mostly. I know some of my buddies who lost legs and arms talk about phantom pain. You know, the pain of missing something that isn’t there. I can still feel that SS soldier driving that bayonet into my gut, and I can still see the look in his eyes. The madness of war, at first, and then a kind of sadness. The kind of sadness that you might see on a clown’s face at a carnival or something. The sadness that comes with being a pawn in a grand spectacle that is utterly ridiculous and means nothing and goes nowhere. The kind of spectacle that people will give their last dollar and even their unborn children to see, and then leave with a feeling of having been cheated, but not knowing why.

The artillery shells were the worst. Especially the white phosphorous rounds. A man can live with the constant thought of being shot, or stabbed, but the constant thought of being blown to bits or burning alive eats at a man’s very soul. The not knowing, and the very powerlessness of it all. The not knowing amidst all the others not knowing and freezing and going hungry and missing those pretty French girls and missing their Mamas most of all. War is hell, some say. I say its worse than hell. If a man is in hell, then he’s already arrived at his final destination. He can plant his feet and set his face and burn with the best of them. When a man is in a war, he just waits. Waits for that bullet or that piece of brimstone to start him on his journey. He waits amid the cries and the slaughter and the senseless suffering of men that are dearer to him than most of his own kin. The powerlessness of waiting to die rivals anything that the seven heads of hell ever cooked up for the torture of the unredeemed.

In the morning I’ll have to get up and plow. Plow that damn frozen earth so I can plant taters and what not in the spring and then dig the same damn ground again in the fall. I’m sick of it. I’ve been looking at the backside of that mule now going on thirty years and all I can think of is Lucky. Lucky with her golden brown hair and the twinkle in her eye and the way she said nothing at all but said everything in the process. I miss my youth. I gave it away for a busted up homestead and a broken back and now I’m old. My gout gets to be something awful sometimes and I find myself reading the obituaries every night now before I go to bed. That can’t be good. Reading about death and then dreaming about death and then waking to a living death and the backside of that old gray mule.

I love the smell of gun oil. It tastes like tin and hog grease but it smells like a new day. I took good care of my old M1. I smuggled home a Mauser and a Hitler Youth dagger but I’d give them and a week’s wages for that old M1. The Quartermaster made me turn it in when I got back to the States. I told him to take good care of it for me. Lucille. That’s what I called her. That M1 killed more Germans and I-talians than the cholera but it kept me warm and safe many a night lying in the frost in some god-forsaken foxhole in the middle of the Low Country. I’d kiss that rifle if it was here with me now. I’d sure as shit rather kiss Lucille than I would that hag in there in the other room. Jesus. Where did the time go?

When we hit the beach at Anzio I damn near pissed myself. I probably did piss myself but I was soaked to the gills in seawater and I was too damn scared to be wondering if I’d pissed myself or not. I saw Charlie Trumbull get his head blown off three feet in front of me. I tasted brains and seawater for a week after that. Everything I ate, from C rations to K rations to candy bars tasted like brains and seawater. I’d just spit it out and drink coffee. I didn’t start taking sips from Joe Sweeney’s canteen until after Normandy. By then I wasn’t afraid of death or hell or Jesus or Jeremiah anymore. Once a man sees so much blood and guts and the grease of the war machine gets into his very bones the preaching and pleading of his childhood just kind of slip away. Like so much sand. Like so much seawater.

I can’t take this anymore. We were heroes. Weren’t we? The papers said so. The radio said so. The politicians said so. Even the hag in the other room says so at every goddamn Rook game she plays at. “William got five Purple Hearts and a Silver Star” she says to her hag friends as she doles out the cards. Every year that number of Purple Hearts gets a little larger. By the time I get to be 75 I’m sure I’ll have won the Medal of Honor. I’ll have damn sure earned it too. Too bad about those Purple Hearts. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I have earned a few more Purple Hearts since I came home from the war.

I’m gonna do it. I have two thousand dollars tucked away beneath an old coffee can behind the hog lot. I’ve kept that money for a dreary day through rain, sun, snow and sleet and I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna drive my ass to the airport tomorrow and buy that ticket. One Way, First Class to Paris International Airport. I’m gonna go see Lucky. I’m gonna go see the graves of the men who were the real heroes and take some of the hag’s prize red roses to help them rest a little easier. She won’t miss them. She won’t even miss me. No one will. Not even my kids. I’ll just disappear like a dime store comic book hero and they’ll never see me again. I’ll get lost in Montmarte and get so drunk on good French wine that I’ll see stars again and the flowers in Flanders will welcome me home. I might even smoke some of that Hashish that the Turks sold behind the cafes. Lucky and I will have a grand old time and then we’ll hop a steamer together and sail to the Orient. I always wanted to see the Orient. My brother Jack lost his life there in ’44. Maybe I’ll take some of them roses for him too. Maybe I’ll take a goddamn truckload of roses.

Mama lost her mind when Jack got killed. When she got that letter that said a Jap plane had hit his ship and all hands were lost it flipped a switch in her like a breaker with too much juice on it. Jack was her pride and joy. She struggled through fifteen hours of labor with him and damn near died herself. She always babied him. If there was two biscuits left on the plate she’d give Jack both of them and the last slab of bacon in the house to go in between them. “Jack was a blonde haired blue eyed angel straight from heaven” she’d say. They gave her shock treatments in the State Hospital but she didn’t even budge. She was in a nursing home for thirty years until she died of congestive heart failure. I paid for that nursing home with the sweat of my brow and the best years of my body. She didn’t say two words when I got home from Border duty in ’46. She just stared into space like a soldier that’s been on the front lines for too long. I never knew my Daddy. He lost his mind drinking moonshine and died an early death from the syphilis he got in France during the Great War. I don’t know what was so great about it. They didn’t have to worry about Tiger tanks in the Great War . All they did was sit in the mud and fire old water cooled Lewis guns and drink rot gut homemade gin and get syphilis from Moroccan whores.

Jack wasn’t even my whole brother. Mama had an affair with a man from the Home Guard while Daddy was away in France. I was born in 1917 before he left. Daddy had brown eyes. Mama had brown eyes. I have brown eyes. Daddy died in 1920. Jack was born in 1919. Daddy had syphilis. Jack had blue eyes. I guess that blue eyed fella from the Home Guard had a problem keeping his dick in his pants but we’d always find little presents outside our door every Sunday morning. A bottle of milk, a fried chicken, a pan of cornbread, two dollars, or whatever. During the Depression Mama sewed socks till her fingers bled and ironed shirts on the kitchen table to keep body and soul together. Those “presents” never stopped coming even during the worst of it in ’32. I never knew that fella’s name, but I heard Mama say one time that Jack was the spittin image of his Daddy. She must have really loved him, and I guess he loved her too, or maybe he just felt guilty. He must have had a wife and children of his own. Maybe he was married to a hag too, but I guess he didn’t have any medals to speak of for the war except old Jack. Jack and his goddamned big blue eyes.

The sun is coming up. In a minute that rooster is gonna crow and I’ll have to get up and put the coffee on. I should have already been out there and got the mule hitched up but I guess a little extra time beneath the covers ain’t gonna hurt anybody. Maybe I’ll buy that ticket tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Saturday and I can sneak off without the hag noticing anything but the truck being gone. Hell, she wouldn’t notice anyway. She’s too busy snoring beneath those lace coverlets and satin pillow cases to know I’m alive. I wonder if Lucky will recognize me? Probably not. I’m not the boy I used to be that went to war without a thought for myself and my satchel of pride has been eaten away by the moths of debt, old age and inertia but my heart is still ablaze somewhere down in this old man’s chest next to the shrapnel and the memories of what I used to be and the grit it takes to face one more day behind that old gray mule.


--VB