Cyrano D'Anconia Reasons

Slumdog Millionaire: A Touching Story of Destiny

2009-04-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

By Jose Gainza

The easiest test I have to judge a movie is whether it makes me cry, which I call the ‘Pearl Harbor Test’, for when I first saw this movie I cried so much I wanted to bawl. The Notebook had a similar effect on me. But this unfortunately is a subjective standard, and it should be insufficient to convince you that my judgment is true. Nonetheless, I believe that I am mature, experienced, wise, and sensitive enough to personally trust a movie that makes me cry.

Since the beginning of my adult life, when I began to discover the world of philosophy—besides stories about the heroic, passionate thinker—I have always appreciated stories about passionate love, about the great return of a lost love, about how society or society’s politics can interfere with the fulfillment of love, about an obvious obsession (whether explicitly intense or somewhat repressed). Looking back at my adolescence, I must admit that even then there have been movies that have made me cry, but when I was twenty, I began to understand the meaning of my cinematic laments and welcome and enjoy them.

Slumdog Millionaire (2008) does meet this standard of mine; it made me cry, and in addition, I am now on the threshold of thirty. Though I sincerely cried (actually, really teary eyed), it was nowhere near the intensity I experienced with the two movies noted at the top. The lover in Slumdog Millionaire is Jamal Malik, and he is inescapably possessed by an intense and insatiable love for Latika, a girl he first met in his early boyhood. Throughout the entire film it is presented adequately that she is always on his mind, always has been, and always will be. It is indeed heartbreaking the way in which they are separated the first time, especially since it is Jamal’s own brother who finalizes the separation of the child Jamal and the child Latika. She is running for a train that is just beginning to take off, and Salim, Jamal’s brother, is the one who is going to grab Latika’s hand and bring her aboard the train—but he pulls his hand away and gives the girl a mocking smile. Soon she is captured by the gangsters they have just been running away from. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. She always is,” Salim advises his brother.

However, this advice is not enough for the viewer to calm his fears. It seems, by the look on his face, that Jamal is willing to accept this for now. Yet recall by whom she is captured. Maman is a gangster who saved Jamal, Salim, and Latika from the brink of starvation. They were working for him as organized beggars of the streets of Mumbai. We witness them using a crying baby in order to earn more money. We soon find out that blind beggars make even more money than ones with eyes. They are running away from Maman because he wants to scoop out Jamal’s eyes so that he could earn more money for him. Salim had been put in the position to deceive his brother and lead him to the victimization of having his eyes scooped out with a spoon. Instead he saves his brother and they manage to catch a train—but Latika is left behind. We already know that Jamal and Latika are in love and have made promises about their future together. We thus know the torment that Jamal will endure. Added to the torment of being separated from the person one loves the most—which I too am familiar with—is the fear of her being victimized in ways little Jamal can only dream of. In the case of Slumdog Millionaire it is extreme poverty, and the perennial gangsterism that always seems to accompany the poverty of slums, that keeps Jamal and Latika apart.

If I am honest with myself, I must admit that I loved Slumdog Millionaire. It made me cry and for good reason. Yet there are other standards. Take a look at the story (or the “plot”). Will Jamal Malik win the grand prize? Will a slum dog become a slum dog-millionaire? Did he cheat? How exactly is he winning? As it turns out, he is winning honestly. He is not a genius, though he possesses a heroic soul. Rather he is winning by chance, though it is not luck. The questions are random, and the answers are grounded in past experiences which Jamal must recall. For instance, there is the Benjamin Franklin/$100 bill question, which has an answer from Jamal that originates in a adolescent encounter by Jamal with an American tourist couple, and finally in his later encounter, his reunion with the boy who received the blinded fate just before Jamal was saved by Salim at the hands of Maman, which leads to him finally finding Latika, and Salim saving her for Jamal. In a funny exchange in a restaurant kitchen, we learn that Jamal and Salim have left Bombay where they were finding success as petty criminals and grifters, and returned to Mumbai with the specific intent to find Latika. Salim, very reluctant to be in Mumbai, is doing this for his brother.

If you think about it, it would have been a different story, if Jamal, after losing Latika the first time, would have committed himself to becoming a learned man, working towards going to University, and becoming a professional, to secure the happiness and well being, when he finally finds his lost love again. But in the movie, Jamal gets on the game show Who Want to Be a Millionaire? by chance, while working at a telemarketing firm. The questions of the game show are a device to tell the story of Jamal and Latika and its importance to Jamal’s life.

The movie begins with a question, and it ends with an answer: Jamal Malik is one question away from winning 20 Million rupees. How did he do it? A: He cheated. B: He’s lucky. C: He’s a genius. D: It is written. Much of the story revolves around Jamal being interrogated by a police officer about whether or not he cheated on the game show. Several questions are examined, and this way we learn the story of Jamal. Eventually we learn why Jamal is being accused and whether he cheated or not. Based on the story that is revealed, we must admit that Jamal has not been lucky up to the point of being on the game show; he has suffered much. He is not a genius, he is not very learned, though he does have a very capable mind and brave spirit; he is only a tea server at a telemarketing firm. The final answer of the movie is: “D. It is written”.

Our Slumdog was destined to love Latika, to find her again, to win the fortune that will free them from the forces that have kept them apart for so long. Slumdog does not seem to be in control of his ultimate happiness. Yet this determinism as the overall worldview of the film is not a malevolently fatalistic one. There is still a sense of hope: even for the most wretched and pitiful of men, the universe can still grant you your greatest wish, and this is a universe in which you will be allowed to enjoy that fulfillment.

Is Slumdog totally at the mercy of some higher power, or does he have some choice in the direction of his life? There is much to say about the nature of his character as a motive power of his life’s course. Very early he is presented as a brave boy. Take for example, his decision in the face of a bigger event, an emergency, of which he has no control of, of which he is but a little insignificant pawn. His mother is brutally beaten before him by a murderous religious fanatic, and her death is a certainty. The boy does not panic, he does not try to save her in a foolish futility, he does not roll up in a ball wailing and lamenting awaiting his own murder. His reaction is rather to run away for his own safety, to meet a future of loneliness, fragility, poverty and uncertainty, a boy without a mother or a home. He is left alone perhaps with a brother he rather not live with, who promises already to be a potential enemy.

The most admirable virtue of Jamal Malik is his utter commitment to loving and being with this girl, Latika. It is the most notable indication of the free spirit that he still possesses—amidst the uncontrollable forces of poverty, war, familial separation, crime, prejudice, lack of social opportunity, deceit, betrayal, and simple good and bad luck. Latika, the beautiful, adorable creature, came to him like a bolt of lightning amidst a torrential night. It was as if she knew somewhere within her that she must wait for him in the rain. Slumdog could not resist bringing her into his shelter and into his life. It seems he had no choice. And then—just like that!—she was taken away. This higher power may have endowed him with his impregnable love for Latika, but he held onto the decision intransigently, to always wait for her, always look for her, and to always consider her. From the perspective of a certain kind of storytelling, this virtue in Jamal is the most redeeming aspect of the film. From a certain perspective, this film fails to tell a great story. At least, it could be more thrilling.

Imagine that Jamal decided to separate from Latika on purpose, though despite his intense love for her and his desire to remain with her. Imagine that instead of Latika missing the first train of their youth, he had to leave her to enact some other mission. Perhaps he was committed to avenging the murder of his mother, and so could not have Latika partake in that. Imagine he became a sort of political crusader instead. Imagine we were shown this, but also alongside, the sad experiences that Latika is going through, and imagine that Slumdog learns about her torment—but still decides to remain on his mission of revenge. Now let’s allow him to succeed at his revenge. Now let’s make him a man on the run because of it. But let’s make him overcome that too and be free to take Latika away with him to live happily ever after. But let’s put something else in the way of that. Perhaps she is too angry at him. How will he win her back? Maybe a rich heiress wants him and is preventing his deliverance with Latika. The possibilities are numerous. What these imaginings serve to illustrate is a way of writing a story where a story’s protagonist’s choice of moral values and choice of consequent action, and his value-conflicts within himself and against others, dominate the story and make it more thrilling. I suggest a story where freewill or volition is allowed into the abstract world-view of the artist and his message.

But Slumdog Millionaire is not that kind of story. The protagonist and the other characters are moved by external forces beyond their control. This artistic attitude is not total in the story of Slumdog Millionaire but it is very dominant. The movie starts off with a question. What led to Jamal winning his fortune and winning his love? We know that “it is written”. All those tragic and heart breaking events in Jamal’s life, along with some of the more pleasant ones, were chosen by a higher power for Jamal to experience. They were chosen so that he would have the necessary experiences as material of memory for when he has to answer the game show questions (an event which is also pre-determined). Out of all the millions of people in the same tragic class, this one passionate and intense boy was chosen by this higher power to be happy. I believe that this is exactly the theme of Slumdog Millionaire, that is to say: “Look at what happiness was bestowed upon one man.” Yet this deliverance is not possible to the great majority of men. One simply has to be lucky that you were chosen and your life’s course has been ‘written’ in such a way. Is this inspiring to the general reader or viewer? It can be if one sees Slumdog Millionaire as a folk legend so that the common man can live vicariously through its story, in the face a reality that promises to be not so lucky for the great majority. Some men take comfort in such tales. I do not and cannot.

And yet, within the context of the type of story it is—naturalistic—Slumdog Millionaire was a good movie. Not only was it a tear-jerker but it succeeded in presenting its theme: the deliverance of a particular slumdog. And this is what I like most abut the core artistic aspect of Slumdog Millionaire: that though I am a believer in free will in the most profound sense, and so I don’t support the fatalistic aspect of the movie, it possesses a happy fatalism. It confirms to those who want to believe that, though very rare, sometimes this universe is such that, and despite all the horrors and frustration and agony that may befall a man, a man may fall in love, may attain great wealth, and may win the right to love and live with his one great love: sometimes a man is allowed to be happy.

The main literary shortcoming of Slumdog Millionaire is its failure to present Latika more fully. We never learn why Jamal loves her; we never really learn what values and virtues she possesses that makes Jamal love her. It just is. It is an absolute law. It is a force of nature. It is truly a love that is unconditional in the truest sense; Jamal has no choice about it and he accepts it as his religion, his mania, his lifelong devotion. And it seems that no matter what Latika does, or what type of person she becomes, Jamal will always love her, and that she is beyond reproach and always will be. We must take his love for granted and accept it as Jamal’s primary and dominant motivating force. And this is what we marvel at: we are allowed to witness a believable and intense passion in Jamal for Latika; we see it in his face, in his body language, in his choices of actions, and his willingness to patiently suffer.

Sangue de Galo Goals

2008-05-27T17:13:00.001-07:00

This is not the story of how Toronto’s Portuguese community brought professional North American soccer to their metropolis, the sanctuary of the persecuted cultures of the world. That they were the main impetus for the establishment of the Toronto Cocks (or Roosters) team is true; this will make this a Portuguese story. It is a story about playing honestly.

In the 1930’s a fascist regime came to power in Portugal. They were known as the Night Owls, champions of the night, extinguishers and destroyers of the sunlit garden that was Portuguese liberty. A victim of this new regime was an up and coming vintner, Luis Galo. He survived the First World War and worked a decade to buy a few acres of land, just outside of Barcelos. And at nights, fighting the desire to make love to his beautiful wife, he would spend hours in his cantina and in his small vineyard perfecting his viticulture.

One day, after years of the same type of patient work, he succeeded. The vintage was a masterpiece: its aroma had beauty, its body stature, its colour sincerity, its taste integrity and originality. He knew he could only afford to produce a few hundred bottles of this new phenomenon. And he was confident that he would win the first prize in the town’s wine contest at the annual Rooster Festival.

In the morning the cock of Luis’s property sang with a passion like never before. It was so majestic that it seemed to silence the other cocks of the town. It seemed to promise a beautiful, productive, and happy day. It did become a sunny, clear-skied day, not too hot, with a gentle breeze brushing the lips of the townsfolk.

When it was time to name the winner, a dozen or so bottles of wine were aligned on a long table awaiting the verdict. One stood out among the rest, a simple green bottle, with a brown paper label, with simple red calligraphy, a dripping calligraphy, reading: Sangue de Galo. It would soon be announced the winner.

But that same night a group of thugs trespassed onto Luis Galo’s property. They broke into the home and held Galo and his pregnant wife at gunpoint. They held them so to watch the wine barrels and bottles be smashed to pieces, their home being burned, as well as the small vineyard of promise. A note was handed to Galo and it was written with red wine. Leave Portugal … or die, it read. By the aroma of the letters Galo knew that it was from the leading gangster in the province, and the leading wine producer, the Generalissimo of Portugal.

Luis Galo’s eldest great-grandson, Mike Galo, was a great soccer player. He was scouted in his first year of high school by the prestigious Toronto Cocks Soccer Academy. The school provided for its students an intense soccer training program. It was also a fully integrated program that sought to provide for its athletes a high intellectual education as well. It sought to make its athletes great men in body and spirit. If a lad was chosen to join the program it was paid for by the Academy, from a scholarship fund that was fuelled by the generosity of great business men of Toronto and Ontario, such as Mike Galo’s father, Jason, who contributed millions to the fund. One could not pay for the education under this program. One had to be chosen by the academy.

Jason Galo was an honourable man. He did not contribute his millions in order to guarantee that his son be accepted by the academy. He knew that his son would have to earn his spot. And he was also confident that his son would qualify on his own skill and merit. He donated the money because he loved the game of soccer; because he saw the potential in the passion over the game that was exhibited by the multitude of cultures that resided in his great, vast city; because he was saddened by the violence that too often erupted during the World Cups or the European championships; because he could not quite understand why the Italians and the Portuguese, who lived so well together, would stoop to enmity during world soccer season. This way, members of the different cultures of Toronto could be united under one banner: they would be Torontonians first; Italian, Portuguese, or Latin later.

Mike Galo was a confident boy though oftentimes too cocky. But he trained daily from the time he was in grade six until his first year of high school, in order to prepare for the qualifying games, when he would turn fifteen, thus being eligible to participate in the games. He passionately believed that he was the best young player in the city. It was impossible for him to know this for certain, for he had not yet met enough of the thousands of young soccer players who excelled in the sport; such was his cockiness.

But when he turned fifteen, he did get selected to play in the academy qualifying games, and he did get awarded a scholarship, and was promised an important role on the junior squad.

At The Cockerel Academy Mike Galo met Tiago Viera. There are times when one man sees another for the first time, and knows in that initial moment that one wants that other for one’s friend. In that moment one is confident and certain that that man will indeed become one’s friend. And then soon, it just happens; a remark is made, and action is taken, a conversation starts; and a friendship is born. Such is what Mike Galo felt for Tiago Viera and such is what occurred between them.

There was something strange about Tiago Viera. During practices he could be seen as rigid, a little bit too slow, and somewhat clumsy. It didn’t feel right to Mike Galo. But Mike accepted it and was glad that he was better than Tiago. Mike also found it interesting how Tiago interacted with the rest of the team; he was very generous; he passed more than he advanced and shot. And he was very observant of the other members; he seemed to express a suppressed sadness when some member displayed ineptitude. And he could not hold back too much an ecstatic joy when a member displayed his brilliance. Why would someone who was just good enough, not excellent, be happy that his team mates be better than him?

So one day, when Tiago and Mike were sixteen, Mike decided to do his best friend the favour of teaching him how to play soccer, and not to suck so much, not to be so submissive. Their meeting on that day was a coincidence. Mike decided to arrive early at the cockerel mini-stadium early to do some extra exercises. As he walked through the hallway that led him onto the field he could hear the strumming of a guitar; they were quick, whiney notes, but notes whining of a happiness too extreme. The notes danced and seemed to kick the sands of happiness in one’s face. The melody seemed to call upon the dawn with a promise of a joyous day. And soon it was not the dawn of Helios that Mike saw but the shining, happy face of Tiago Viera.
Mike would never have thought that Tiago could play the guitar.

“That’s why you suck so much at soccer!” remarked Mike in a kidding manner.
“Morning Mikey. What do you mean by that?”
“You’re my best friend, so I got to be honest with you. You play like a sissy. You’re too fragile, you hold back your strength. You seem timid. You’re soft. You’re too slow. It’s probably because you spend too much time playing that guitar.”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier? How come I made the team?”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. The coach probably sees what I see; that there’s more inside you waiting for you to roar out.”
“You’re quite observant then. What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll have to turn you into a man. By the way, that was a lovely song. What is it called? Is it original?”
“Yes, I wrote it myself. I haven’t named it yet … I think I’ll call it, ‘Let’s Get it On, Mikey’.”
“What?”
“Yah, I’ll name it for you since you’re going to be so generous. Show me how to play.”
“Now?”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“What will be the game?”
“One of us starts on one end on offence, and the other one tries to get the ball off the other. If you score, you get to stay with offence. First to ten wins. You can only score within the goal area.”
“You sound a little too cocky, Tiago.”
With a confident smirk Tiago said, “We’ll flip a coin for who starts on offence.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” said Mikey, “I’ll give you the advantage. Go on offence first.”
“Who’s cocky now?”

They commenced with their competition. Remember that Tiago Viera was elected to join the Cocks Academy. Therefore, Tiago was a very good soccer player compared with thousands of others who tried out for the academy. But was Mikey that much better than Tiago? Mikey was adamant in the belief that he was very much better. So Tiago accepted the offer to begin the offence with a subtle cocky smile on his face. Mikey was sincerely bewildered by the sight of the audacity indicated by that smile. They began.

Tiago began with a little dance, a little shake, and a little fake to his left, and then shot out on his right. Mikey was so flabbergasted at Tiago’s speed that he did not even bother chasing after him, making the score one to nil for Tiago. From the end that Tiago scored at, he would begin to make his offensive attempt on the other end, once Mikey reached him there.

Mikey’s defense was now more focused. Tiago had a tougher time. The ball oscillated between his legs very rapidly, and Mikey was a second too slow, and when Tiago paused the ball suddenly, Mikey lost some of his balance which allowed Tiago to advance the ball through Mikey’s legs. They both chased after the ball but Tiago was a little quicker. Mikey willed some extra effort and managed to get close enough to tackle the ball away from Tiago. The ball rolled speedily to midfield, and since Mikey had to drop to the floor, Tiago had an open field to his goal.
This time Mikey stayed very close to Tiago, and he followed his dribbles, and he managed to get the ball off Tiago. And he was speeding with it to the other end. Tiago seemd to turn on some nitro switch of the spirit, for he very soon caught up to Mikey, kicked the ball being dribbled by Mikey ahead of Mikey, then beat Mikey to it, and kicked it towards the other end several meters, then raced Mikey for it, and beat him … and scored.

On the next attempt, Mikey was much more aggressive, stooping to pushing Tiago. So Tiago pushed him back and knocked him to the ground. And he scored.
On the next attempt, Mikey swang at Tiago, who caught his fist, and punched Mikey back, knocking him to the floor. Mikey looked at him from the ground with frustration.

“This is getting too aggressive, Mikey. Let’s end this test. Besides if we keep it up until ten goals, we will be too tired for practice. Let’s try different tests. Get up.”
“What tests?”
“Let’s test who could kick the farthest. One attempt only determines it.”

By this time a few of their team mates were sitting in the stands stealthily observing the spectacle. Their amazement at Tiago’s talent kept them quiet. One of them had called some of the other team mates on his cell phone, warning them to come quickly.

The kicking contest began on one end and the ultimate goal was to reach the other goal or even the other stands. Mikey kicked first and it reached the penalty kick spot. Mikey could not resist smiling at his achievement. So Tiago kicked the ball so that it hit the cross bar of the other goal, which immediately eliminated Mikey’s smile. And the few spectators suddenly let out a cheer announcing their presence and their approval of Tiago’s greatness. It felt a stab at Mikey’s heart. But he remained adamant to continue with the challenges.

“What’s next?” asked Mikey.
“Bouncing the ball in place.”

By the time Mikey dropped his ball, after several minutes, and hundreds of bounces, switching from one leg to the other, one limb to another, Tiago was still going and it seemed that it would go forever. It seemed that the boredom of monotony is what inspired Tiago to will to stop.

“What’s next?” asked Mikey.
“Balancing the ball on our limbs. I start; you follow. You’re the monkey.”

It began with the ankles. And Mikey followed through. Tiago switched it to the back of his knees, after the ball was tossed up, and allowed to land on his upper back, so that it could roll down, as Tiago bent over, and extended his leg backwards, so that he could direct the ball to roll and stop on the back of his knee. Mikey could not do this. Tiago then tossed the ball high over his head, and began to bounce it on his knees, alternating between them to regain a better balance. Then he tossed it up again and allowed it to land on his neck. And then he allowed it to roll down his back and for a short moment bounced the ball with his buttocks, before he lost it. But Mikey could do none of this.

The spectators which had grown to about a dozen cheered. Mikey fell to the ground in a seated position and hid his head in his shirt that was draped over his knees. Tiago soon went over to him and gave him his hand to help him to rise.

Mikey asked, “You’ve been this great all along.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you hide it?”
“It was instinctual.”
“You don’t know.”
“The good guys in this world often times have to stand back and observe others, to see who is genuine and who is pretentious. And when one is great, organizations tend to immediately expect one to take on a greater load, to make up for the deficiencies in the other players. But they don’t tend to reward you any extra for it. Sometimes they don’t even like to admit to you that that is what they are doing, as if they don’t even have the obligation to ask you if you want to help. It’s acquisition of charity by fraud. I have to see whether the coach is like that or not.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so, either.”
“Are you going to be your true self now?”

Tiago looked at his team mates sitting in the stands, and saw the genuine admiration in their faces, and answered,” Yes. I think they want a leader. They know they need one.”
Mikey was silent.

“You must take comfort in the fact that you’re still second best, Mikey. You have to.”
“I will. I do. I’m just surprised. I’m glad we’re friends.”

Mikey would make an exception for his friend. He would allow Tiago to be the best. Tiago was lucky that they became friends first, or else he, Mikey, would not be able to accept it. He was glad that he was friends with Tiago. He was glad that he was the favourite of such a great player. This was Mikey’s achievement. If they weren’t friends, he is not sure what he would do.

Tiago identified the innate jealousy in the countenance of Mikey. He acknowledged that Mikey was only sixteen. He acknowledged that in this culture, in this time of human history, where envy was running wild, it was almost natural for a growing boy to suffer from envy. He wanted sincerely to be Mikey’s friend for a long time, for as long as they were to live. He was in that moment determined to eradicate the envy that existed within Mikey’s soul.

He would accomplish this by elevating Mikey to a level of greatness that Mikey could be proud of. Meanwhile, Tiago displayed his true talent to the coaches, and he was soon made the captain of the team, so that the plays and the vision revolved around him. He made it clear that Mikey would be his second in command, and the training program was designed to get Mikey prepared to take over the leadership if need be.

The Toronto Cockerels was the farm team of the Toronto Cocks of the North American Soccer Organization (NASO). The former was not part of a league, though they did often play exhibition games against the other farm teams of NASO, but with no set schedule. About a year after Tiago’s coming out, the coming out of his greatness, the Cockerels began to be undefeated, and they continued to be so until they took over from the senior Cocks of NASO, or rather when several of the Cockerels were chosen to play for the Cocks.

And in the meantime Tiago discussed with Mikey some of the deep issues he had been contemplating in his solitude for some time. He discussed how a human must be honest. And he did not mean that a human must never lie to another, but that a human must never lie to himself, not because lying was wrong in itself, but that he would never get away with lying to himself. He gave Mikey the image of a mountain, and he told him that if a mountain is in his way, he must accept it, because men can’t move mountains. And he was glad when Mikey responded that what if he learned about demolition? What if he learned about explosives? Don’t railroads build tunnels through mountains? Haven’t men reached the stage when we can turn whole cities into dust? Yes, Tiago answered; nature to be commanded must be obeyed. If you don’t put in the effort to understand how to move mountains, merely wishing it away won’t move it? Telling yourself that you can move mountains when you have never learned how is lying to yourself—if the mountain is an obstacle to you it will remain an obstacle.

Or it’s like the weather. Can you stop a hurricane or a tornado from occurring?
Men can’t now, answered Mikey, but why can’t we in the future?
If you’re going to make the effort to learn how to move them, then the reward better be worth it?

And he spoke about purposes. He told Mikey that there are many, many things that men are able to achieve in this world. Some things are more worth it than others. Some things you achieve to achieve other things; and most things are like that. Somethings you achieve just to achieve them and that’s it. Your life is like that. Everything you do should be for that. Or, the joy of love—it’s like that; it’s one of the final ends. Or the creation of a work of art: no praise, no money, can compare to what a man experiences in creating it and seeing it complete. He told him that you may kill a man in self-defense because by it you achieve your life. But to kill a man because your girlfriend loves him more, will not achieve for you the maintenance of that girlfriend. Or to kill a man who is your competitor in business, may achieve greater market share, but if you want to lay claim to being good, you can never escape the act that you once committed.

And he spoke about Justice. He reminded Mikey that nature and the environment around him have consequences on him. That if you judge the good by what fosters your life, then a natural disaster will be bad for you. And other humans, who are part of nature as well as you, pose a potential threat to other humans; they too can be bad for you. He reminded him that some men hurt you without intending it; these can be evil too. He said that when men intentionally seek to hurt you, if you are in the right, then they are certainly evil.

So how do you judge what is right and good? This was Mikey’s question. Tiago was glad that this question was now familiar to Mikey and of special interest. He told Mikey that he should think about the issue on his own.

Such questions take hours, weeks, months, and even years to consider. Some of the best presentations of answers have taken some thinkers decades. Soon Tiago and Mikey turned eighteen and were hungry to join the senior Cocks team, which was expected to happen in a matter of months.

The men of the Galo line had one important theme in common that evidently governed their consciousness and the course of their lives. Luis Galo, Carlos Galo, Jason Galo, even Mike Galo, and his younger brother Vino Galo, can be considered as men dedicated to their work. Four out of the five Galo’s were dedicated to viticulture. Tiago was the exception for he was the soccer prodigy of the family.

THE PAST

As we know Luis Galo, Tiago’s great grand father, was driven out of Portugual by the ruling gangster of his country. He had a sister living in Niagara Falls. In their regular correspondence she had reported to him about the beautiful land, rich and fertile, that would suit his passion perfectly. In those letters she told him of the great opportunity there was in Toronto for decent paying jobs for even new immigrants, who did not know the language, and that a small community of Portuguese were starting to grow there. She was confident that if he settled in Canada, he could earn enough money to one day buy his own land in the Niagara Region. So when his life in his homeland was threatened, Luis Galo emigrated to Canada. He brought with him his beloved pregnant wife, and four bottles of his award winning wine, which was all he could bring over, not only because so few bottle were not destroyed by the looters, but mainly because four bottles was all he and his wife could comfortably carry. He smuggled the seed of his wine from Portugal, a small plant, and nurtured it in his small apartment over the years.

In 1949 Luis had saved enough money to buy his small land in Niagara Falls, Ontario. He had already been calling the wine that he had made for many years in the basement of his Toronto house, Sangue de Galo. Now his task was to cultivate the land to produce the perfect grapes. He began on that endeavor but died from a heart attack due to overwork the morning after the first harvest; though he died on his own land, where he grew what was destined to become Sangue de Galo. However, Luis Galo did not die before opening one of the bottles of wine he had brought over from Portugal. It was a divine experience.

Carlos Galo, a proud young man, took over the legacy of his father, and his dream: to one day produce a great wine, like the one he had tasted on the eve of his father’s passing, like the one he was waiting to have on the day of his first great achievement, the one his father gave birth to in exile. In 1957 Carlos Galo finally succeeded in making a wine that he was satisfied with. Now he could allow the wine to be distributed under the banner Sangue de Galo. But he did not have the new wine for dinner on that first night. He had his bottle of the first Sangue de Galo that had been passed down to him by his father, passed along with two more that he would pass on to his son, who would pass on the last bottle to his son, or the child that would realize the Galo wine tradition. That dinner was a divine experience.

Carlos Galo had spent so much time on farming that he neglected theoretical marketing. It did not matter whether the new wine was of the utmost in delight, if he could not get people to try it and buy it, they would never know of that delight. Carlos sent his son Jason to business school at the University of Toronto. It was a beneficial coincidence that the word ‘Galo’ was ‘Rooster’ in Portuguese. The Rooster, or cock, was a cultural symbol of the Portuguese, which the Portuguese of Toronto could easily identify with. Jason made it seem that by buying this brand name they were contributing to their Portuguese pride. The neat thing was that once it became popular merely for that superficial reason, the wine would become a grand home staple due to its amazing taste. Portuguese households admired the idea that Sangue de Galo was made from Portuguese hands. In Toronto, the wine makers of the basement cellars were inspired to aspire for more perfection in their own private wine making. This Portuguese wine from Ontario was soon exported to Portugal and Spain. The Galo’s became rich.

Jason Galo decided that it was time to open his grandfather’s bottle of wine when Mike was thirteen and his brother, Vino, was ten. It was when he heard news that Sangue de Galo was a best seller in Portugal. He had his wife prepare an Italian meal, penne in a delicious red sauce, and veal parmagean. The Italian meal was a symbol of the wine-making land that Sangue de Galo would conquer next. The Italians are very protective of their wine; Jason Galo was convinced that these descendants of the Romans would not be able to resist the submission of Sangue de Galo running through their veins.

He allowed both his boys to have a glass of the original Sangue de Galo. He knew that their palettes had been prepared by the deli meats, the grapes, the olives, and cheeses served as appetizers. He was anxious to see the look on his boys’ faces, and to hear their first commentaries. He reminded them of the great struggle that his father and grandfather went through in honour of this wine, part rebellion against tyranny, part tribute to man’s deserved happiness. And then he bid them to take the first taste. Their eyes immediately went wide, and they smiled.

Mike said, “I’ve never tasted anything like this. It’s the best.”
Vino said, “I hope to never taste anything again. I wish this glass could last forever.” And Jason watched as Vino delighted, almost in ecstasy, at the aroma of the wine.

And he saw as Mike suddenly seemed to struggle to keep a sad look off his face. He knew then that there was a difference between his two sons. But he spoke about the wine.

“We cannot determine whether this original Sangue de Galo or the one we currently distribute is better. This original bottle has been aging for over 70 years. And as you know, good wine improves with age. The current one is magnificent, and it is unbearable to imagine how heavenly it will be in 70 years. Will it surpass this original in our glasses when it turns 70? Either way, both of you are part of this great tradition, and you must be proud of it. As you know, there is a tradition in our family to pass down the original bottles of wine to the heir. So far, each Galo has had only one son. I have two. My decision is now difficult. In all fairness to the tradition, I should give it to my eldest son. However, that son would have to be the one to take over the family business.”

Suddenly Mike could not hold back his sadness. He did not cry but his father could tell that he was feeling sad, sad on this moment of celebration. His father decided to deal with the issue then and there.

“Speak up Mikey, what’s the matter? Tell me why you are sad?”
“I’m not sad. It’s not important. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t be a coward!”
“What?”
“Speak! Be happy.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you want to take over the family business?”
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I … I … I want to play soccer.”
“That would suit you since you are amazing.”
“You’ll let me go?”
“It is not my place to stop you. I am not that kind of man.”
“I thought you would be furious and violent if I were to tell you the truth.”
“Remember that you have only seen me furious at the vineyard, or here because of something related to the vineyard.”
“That’s true.” And he let out a beaming smile.
“So Vino, how would you like to take over the family business from me? You can start work right away.”
“That would be awesome!” And he let out a beaming smile, outlined by a rim of wine-stained lips.
“Your job, Vino, will be to make the Galo family mega-rich and to ensure that the Sangue de Galo name lasts a hundred years.”
“Mike. I’ve been recently discussing matters with some of my good friends. They are planning to bring a professional NASO soccer team to Toronto. We got Melo of Melo Cleaning involved, Sousa of Sousa Construction, Agostinho and Bonaventura of the Bay Street law firm, Ferreira the interior designer, Perreira of the Acores Clothing Line, and a line of others willing to pay the millions for partnership. I’ll certainly be donating money to the training academy. We’re confident we’ll succeed. My involvement does not guarantee you a spot in the Academy but it does give me the opportunity to share part of your dream.”
“Thank you, father. I’m happy.”

The Italian mafia became well aware of the profits that the Galo family was making in the wine business. When Don Verdi of the Pintrelli crime family heard that a Portuguese wine maker was desperately trying to market a wine made from Niagara Falls grapes to compete with the best wines of Europe, he laughed. But he did not know that Carlos Galo had a secret weapon: a business savvy son named Jason.
So when Sangue de Galo began to become very popular in Toronto, Don Verdi became green with envy. He met with Carlos Galo and offered to become his partner, as if it was a privilege for Don Carlos to have Don Verdi as his partner. Don Carlos refused. Then Don Verdi sent one of his negotiators to meet with Don Carlos. The negotiator left unsatisfied.

Don Carlos then knew that if Sangue de Galo was to remain solely in the Galo dynasty, it was going to mean the sacrifice of his life. But he was confident that if The Creator was going to allow that he leave his family, it meant that The Creator bestowed his grace on Sangue de Galo, because Carlos was confident that his murder would be enough for the gangsters to let Sangue de Galo alone.

The death of Carlos Galo left Jason with an irrational, impetuous hatred for Italians. This marginal element of the Italian culture, the Mafiosi, became representative of the entire race for Jason Galo. He fought it and managed not to let it interfere with his sense of justice. But when he was disappointed by an Italian, then he blamed it on the collective flaw of the Italian man.

As Mike Galo worked and struggled to become a great soccer player, he could not escape becoming confronted with Italians as his competitors. Many Italian boys were very talented in soccer. Mike accepted them as competitors, and accepted the demand that he work even harder to be better than them. However, he always retained the notion that even if some of them proved to be better than him, they would always still be Italians, and thus Mike would always be superior; one reason was because he was a Galo, and the other because he was Portuguese.

Don Verdi was suspected of ordering the hit on Carlos Galo. And there was outrage among the Portuguese community. They wanted justice. It gave the rival mafia families an excuse to rid themselves of their own competition for power. Don Verdi fled to his villa in Sicily along with his son Vito until the heat subsided in Toronto, even if it would take many years. Vito was devastated because he was leaving his soccer pals behind, and the game for which he was beginning to develop a serious passion. His high school soccer coach was melancholy for many months, for he loved Vito as the son he never had.

In Italy, Don Verdi could not escape the consequences of his past actions. One doctrine says that one should not judge others, so that others won’t judge you. Another says that what goes around come around. And yet another says that one should judge and prepare oneself to be judged. It seems that Don Verdi was judged. And the sentence was death. One morning, Don Verdi’s housekeeper found him and his mistress in bed with their throats slashed.

The Italian mafia did not bother the Galo family anymore.
Vito Verdi went to live with an aunt in Northern Italy, to keep him safe from his enemies. Eventually he wanted to know why his father was murdered. He went to Sicily to investigate. He discovered some hard truths about his father that were expertly kept secret from him by his father. He judged that it was just that this father was murdered, for he was certain that his father had committed many too. He did not feel proud of the Verdi name.

He decided he would change his last name. He chose the last name of an old Italian poet. He would now be known as Vito Tasso.

PRESENT

Coach Friedrich Lander and assistant coach Lothar Thrasher, both German born, of the Toronto Cocks, cancelled the training program for one week for an emergency trip to Italy. The reason for their departure was top secret, and it left the team anxious and excited. Both were involved in the coaching and training of both the Cocks and the Cockerels.

Tiago and Mikey took the opportunity to have fun together. They were confident that they both had made it onto the Cocks squad. The commencement would be in about a month. Tiago began to teach Mikey how to play the guitar. He revealed, to Mikey’s amazement, that he also liked to write poetry. He informed him that women love poetry, and Mikey was eager to learn that too. But Tiago informed him that the fact that women loved poetry was a mere coincidence, and that he did not cash in on their passion for his poetry by vanquishing them. He did not agree with promiscuity, and wanted to wait until he really fell in love.

“I love and admire you, Tiago. But I don’t want to follow you in that area. I want it now and I want it plenty. I can tell that girls think I’m hot. Their looks are so obvious. Or, when I walk the streets with my shirt off and in my soccer shorts; some of them look like they’re about to hyperventilate.”
“So why haven’t you been with any?”
“It seems that it will be a headache. Women seem to tend to cling to their men. They’re very jealous. I’m horrified by how much work it would be to shuffle several of them at the same time. It’s strange; I want it easy and yet I don’t want sluts and yet I do.”
“You should hold out and think about that some more. Maybe you’ll discover what love really is.”
“You know what it is?”
“I know it’s this: everything I am—the soccer prodigy, the musician, the poet, the philosopher, the lover of life—when a woman responds to that with passion, and I respond to the same type of things in her. Then there’s like this force that dominates your consciousness. It’s like your brain gets a hard on as opposed to just your dick, and the energy within your brain, drives you to her. It’s the same for her. When you feel that energy inside your brain, then the rest of your body gets ready, and then it’s like you’re flying through the air like an airplane—both your bodies make up an airplane.”
“You’re full of shit!”
“Don’t insult me; I’m serious.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for men and women to reach that stage.”
“How about your parents?”
“Maybe you’re right. But I don’t think it’s possible for every one. Some people are just born to screw like dogs. I think I am of the latter species. I’m like that Greek God who loves wine and loves to screw—what’s his name?”
“Bacchus?”
“No, it starts with a D.”
“You mean, Dionysus?”
“Yah, that’s it.”
“Same god: one’s Roman, one’s Greek.”
“Like him, then; I think I’m like that.”
“You do know that though he may be a powerful god, he has been known to suffer some great embarrassments?”
“Yah but he must be a really happy guy?”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Mikey, answer me this. Do you think that every individual at birth has the potential to greatness and happiness on earth?”
“Can everyone be a genius?”
“No. Do you consider yourself a genius?”
“No.”
“Do you consider yourself a great man?”
“Sure.”
“Were you born this way, or did you make yourself so?”
“I was born this way. I come from a long line of great men. It’s in my blood: Sangue de Galo.”
“So then you believe that there are people born to be great, and people born to be mediocre?”
“For sure! There’s so much mediocrity out there. I’m glad I’m special. Nature’s luck.”
“So let’s say we didn’t approve of the way people lived their lives. Let’s say we disagreed with all these people devoted to all these different religions. Let’s say we believed that these faiths of theirs are what is at root of the tragedy of our times. And let’s say we would consider these faithful mediocre because of it. They were born to be mediocre then, right?”
“Surely.”
“And let’s say we wanted to change the civil order, the politics of things, the culture, the dominant values. If we can’t depend on the free will of people to change their values, what would we have to do to change society?”
“Power. That’s what laws are for.”
“But what justifies you and the other men of your group to force people to change?”
“It’s what nature intends. Who’s going to build and clean our mansions without the lower classes? They’re there to serve people like us.”
“Wow! Mikey, I disagree with you tremendously. I still love you but I fear for you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine thanks to mother nature.”
“Mikey, I disagree with the dominant values of our times. I believe in good and evil. I also believe that I know what the good is. But I certainly know that you cannot force people to be good. And I don’t believe that the common man must stay common. Technology and money is what will give the common man the opportunity to rise above arduous physical labour and reach greatness. There’s much more to it but just remember that force only destroys when applied to people. It cannot create. It cannot inspire. The power of the state will change the course of our society, but the electorate must be persuaded to choose the right laws, not forced. It’s education, man, not war.”
“Can’t it be that if a common man becomes great then it was his destiny to become great, and that his struggle, was just part of the lesson nature intended for him?”
“No. Nature has no evaluation about men. It doesn’t care one way or the other. We must take advantage of her fruit, and be prepared for her dangers. And we must learn the way she dances, so that we can inspire her to give us more fruit. She’ll destroy us no matter how many sacrifices we give her, if we’re not prepared to welcome and assimilate what she brings to the table.”
“I disagree.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Prove it to me!”
“I can’t.”
“Coz you’re soft.”
“Coz I’m too hard … You got to figure it out on your own and suffer the consequences if you don’t.”

Tiago and Mikey spent the week lounging around the city. They slept in. They spent some afternoons at the beach, others at other outdoor patios of bars drinking beer, and their nights dancing at the clubs. They both enjoyed dancing. However, Tiago spent time playing with the band, and Mikey spent time chasing women.

One night, Mikey surprised Tiago with one of the most beautiful spectacles Tiago had ever seen. It was Friday. Training was set to resume Monday morning. They were at a Portuguese restaurant and bar on College. There was modern popular music playing, as well as modern Portuguese music, and Portuguese folklore. The melody was one similar to a Colombian Cumbia; the tempo was medium, there were occasions of strong drums, and an accordion drove the melody. The lyrics were in Portuguese. It was a song about a rooster pursuing his hen. It spoke of its dedication to his work, his morning song, and how with it, he beckoned all of the creatures of nature who toiled by day, to rise to live again. It spoke of his passion for the prettiest and best working hen, but who happened to wear the dullest coloured feathers. But still he loved her for the flawlessness of her face and the dignity she expressed in her work. It spoke of her coyness and the day of the dance, when he saw her first, and how she swayed slowly and timidly with the other bird she was dancing with. And it spoke of how he cut in and taunted her to dance. It spoke of his mating calling moves: his bouncy struts, his ground taps, his torso shakes, his spins, and his wings draping around her—and how soon this song from his body inspired the wilderness within her, and how she began to dance like a flame might battling the wind.

Tiago saw Mikey dance like this cock in the song, but in a manner that made it seem right and beautiful for a manly man to do so. He knew that it was evocative to the women around him, and inspiring to the men. The song ended with the song of a woman desperately wanting to know the secrets of the cock’s morning song, and the mysteries of his dance.

This was the Mikey that he wanted to help realize, not the Mikey who would surely go home with one of these females in adulation. It was the Mikey free, honest, and confident that he wanted to see always, not the Mikey who wanted the temporary thrill of having power and false superiority over other men. Tiago was confident that he would see it one day.

Tiago was amused at the rumours that he heard that week around town about Mikey. This seemed to be one of the main reasons why the girls were flocking around Mikey. It seems that one of the team members leaked a certain fact about Mikey. As you know, members of a sports team cannot escape seeing the other members naked. And it can be satisfying to some team mates to look over to the others to determine whether he predominates over the others. Those of the Cockerels who did take the measure, were all disappointed except for one. And it was Mikey who eventually swaggered around taunting the others that he was markedly a bigger man than all the others, including Tiago. And so it was not only because of his name that Mikey Galo was known by his team mates as The Big Cock. He was starting to become a legend among the girls who could not escape the curiosity. That week, three a day, it seemed, were satisfying their curiosity with Mikey.

It was Monday morning and coach Lander stood in front of his scouts who were at attention. He had a young man next to him of a strange type of beauty. He was average height and very well built, not lanky, he was full, but it was not an exaggerated musculature. His head was shaved and his face was small. His face was harmonious except for an aquiline nose. He had brown eyes and olive skin. His features made him seem mean and he seemed to always have a sardonic smile. But one could see in his eyes that he was capable of the most ecstatic joy, so that one wished, and missed in the moment of first seeing him, to see him rolling on the floor laughing in hysteria.

“Boys,” announced Friedrich Lander, “I want you to welcome Vito Tasso to the team. He is just arrived from Italy. He is Canadian but circumstances personal to him have taken him away for many years. He is a superb soccer player and is eligible to play for us. He will be an important part of our squad. I expect you to make him feel at home. He will start with us tomorrow. Tiago I’m giving you the day off today to spend the day with Vito to help to assimilate him. Mike Galo you’re leading the team today.”

Vito suddenly gave a mortified expression when he heard Mike Galo’s name being uttered. Mike Galo suppressed the annoyance on his face that was jealousy that Vito Tasso would be spending the day with his best friend. Also he didn’t like that Vito was Italian, and that he would be joining the team without having to do all the work that he and the rest of the team had to endure for the last few years. He was conscious of the possibility that Vito would turn out to be a better player than he. Tiago Viera walked over to Vito and embraced him.

“Welcome to the Toronto Cocks, Vito. I promise to give you a great time today. Come on, let’s go for a walk. Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll get some great Portuguese food in you.”
“That sounds wonderful.”

Tiago and Vito started off with a Green Soup, known as ‘Caldo Verde’, made of potato and cabbage. Then they shared a whole grilled chicken accompanied by a dish of rice with green beans, mixed with coriander and garlic.

“Since they made you the Captain, I assume you’re the best on the team.” This was one of Vito’s first questions.
“Yes.”
“You say that easy.”
“Coz it’s true.”
“Do you love soccer more than anything else in the world?”
“No. It’s the activity that I’ve decided to play for the next decade. After that I would like to do something more intellectual. Soccer comes easy to me. The training allows me to maintain a healthy body. By mid afternoon, I very often have the rest of the day to myself. I play music, write poetry, read books, think about the fundamental issues of life, contemplate the state of the affairs of the world. I’m very conscious of the fact that the main activity I want to engage in, the most fundamental one, is grasping the nature of the universe.
“Humans are an important part of the universe, and our relationship to the rest of it, is my primary concern. We have the potential to become commanders. We are commanders of our own bodies, our souls, our destinies. Most of my life currently, and for the nearest years to come, are about my relationship to a patch of grass and a ball. It is clear to me, for example, that repetition is crucial to learning a physical skill. And involved in that the order and hierarchy of the steps you learn is crucial too. Important too is to maintain a calm, confident, focus. And you can’t forget stamina. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“ That’s the reward of it.”
“For me, soccer is the most important thing in the world. I could not imagine a life without doing it.”
“You must be grateful for our society’s level of freedom, culture, and prosperity that provides for you the opportunity to devote your life to playing a game, detached from the central concerns of men.”
“Half the world loves soccer!”
“That’s artificial. Soccer is not the same as farming, building houses, creating cities, inventing cars, digging for oil, mining for minerals, all that. That’s what I mean when I say that it is a game.”
“What would the world do with their spare time if there was no soccer?”
“Watch rugby? … If the economy got so bad that there were no soccer fields, they didn’t manufacture soccer balls, or soccer shoes—if a government took over tomorrow that was tyrannical and outlawed the playing of soccer with the threat of execution—would we be so concerned with soccer? If the economy were so bad, we would have other priorities, like eating daily. If a tyrannical government outlawed soccer, our priorities would be to overthrow the government or to escape to a freer land.”
“Then I am grateful that we live in such freedom.”
“I’m a renaissance man. I am grateful for that freedom too. I can be an athlete, an artist, a scientist, a business man, all at the same time. If you plan your life properly, you can be very efficient, and accomplish more than most.”
“What would be your reward in all that?”
“Ultimately it’s self-esteem. Succeeding at developing a variety of different skills, learning new trades, arts, gaining wisdom, gaining more knowledge reinforces your fundamental sense of dealing with existence, so that when a new challenge confronts you, you can face it with a confident and able attitude.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Having a high level of self-esteem, will allow you to enjoy the good things in life with more intensity, and will allow you to discover the good things in life. Like, grasping and enjoying a symphony at the level that the composer wishes you to enjoy it, very close to how he enjoys it and understands it. You know how much more our coach enjoys watching us play than the average fan; same principle.”
“I don’t think anything else could be as fulfilling as playing soccer professionally … so does Mike Galo think the same as you? Is he as good as you?”
“Why are you asking about Mikey?”
“Because the coach elected him to replace you today. I figure that makes him the second most interesting player on the team.”
“Mike loves soccer. He would rather see his whole family go to the hellfire than to not play soccer. He believes in fate and that being the greatest soccer player is his destiny.”
“Are you better than him?”
“He’s gradually coming to accept the fact that I am.”
“Do you think he will ever accept it?”
“I hope so.”
“Is he your best friend?”
“For now.”
“Is he a Galo of the Sangue de Galo, Galo’s?”
“Yes.”
“Is he violent? Is he vindictive?”
“Why do you ask? I’m not in danger. He won’t harm me.”
“Would you support him if he were to hold a vendetta against another innocent party, even though Mike is your best friend?”
“Friendship does not supersede justice; there is no friendship without justice.”
“I know you’re a good man. I knew it. I need to tell you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“My original last name is not Tasso. I was born in Toronto. And I moved to Italy because of my father. My real name is Vito Verdi. My father is the infamous Don Verdi of the Pentrelli crime family.
“I understand. So what’s your opinion on the mafia?”
“I don’t think it’s proper for any man to advance through life by stealing, by extortion, by fraud, by murder. To turn that life-style into an organization, to attempt to pretend that it is a business, is despicable. Money is such a peaceful tool. With it, you just produce some good or service, and trade it for what you want. You don’t have to use a club. You don’t have to go to war and conquer the next people—you allow your people to be free and prosperous.”
“And there are areas of human life that no governor should ever interfere with. They cannot force you to accept a certain religion or a creed. They should not interfere with how you take care of your body. They should only protect us from criminals. But when they attempt to legislate that a woman is not the owner of her body, then it opens the door for the pimp to enter into the black market, that no government has ever or can ever check. When they tell a man that he cannot commit suicide and that he is not allowed to ingest poison into his body, it opens the door for the street witch doctor to enter, and supply the demand. When testing of medicine is regulated, true doctors cannot warn the public on what is poison and what is not; nor can they find antidotes and alternatives to those poisons. When the government taxes businesses, then it justifies the extortionist, in terrorizing the shopkeeper because they will both be providing the same service: protection. There is an honesty and courage in a man like Al Capone who is willing to give the people what they want, at risk of going to jail. He knows the real issue involved and is willing to fight for it. The problem is that he becomes a monster when he is more than willing to violate the fundamental rights of men in order to uphold a superficial one. But the power-lusting bureaucrat is the one who is really to blame.”
“I’ve never heard such a thing before.”
“A man like Mike’s father won’t understand such a thing either. There are many more deeper issues involved to understand it. A man like Jason Galo spends his mind on wine making. So long as he’s allowed to continue making money to keep on producing wine, he has little concern for changing the state of government.”
“I like you Tiago. I am confident that we will be great friends. And since Mikey is your best friend, then it means that me and Mikey have to be friends too. But how can I be friends with the boy whose grandfather my father killed? How can I keep that fact from him? And when I do tell him, how can I avoid his violence? Or if the truth comes out to the public, how can I avoid the danger from my father’s former enemies? I needed to tell someone and I need to keep it secret.”
“We’ll have to keep it secret until Mikey is ready to hear it. I’m not sure what he would do to you if he found out now. The best case scenario is that he will refuse to play on the same team with you. I don’t want that. Just remember that you are not to blame for his grandfather’s death. Did you change your name only because of the danger it posed you?”
“No, I mainly changed it because I was disgusted to be a Verdi. I don’t want my devotion to soccer to be tainted by any relationship with crime and human brutality.”
“Good. Then shut up for now.”

There was something about the way Vito Tasso looked, something in his eyes, something in his smile, that made Mikey feel threatened when the former was introduced to the team at morning practice. Just as you sometimes know that a new person will be your friend almost immediately, so you can know that a new person will be your friend’s friend almost immediately. And when your friend is special, it seems that almost every new person is a threat to your friendship. This applies to those people whose friendship with one friend can be threatened by his/her friendship with another.

Mikey had been considering giving it to Tiago for some time now. He had not gone through with it because he did not want to let Tiago know just how much he meant to him. He did not want to give Tiago more power over the relationship than he already had, so thought Mikey. Such a gesture would be extremely important. It would mean brotherhood and more. The item was also an important symbol of his self-concept: of being a rooster, a cock. He saw himself as a playboy going from hen to hen, as a being who was chosen to be the morning call of nature, the leader of the coop. But Tiago was his leader.

Mikey had received it from his father. Jason had received it from Carlos, who had received it from Luis, who received it from a long line of ancestors as a symbol of their name, of their line, and of their pride. He never sold it in all his years of struggle, no matter how tempted he was. It was meant to be passed down from eldest child to eldest child. It was fitting that all the children were males since it was a grand symbol of masculinity. Just as the rooster bestows the hen with his seed, so the Galo’s bestowed mother earth with theirs, with the seed of the vine, and deeper, the seed of human consciousness, the mind. It was a symbol of that which makes work possible, the ego.

That same night, Mikey asked Tiago to have a beer with him. Tiago reported that he was very happy to have met Vito, and that Vito was a great guy, and that he saw them being friends for a long time.

“Here.” Mikey said it as he pulled out a black jewelry box, the size of an apple, and slid it along the bar to Tiago’s resting hand.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
“Are you going to ask me to marry you?”
“Fuck off!”
“Okay … Wow! It’s gorgeous.”
“Where did you get this?”
“From my father and Luis Galo.”
“Are you giving this to me?”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t you give this to your son?”
“It should go to the best cock. You’re the best of the team. You’re my best friend. You’re a greater man than I am. I’ll admit it. I already wear the name. I want you to wear the chain.”
“I’m very grateful. I’ll wear it with pride.”

Tiago put on the thick, lustrous gold chain. And from it hung a gold rooster pendant, the size of a plum, heavy and thick.

Soon Mikey saw a shining, silver, 1982 Grand National pull up and park out front.
“That’s my ride,” said Tiago, “We’re going flying.”
“Isn’t that Coach Lander’s car?”
“Not anymore. He gave it to Vito.” Mikey remained speechless.
“I … I … I didn’t know you could fly a plane, Tiago?”
“There’s a load of things you don’t know about me, buddy.”

In the late evening Tiago was signed on to the internet, looking up past articles on the murder of Carlos Galo. And then he received notification that a friend was on MSN messenger. It was coach Lander. The following was exchanged between them:

“I know who Tasso really is. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You know why?”
“Then we understand each other.”
“Until it’s time.”
“Why is he so important to you?”
“When I came here from Germany, I was a gym teacher and I coached his high school team. He was the best in the school and he was only in grade 9. His year was cut short by his father.”
“You missed him?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t you have?”
“Yes.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”

The next day at the end of training Vito and Mikey were the last to leave the locker room. Mikey was set on taking a long shower. Vito joined him at the next shower head. It was his opportunity to get to know him a little more.

“Can I ask you a question Mikey?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you love soccer?”
“Yes.”
“Can you explain why?”
“I think so. It is so important to the people of Toronto. They get so violent over it. Half the world loves it. It is the sport of the earth. Nature has determined that man play soccer. When the day’s work is done, God says: play soccer. There is something about the sport that appeals to every race, from the men of the desert, to the jungle men, to the men of skyscrapers. When the work of the day is done, God says: play soccer. Not even sex compares to soccer.
“I’ve recently had the opportunity to sleep with about two dozen women; those experiences never came close to what I feel when I’m on the field.”
Mikey turned off the hot water tap and only left the cold on, and then he continued.
“I feel as if my body becomes an agent of the force of nature, and through me, nature expresses herself. When I perform something fancy with the ball and my body it is nature being fancy. When I score a goal that is nature expressing her excellence through me. When I sleep with a girl it can now only be her response to me as a great soccer player. It must be soccer that arouses her, and because she reacts such to nature’s sport, nature makes me reward her with my body. But it doesn’t last as long as a game. This is why nature made me beautiful—to reward female soccer fans with my beauty, I, a beautiful soccer player.”
“That is beautiful poetry but I don’t think those girls understand your passion, what is involved in it. I haven’t met the woman who knows the cause of my passion. Until then, no woman gets me. I chose my obsession. Someone invented these sports. I had a choice over several. The one that I liked most was soccer. I liked the handless aspect of it.
“(Maybe that’s why you’re so promiscuous. But remember, you can use your hands off the field).
“I wanted to excel in a purposeful activity without the use of my hands. Think of a writer without his hands. I wanted to overcome a similar frustration. It is a tribute to human excellence that I succeeded. And by learning soccer, I learned that similar principles of learning were involved in other sports. But I chose soccer. I imagine myself in the place of an immovable mover kicking the planets around for amusement, and more, for purpose. I can imagine the fates of nations being settled over a game of soccer. A similar training is involved to that of war. The importance of the game is only as important as we choose to make it; us, men. If we take it serious, and master it, we can give it a sublime meaning.
“The ease with which Tiago excels in the sport makes the game sublime. And he chose it too. He is proof that it is a choice. He could have chosen anything, even rocket science. He is a reminder of human excellence—a plateau we should always remember to strive for: the Tiago within us. He’s a reminder of how user-friendly nature is, since we choose to excel in a sport handless. Imagine what we are capable of when we choose to excel in something using every tool nature has endowed us with. Without excellence the game is just child’s play: unimportant and inconsequential.”
“Tiago is not a god.”
“I know; that’s what I mean.”
“Soccer has meaning without Tiago.”
“And does your life, Mikey?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You gave him that special chain. That gesture says a lot. What would you do if he was suddenly killed in an accident tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” And then Mikey couldn’t resist taking a closer look at Vito, to boost his sense of self-worth, since they were both naked in the shower. Mikey blatantly looked down. Vito just smiled because he already knew the answer. Mikey was no longer the biggest cock in town. And soon the entire team would know.

The news did not leak into town. Revealing such facts is something that an athlete is only allowed to get away with once. Being the measurer of his team mates’ prominence is not a reputation he wants to begin.

Tiago, Mikey, and Vito made the first line squad of the Toronto Cocks. They easily took over the leadership of the team. They were undefeated up until the eve of the final game before mid season break. If they won that game the mayor promised to throw them a parade soon after. Tiago and Vito grew closer and spent more and more time together. Soon Vito eclipsed Mikey for Tiago’s affection. Mikey noticed and was disturbed. He added more Mikey fans to his trophy shelf, so that he was soon a legend in the city. He frequented the dance clubs, the karaoke bars, the massage parlors, the great restaurants as the mythological biggest cock in town.

In the morning Mikey ate a big breakfast dominated by fruit. The front page had a big picture of Tiago, grinning and sweaty, after winning a game, the large rooster neck piece commanding the attention of the viewer. Tiago is embracing Vito, who scored a hat trick that game, like long time comrades. Mikey is not in the picture. He receive a red card that game. The article reported how Vito Tasso is a godsend and how he is the second best on the team. It describes Tasso’s playing style as being a genuine expression of his deep love for the game, not like some other hotshots on the team.

A priority courier company knocked on his townhouse door. He signed for an envelope from his father on business in Italy. Jason Galo, while marketing his Sangue de Galo in various Italian markets, had received updates from his associates involved in The Cocks franchise. They had scouted a Canadian born striker from Italy. He was found in a remote town in Northern Italy. The finding sounded odd. Where did the boy come from? Why hadn’t anyone else found him? Why was he willing to come to Canada?

He looked closely at the picture and saw an uncanny resemblance that irritated Jason. He searched his mind for the connection. And then accompanied by an angry shudder, he realized the resemblance. He bribed clerks and bureaucrats in order to confirm the truth. When his suspicion was made fact, he immediately sent a letter to his son. There was no way that his son was going to play alongside that boy.

After practice that day, he informed Tiago that he had been missing him and that he wanted to spend some time with him, that he needed to confide something to him. They went to have some beers.

“Tiago, I received a letter from my father today, from Italy. He gave me the most disturbing news.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He told me something about Vito Tasso. Tasso is not his real name.”
“What’s his name?”
“Verdi.”
“Do you know the significance of that?”
“His father killed my grandfather.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know … You don’t look surprised.”
“I’ve known since the first day.”
“And you didn’t say anything!”
“He’s not responsible for your grandfather’s death.”
“How can you defend him!”
“He’s not a threat to your life. He was just a boy when the crime happened. He was a victim of his father’s crime too. Look how long he was away from his home, without mother, without father. I wouldn’t be best friends with him if he was evil.” The last sentence stung Mikey.
“How can you be best friends with him?” he responded.
“Mikey, you and I differ in philosophy, as I think I’ve made clear before. It shouldn’t matter to you. You would love him if you only got to know him. If you reveal his secret, our friendship ends.”
“It looks like it already has.”
“Fine. Is our team going to suffer because of this?”
“I’m not going to let such an insignificant thing as our friendship jeopardize my glory.”
“Good.”
“You’ll pay for this.”
“You’ll come around, buddy.”

The Toronto Cocks were now far ahead in the lead of the Eagles, Hawks, Vultures, Falcons, and the Owls. After the win of today, over Vancouver’s Bats, they were in first place in the North American Soccer Organization (NASO). They were undefeated. The Cocks wore their burgundy uniforms, with dashes of green and yellow, the home colours, in honour of the ethnic community, the Portuguese, who seemed to be their biggest fans, and the dominant impetus for establishing a professional soccer team in Toronto.

The first goal was scored, to the delight of the Cocks fans, by Tiago, with his long brown hair, tied back, and that waved in the air, and bounced, as he ran and stopped to and fro, on the field. This tall, slender but hard-bodied young, roasted Iberian led a strategy from the old team playbook, from his goal to that of the enemy. Viera the mid-fielder, the number ten, received the ball from the goaltender, and quickly passed it over to a quick defenseman on the right. Viera then sprinted up the left flank. Meanwhile the Rooster defender ran parallel to Viera on the right side of the field, passed it to Tasso who was in the middle of the field but closer to the goal area, who then volleyed it over the head of an enemy defender to where Viera was ready to catch the ball with his foot, and score after a quick manoeuvre around the goalie.

The second goal was scored by The Cock, and by the awe-inspiring spectacle of the goal, one would think that The Cock, Mike Galo, was the best player of the team. It was an expression of independence and sheer talent. Have you ever seen a chicken being chased by a cowboy? Now picture a chicken with purpose and graceful swiftness. Now make that chicken a man but that resembles a rooster due to his speed and his commanding manoeuvres around the enemy soldiers that requires the crazed jostles of that morning bird. He crossed the field in a straight line; this is how fast he was going, this is how quick his moves were, and this is how much control he had over the ball. Galo was just a defenseman. It is seldom that one does not need one’s other team members to score a goal. Such was the talent, however, of The Cock, Galo.

Vito Tasso dominated the play. It was a partnership between him and Tiago Viera. They were a wave from the midfield to the goal area, and they yo-yo’d the ball to each other in a diagonal pattern, approaching the net, around a couple of Bats defenders—until Vito broke free towards a lonely, vulnerable goalie, a Bats defender chasing him, a span of seconds available to take advantage of the opportunity. And as Vito wound his legs to strike a shot that he had planned to aim at the top left corner of the net—as he wound, the defender tripped him. It was an immediate impulse in the violator to regret the trip. He obviously had a deep respect for the talent of the man he had tripped and it was this respect that drove him to help Vito up from the ground, and to dust off his clothing for him. He went so far as to pick up the ball and place on the spot for a penalty kick.

Vito Tasso scored a blast past the goalie to the bottom right corner, so fast that the goaltender had no time to dive for the ball, his shudder but the remnant of an intention too late.

A broken man, a man incomplete, a quasimodo, is a man whose actions do not accord with his moral principles, and deeper, whose thoughts are not original to himself. So on the battlefield, so is a team who do not follow the strategy when it is time to do it. But it is also when a player does not live up to his talent, who lets down a more focused team mate, and who is more likely than the focused-ones to miss the surprise opportunities which make soccer exciting, and which distinguishes the men from the boys, the officer from the scout.

Mike Galo always played every game to the best of his ability. Every game was thus an opportunity to advance towards his horizon. And he still believed that he would reach it someday. He still believed that he would be a better player than his idol, Tiago Viera. Viera played every game at his best because, when it was game time, the game was about winning; it was not about having fun. It was about being better, stopping the enemy’s offence, and crushing the enemy’s defense. And since winning was never a guarantee, and the fun of the game for any individual player was to push himself to the next level, to improve even if only by a mere iota—even losing was a ‘win’ for the individual so long as the individual made the effort to excel and to succeed … that one iota.

Tasso, the Sicilian, played his best for the same reason as Viera. However, on the handsome face of olive skin with a shaved head there were two brown eyes that looked upon one with the confidence that they would always give a game their best effort, permanently so, never breaching their omnipresent promise. And so he also played at his best out of a sense of justice and camaraderie with his best friend and other team mates.

Mike Galo tackled the Bats mid-fielder, in his attempt to manoeuvre around him. One of Mike’s best attributes was his quick and concentrated eye that could almost catch every dribble of a fantastic showman, and anticipate the attempt at the next penetration passed him, the cock. One would have to get up pretty early in the morning to beat the cock, to get one by him; such was the colloquialism among the fans. Once he stole the ball from the Bats superstar, Mike spotlighted his next best attribute with his speed up the field. He then automatically and dutifully passed the ball to an awaiting Tiago, who would set up the play.

Sometimes patience is a key characteristic of an offender. Sometimes he must hold back and dribble for several minutes around one or a few defenders, periodically passing to a Mike or a Vito, close by. One waits for one’s team to get into position, so that he, number ten, can initiate a series of pre-automatized passes, enacted by the other individuals which make up a play, a play automatized by hours of practice. By the end of the series of passes, the ball returned to Viera, who immediately passed it to the awaiting Tasso, who thrust the ball home, past the goal tender’s head, with amazing speed and force. Vito Tasso was known and adored by his fans for the speed, distance, power, and accuracy of his kick. Very often he would score by turning a straight shot into a curve ball, as he did in this fourth goal of the game.

Suddenly from mid-field Viera got the opportunity to engage in an inspired stream straight ahead to the enemy’s net that would become a goal. One black shirt after another he passed swiftly and easily, like a speeding, swirling gust of wind, like flight itself. And as he was about to conquer the last defender before he met the goalie as his victim, he was violently tripped, but broke his own fall with his acrobatic ability, so that a fall forward turned into a flip forward, landing still with balance, so that he could continue with the ball that was rolling and awaiting his landing. The referee was about to blow the whistle for a penalty shot when his blow was interrupted by the spectacle of Viera’s acrobatics. The just thing to do, he thought, was to let Viera continue with his unstoppable goal. Viera scored again.

Chance is a part of the game but it is mostly the talent of the team, as well as their style of play that serve as the crux of its success. That their sixth goal of the game is about to be announced, is not luck, it is a symptom that the team is good and productive. It is a team that wants to win, knows how to win, and wins well. But the Atlas of this production seemed to be Viera. He could kick a ball like Vito, he could run and dance like Mike, he was acrobatic, he was strong, and he had an unmatched prescience for the right plays and the right time. And yet one wonders that if he were to be eliminated from the team, whether they could still be a winning team, as if he had already trained his team mates to live with out him through experience and some sort of osmosis.

This time the goalie came out of his net too far, up to mid-field, but he was in control of the ball, and so Galo covered the vulnerable goal area. The goalie, an asian fellow, passed the ball over to the French Canadian, Jean Pierre Chanticleer, who for this next drive became the team’s big cock, gracefully running around the Bat defenders. He passed the ball to the Jamaican man, who dribbled further into the goal area, and let it roll to meet the Argentine who met it with a blast of a kick that hit the goal tender’s hands but penetrated past them to make the sixth goal.

Nelson DeFreitas had been practicing his scissor kick for months and had not yet the opportunity to score with one. Viera had consciously given himself the standing order to set DeFreites up for a scissor kick goal, when the opportunity arose, that is. He knew the thrill and pride that one feels upon scoring one’s first scissor kick goal. This is why Viera was remaining close to the right side line as his soldiers past the ball around, stalling, awaiting the opportunity to pass it back to Viera so that he could volley it over to a waiting De Freitas. From midfield Galo passed the ball long to Tasso on the left side line. After some manoeuvres around a few Bat defenders, he passed it long to Viera at the right side line, who had enough time to wait for De Freitas to get in position. Viera passed the ball high over several Bats heads, and met with the cutting legs of an acrobatic De Freitas.

The Game ended seven to zero. It was a proud and happy way to end the half season. A break the duration of one week awaited the Roosters, now in first place by several games. The neighbourood around the stadium would be celebrating, as would the city, since the mayor had promised a parade in the upcoming days if The Cocks remained undefeated. The Cocks were the obvious favourites to win the Championship.

Many Portuguese Cocks fans congregated on Little Azores Street, inside a bar called The Green Coast. Inebriated men were arguing across the room over who was the best cock. In this bar, Vito Tasso, would surely not be proclaimed the best. He was Italian. So the debate was between the Viera side and the Galo side.

On Galo’s side there was the whole Rooster mystique that strengthened his case. He had dyed his hair orange-red, and he styled it so that the sides of his head were shaved, and a long spiked row of hair extended from his forehead to his neck, so that it resembled a rooster’s comb, and with the coco butter- bees wax solution that he used on his comb, its texture resembled a real rooster comb. Though his head was red his skin was that of your typical non-tanned white Portuguese breed from the continent.

When he was at his best on the field, and could conquer the enemy team, he too often resembled a rooster. He was known also as a talented singer, frequenting the many karaoke bars of the downtown area. And often when he would score a goal, he would dance his rooster dance, a proud, seductive dance, whereby his neck and head pecked at some imaginary enemy or sexual lover, and his feet danced with gallant steps and poses. And during these celebratory dances, he would cry out like a rooster calling forth the sun, “Coocooroocoocoo! Coocooroocoocoo!” He was the team’s Don Juan who had no intention whatsoever of having a girlfriend, and who was almost always seen in public in the company of some beautiful girl or woman. Portuguese men, young and old, lived with a repressed envy over this fact. And Portuguese women, young and old, lived with a guilty admiration over this fact.

And yet Galo was a magnificent soccer player. He was fast, strong, quick with his feet, agile, and daring. But was he the best on the team? Likeability, being a living symbol and mascot for an entire culture; charm, charisma, and fame were not the gauges by which to judge soccer skills. Perhaps Mike Galo was the most liked on the team by the majority of the fans, perhaps because he came from a wealthy and famous family of the Portuguese community. But it is clear who was indeed the best and the obvious prodigy.

On the other side of that debate in The Green Coast were the supporters of Tiago Viera. The argument was simple. If the team lost Viera, the Cocks would be finished; such was the naivete of the fans, for they did not know the great leadership of Viera, nor the great training provided by the academy. It was evident in the game that had just finished, as it was evident in many others, that Viera was a superstar. He should have been playing in Europe, he should have been playing on Mars. But he had decided that his soccer career would end in Toronto. He did not foresee himself being involved in soccer for more than ten years. And it was his prodigious talent in relation to his two friends also on The Cocks that made his stature clear to all, even somewhere deep inside of the Mike Galo supporters.
Soon, outside beyond the uproar in the bar, could be heard the distinctive calls of the team.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!” It was clear that those were the players of Anglo-Saxon descent.
“Coco-ree-coco!” That was the French player, Chanticleer.
“Ceecee-ree-ceecee! Ceecee-ree-ceecee!” That was Vito Tasso, and there were too many derisive remarks from the men in the bar, in response to his Italian version of the rooster’s morning song.

And then it seemed that there was a singing competition between the two different voices that sang next.
“Coocooroocoocoo! Coocooroocoocoo!” Sang Tiago Viera.
“Coocooroocoocoo! Coocooroocoocoo!” Sang Mike Galo.

They both repeated the same thing frequently, and gradually louder. It is not clear who was the winner. The cheers seemed equal for both of them. The two best Portuguese players on the team allowed themselves to enjoy the celebration despite Mike’s animosity for Tiago. Mikey walked into the bar dancing his rooster dance, and Tiago tried to mimic it the best he could, which was a mediocre version.

The whole team entered the bar and sat at the long table reserved for them. Immediately the waitresses and waiters poured them their beer. Friedrich Lander stood up, which silenced the bar. He was ready to make a speech.

“Many years ago I had a dream. Italy won the world cup. It was the day of the World Cup Massacre, where twelve Portuguese boys, and twelve Italian boys murdered each other. They disputed about the disputed goal that caused Italy to win. They murdered themselves over a game they claimed to love … more than their lives.
“So I dreamed that one day such stupid violence would end, at least in my city. I thought that if we could bring a professional team to Toronto, one that all the cultures of this city could cheer for, then it would lead soccer fans to look past their races, and see the potential that they all have in common as human beings.
“So I quit my job at a high school. I spoke with business men of all sorts, and my former colleagues in the soccer industry, and I got some support. I got support in large part from Portuguese businessmen. But there were other men from other cultures who contributed, who made an investment in the team.
“After many years of almost winning the title, we are en route to finally winning the North American title. Soon The Cocks will be known world wide. I promise that we will win the title this year. It may sound cocky but I am confident because never has this team, or any NASO team, been bestowed with such a fusion of talent as my three gods: Tiago Viera, Mike Galo, and Vito Tasso. I must be just and honest and name them to distinguish them. The spirits of these men are unprecedented. But one of these men is in a league all of his own. Hockey has its Gretzky, Basketball has its Jordan, Golf has its Woods; but now Soccer has its Viera. Pele, who? Maradona, who?
“Long live Viera! Long live Viera!” And the crowd repeated it for several minutes.

After the cheering had died, and the celebrations resumed in the form of dancing, revelling, and singing, Vino Galo entered the bar. He was accompanied by two of his workers carrying a vat of wine. Vino Galo was carrying a wooden box that seemed to hold a bottle of wine. By this time all the team members were drunk, including Tiago Viera.

“Attention Please! Attention! … Attention!” Shouted Vino Galo.
Soon the bar was mostly quiet. Vino began to speak.
“In celebration of the win of today, with full confidence that we will win the championship, I present the folks gathered here with this vat of wine to be indulged by everyone here, on behalf of Sangue de Galo.” The crowd cheered and raved. Vino raised his hand to quiet the crowd.
“Let me finish. I have just recently finished the production of Sangue de Galo’s latest wine. It is the best wine yet our family has produced. It is a wine with a great and bold spirit. It will symbolize the greatest man I have ever known. It will be named after him. Yes, he is a family member.”

Vino raised the bottle in the air and proclaimed, “Behold Tiago Galo!” The crowd cheered. But suddenly the cheering was interrupted by a protest.

“This is an outrage! It is scandalous! It is unfair! You inconsiderate bastard!” It was not Mike Galo who spoke these words.

Vito Tasso shot out from his chair and charged at Vino Galo. He tore the bottle from his hand and threw it to the ground, breaking it. Vino Galo’s first instinct was to punch him. Vito Tasso punched him back and knocked him to the ground. Suddenly Tiago Viera got involved and punched Vito. They began to fight and roll around on the floor, the crowd cheering in a circle around them. Flashes from cameras could be seen at random.
Coach Lander soon broke into the circle and let out a ferocious yell, “Enough! Enough!” He grabbed both his boys by their shirts and led them outside. Mike Galo followed. They reached the alley way out back.
“Why did you break the bottle, Vito?” Asked Friedrich.
“I’m not sure any more. It was instinct. I guess I did it for Mikey. He’s a Galo. The wine should be named after him, if anyone of The Cocks.”
“That’s not your place to decide.” Tiago said.
“I know.” Vito answered.
“Vino can do whatever he wants with the business!” There was suppressed anger in Mikey’s voice.
“Aren’t you hurt?” Vito asked.
“Hell no!” Mikey said. Tiago could tell that the was hurt.
“You can’t make it up to Mikey. It’s not your place to make-up.” Mikey did not grasp yet that Tiago was not talking about the naming of the wine; and the coach knew so too.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Vito, from now on remember that I can fight my own battles. I don’t need you to fight for my honor.”
“I’m sorry, Mikey. I won’t do something like that again.”
“You’re all drunk.” Coach Lander said. “Vito; Tiago—hug and make up. And then go your separate ways for tonight.”

They embraced.

“Vito,” Tiago said, “meet me tomorrow in the early morning at the stadium. We’ll get in a work out together.”
“No. Tiago. Thanks. Listen, I’m going to go for a long walk to think about things. I want to sleep in tomorrow very late.”
“I’ll be there for the dawn in case you change your mind; an hour before it.” Tiago said.
“I’m going back inside.” Mikey said in an obvious jealous tone.

Inside the bar the people were still amused over the fight. And Mikey could tell that many of the faces had a look of ridicule directed at him, over the wine not being named after him.

A beautiful young woman was staring at him from the bar. She had a look of hunger in her eyes. She kept on sneaking glances at his thighs. He smiled, knowing what she wanted.

They left the bar and went to her place. He satisfied her but left immediately afterwards. For the first time he was not satisfied by such an act. He felt like he was betraying something or someone. The image of Tiago Viera kept coming to his mind. He fought it away and it came back. He stayed sitting on the bench of a school yard, not knowing where to go.

The next morning Friedrich Lander woke up feeling thrilled. He felt young again. He knew that he wanted to skip breakfast and to have a good work out. He remembered that Tiago would be working out at dawn. And he remembered that Vito told him he would not be going there, and that Tiago would be working out alone. He hurried over to the stadium, though the dawn had come already.

When he arrived there was still much litter outside the stadium. The cleaning staff had the day off. The hallways were quiet and he could hear the echoes of his own footsteps. He checked the field first but saw no one there. He decided to check the locker room and showers. Outside the entrance door, he could hear the shower running. He hurried inside and went directly to the shower area.

“Tiago!” Coach Lander called out.
“Tiago!” He called out again. When he entered the showers he immediately fell to the floor in shock. What caused this was the dead body of Tiago Viera. His throat was slashed, and his blood was being washed down the drain. He cried for too long before regaining the strength to allow him to call the police.

Detective Halifax entered the locker room with a newspaper folded under his arm, as he walked very swiftly to the showers. When he saw the body, he could not help but walk immediately out, to fight his urge to lament. He was a Cocks fan too. The call to go there interrupted his reading of the morning’s Toronto Star. He was reading an article that showed two pictures. One was the picture of Tiago with his arm around Vito and the other one was a picture of them fighting on the previous night. It was the first time in his career that he was unable to endure the body upon immediately seeing it. He regained his composure and went to examine the body and the crime scene.

Meanwhile, the second person that the coach had called was Mikey. He broke the news to him. Mikey was silent for a while. He was crying on the other end, sobbing with deep regret. Mikey volunteered to be the one to tell Vito. Mikey asked Vito to come and pick him up because there was something important he needed to talk to him about. Vito eagerly went to Mikey’s house.

Mikey was waiting for Vito’s silver sports car to pull up. When it did he got in. He broke the news immediately to Vito. Vito got out of the car and ran, and soon fell onto a front lawn and sobbed. Mikey, though surprised at the grand emotion from Vito, waited patiently. He opened the glove compartment of Vito’s car and then closed it again quickly. Soon Vito returned with gained composure.

“Where did it happen?” Vito asked.
“At the stadium. In the showers.”
“Let’s go there.”
“I think we should.”

Meanwhile the coach was being questioned in his office, and Detective Halifax, was discussing the scene with his colleague.

“The victim was slashed from behind. But he knew the killer. The murder was executed too easy. I suspect that the killer walked in here naked. I think he washed off the blood on the next stall; the wet floor extends that far. He probably turned on the shower with his elbow; you just got to turn that lever. Then he washed off whatever sprinkles of blood he got on himself; like I said, the act was too easy for him. I fear of how close Tiago was to his killer to allow him to get so close while he was in the shower naked; I suspect he had a brotherly love for the killer.
“Do you see how far the water marks of feet travel, and in which manner? Straight from this vicinity where the body lies to the door outside. He probably left his close outside the locker room door. He probably wore little clothing; like soccer shorts and a tank top. That’s just speculation but we’ll see.
“Did you find out whether there are any cameras inside?”
“There are none.”
“Where are the cameras outside?”
“Only at the main entrances.”
“What did you see?”
“The computer’s got a password, and the operations manager left last night to Portugal. We can’t get a hold of him.”
“Can’t you break into the computer?”
“No. But we called someone who can. He’ll be here in two hours.”

Detective Halifax looked at Tiago’s body again. He shook his head in disappointment. He looked at the cut. It was hard to look at but he managed. And a lead occurred to him. He looked at the newspaper he had brought. He looked at the two pictures. The first one had Tiago and Vito hugging, and the second had them fighting. The pictures had one thing in common besides the fact that they both contained Tiago and Vito. Tiago Viera was wearing a gold chain with a prominent gold cock pendant. The dead body did not have that pendant.

“Search all the lockers! Let me know when you find Tiago’s.”
“Sir, I found it.”
“Look for a gold necklace with a rooster pendant.”
“There’s nothing of the kind.”

They searched the rest of the lockers and did not find that pendant and chain.
Soon another detective came into the locker room and informed Halifax that both Vito and Mikey had arrived.

“Detective Halifax, they wish to see the body.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What you like me to tell them? Would you like to interview them?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I would like to speak to one in particular.”

Detective Halifax asked to speak with Vito Tasso alone.

“How can I be of assistance Detective?”
“What was the fight all about at the bar last night?”
“It was my fault. I drank too much. I over-reacted to the fact that Vino Galo decided to name his new wine after Tiago and not Mikey. Me and Tiago made up soon after.”
“How come the newspaper didn’t say that this morning?”
“Because we made up in the alley way.”
“Did you know that Tiago would be at the stadium this morning?”
“Yes. He asked me to join him.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“I wanted to sleep in.”
“Who else knew that he was going to be there?”
“Mikey and Coach Lander.”
“In an effort to further rule you out as a suspect, I was hoping you would allow us to search your vehicle. Will you co-operate?”
“Sure. Anything I can do.”

Detective Halifax searched the vehicle himself. One of the first areas he opened was the glove compartment. There right in the front he found the gold necklace with the cock. He thought to himself: how could he be so stupid?

He walked up to Vito holding the cock and chain in his hand.

“Vito Tasso you are under arrest for the murder of Tiago Viera.”

A few other detectives took him away in a car. On his way to the police car Vito gave Mikey a long look that expressed disbelief and sadness, mixed with scorn. Mikey’s eyes expressed to Vito that he knew what that look meant. Halifax stayed behind and interrogated Mikey.

“Mr. Galo, why were you with Vito Tasso.”
“He picked me up from home. I called him after hearing the news from Coach. I figured I’d be the best one to break the news to him, since Coach was in no state to do so.”
“Where were you at dawn?”
“I was at home sleeping. Coach Lander’s call woke me up.”
“Do you know any reason why Vito would want to kill Tiago?”
“I don’t think he killed him. He loved Tiago too much.”
“Too much?”
“You know; it was a strange affection.”
“And Tiago didn’t feel the same way?”
“I doubt that.”
“Thank you. Stay in the city. And I’ll keep in touch with you.”
“Good luck, detective.”

Vito Tasso was taken to the police station and processed. His bail hearing was that same day. He was granted bail because Coach Lander was his guarantor because he could not believe that he actually killed Tiago. Vito did not reveal to Coach Lander what specifically led to his arrest.

By early evening, the two Toronto dailies had front page coverage of the story. The whole city knew that the Italian, Vito Tasso, was arrested. They also knew that he was out on bail.

In the morning Vito Tasso got up early and went for a run to reduce some of his stress. He did not return home. A group of men in masks walked out of a van and forced him inside.

Soon, in bakeries, at work sites, in businesses, at coffee shops, at restaurants—throughout the day—the message was spread to Cocks fans to congregate in the park outside the stadium at six in the evening. At five in the afternoon, the fans started to make their pilgrimage to Trinity-Bellwoods Park, where in place of a former pit, was now nestled The Cocks Stadium, whose glass walls protruded high and to the sky. Dozens of old and high trees were scattered around the stadium in the rest of the park. The fans came from all directions, and soon thousands began to fill the park, not knowing where the spectacle was going to occur, nor what the nature of the spectacle was. The great majority of the crowd was made up of the Portuguese who lived in the general neighborhood of the Stadium. And it was mostly Portuguese because it was the culture that was most outraged, and was living in great mourning, due to the loss of one of their best representatives, Tiago Viera.
Soon a few rugged looking Portuguese men made their way to a large tree on the south side, carrying a long, strong rope, and a ladder. One of them climbed the ladder to prop him up to climb the tree to a sturdy, horizontal branch. He tied the rope to it. And let it hang. The man below tied his end into an execution noose. The crowd then knew what was then to transpire. They were satisfied that justice would be met. But where was the killer?

The crowd made a large and thick circle around that tree. A perceptive observer could be able to notice that around the perimeter of the thick circle, the people were made up of strong men, whereas within the circle they varied much more, especially in regards to gender.

News cameramen began to climb trees and pointed their cameras at the rope and the tree. Soon the situation was broad cast live and all of Toronto had the opportunity to witness an elderly Portuguese man, stand by the rope with a megaphone. What most of Toronto did not know was that this man was the leader of the organized crime element of the Portuguese community. He held a megaphone and began to speak into it.

“Just citizens! I have decided to bring justice to you immediately. A crime has been committed against our community. Tiago Viera is not the only victim. All of us who had our hopes and dreams invested in this team are victims too. It is an outrage!
“What is more an outrage is who the killer is! You all know him as Vito Tasso. His real name is Vito Verdi … Yes ladies and gentleman, his father killed Mike Galo’s grandfather. Our pride and joy, Mike Galo, was a victim of the blood line of Vito Verdi. It was destiny that he should kill our Tiago. It was all a fraud. It was what he was planning from the start. He killed Tiago Viera, because he was best friends with Mike Galo, standing over there damaged, and Mike’s grandfather refused to sell his grandfather Sangue de Galo. It was your typical Italian mafia vendetta: kill a loved one of one’s enemy so he could live in suffering and torment forever.
“Behold your killer!”

Vito Tasso was brought out by two men in black masks.

“Behold your killer! He will be allowed to speak before we proceed immediately thereafter with the execution.”

Vito faced the crowd with the pride of an innocent man. He spoke.

“I am not the killer … You don’t believe me … I know who the real killer is. He is here today. I will not reveal his identity because I want him, if he will remain a coward, to live with a greater crime than he already committed by allowing me to be killed. I loved Tiago Viera. He was a brother. I knew him only a matter of months but he was the greatest man I have ever met, and the greatest soccer player. I wanted the world to learn of his greatness, so that they too could be bestowed with his grace. He is the type of man who helps to bring peace to the world. He is the type of man who can teach men how to love life.
“He exemplified what it means to be a man. The cock, the rooster, is only an eloquent symbol. It is a symbol of pride. But not irrational pride. It is the pride of a man who knows his value. It is a bird who knows when it is time to wake; and for men that is the time to think. It is a bird who knows when it is time to work; and for men that is the time to think. The cock is a symbol of sacred thought because from there flows human excellence, both physical and spiritual. Tiago was the epitome of such human excellence because he had a powerful mind and a fair morality.
“The irony is that his killer did not have to be bad. There was so much potential in him. I believe that what led him to such an act was his fear of himself, his fear of facing that he was not as great as he was, the fear of allowing that part of him that would punish him for not being great. The irony is that he could have been great. The only thing is that he had to work some more. And he could not face the fact that it would be so easy, since he had a great mentor at his disposal, Tiago Viera. But he chose to eliminate the standard instead. That is all I wish to say. A great man is dead; I will be another. So I leave this world that is filled with such treachery.
“Kill me now.”

Suddenly the most pitiful cry was heard through out the park, irritating the ears of, and grabbing the attention of all around, “Coocooroocoocoo! Coocooroocoocoo! Coocooroocoocoo!” It was Mike Galo who let out this cry of lament. This cry was genuine and his own catharsis.
He pushed his way to the executioners and released Vito Tasso from the noose. He put the noose around his own neck and proclaimed,

“It was I! It was I! I killed my god. I killed Tiago Viera! Kill me now! I planted the gold cock in Vito’s car …”

THE END

V For Vendetta

2008-03-21T20:30:00.001-07:00

[QUOTE]

We are told to remember the idea, not the man
Because a man can fail, he can be caught.
He can be killed and forgotten.
But four hundred years later an idea can still change the world.
I've witnessed first hand the power of ideas,
I've seen people kill in the name of them,
And die defending them.
But you cannot kiss an idea, cannot touch it or hold it.
Ideas do not bleed, they do not feel pain,
They do not feel love.
And it is not an idea that I miss--
It is a man;
A man that made me remember ... [ ] ...
A man that I will never forget ...

[END QUOTE]

From the movie, V FOR VENDETTA

The Dog Rule and The Japanese Beauty, a story

2007-09-16T13:54:00.000-07:00

By Jose Gainza

Georgia Takanaka was one of those women of Japanese descent that troubadours travel the oceans to get to. She was slender, fragile, long, and white as milk. She had enchanting green eyes and hair of black silk. She also had voluptuous breasts that many other women hoped were manufactured. She was brilliant and in graduate school to become a doctor of philosophy. She carried herself with an angelic aura.

She came from a wealthy family who had prospered in Toronto for generations. Her parents had died some years ago and had left her with a vast fortune. She lived alone in a very tall condominium in the lower-eastern part of downtown Toronto, a full glass structure of emerald green, with prominent, long balconies of the same color. Her suite was on a high floor, and faced the east, so that the dawn would greet her every morning on her bed. It was a building that allowed no pets what so ever.

The concierge staff considered her a model tenant of the building. She was polite, affectionate, and friendly with most of them. She wasn’t a stranger to polite conversation with them when she met with them to be provided with one of their services. She was one of the rare tenants who knew which concerns to properly bring to the concierge persons and which not to. She was not one of those tenants who would ask the concierge to get a toaster fixed that was bought at Wal-Mart and not provided by the developer. She never tried to abuse the visitor parking rules. She always brought back the locker room key on time. She did not go past her pre-assigned usage time of the recreational amenities. She defended the competent property manager and the concierge company when false accusations were brought up at general meetings. And at Christmas she gave each concierge member a generous envelope. She was not one of those tenants who were caught with a prohibited dog, cat, or cobra. She was an angel.

She was an inspiration to the concierge staff. They, both men and women, knew that she was a philosopher, though she never made clear exactly what her philosophy was. So she had all the staff reading books on philosophy. One was reading Plato and Aristotle, another was foolishly ambitious and was reading Kant, another was reading Nietzsche, and another Sartre.

One day the concierge guy reading Nietzsche asked her, “So why does Nietzsche call Christians dogs?”
She chuckled at the innocent bluntness of the question.
“Yes, Nietzsche is quite hostile. I believe that deep down he wanted to love humanity, but was too disturbed by what he saw around him. He was not romantic enough. He saw that his fellow German’s were too servile to authority of the church and the new philosophy that had just been born in Germany in the last two centuries before his. He was not a man to bow down to authority and yet millions of Germans seemed to have been born that way. And so he thought that there were two types of men, masters and slaves, men and animals, and that neither type could change their destiny. And so the key to changing the state of the world according to his vision of what men like him should be was to force it upon the lower types. Christianity was a doctrine that trained men to be obedient, satisfied, and unambitious.”
“Are you a Nietzschean?” asked the concierge man newly introduced to Nietzsche.
“No. I’m not an Idealist. Nietzsche was a victim of German Idealism. He had a glimpse of the right road but he turned it into a blind alley. It’s hard to be a rebel when your education has enabled you to injure your greatest weapon against the misery you see around you.”
“What’s that weapon?”
“Your mind … I got to go; keep on reading.”
“Wait! Wait! One more question.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have dreams? You don’t want to improve things?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said you’re not an idealist.”
“Oh! Look up Idealism on the internet. Check out Hegel. You’ll begin to know what I mean. Good night.”

This young European found it hard to believe that a woman who was also Japanese could be so smart. She must be an angel. He in that moment was certain that she was a virgin.

The next day the new Nietzsche enthusiast could not wait to see her walk in back from her day. He had been brainstorming in his mind what exactly he would say to her. How could he impress her?

She walked in with a brown leather bag on her arm, and a handsome young stallion of a man on the other.
“Dominic,” she said, “I need a parking permit for my boyfriend.”
And as her new boyfriend gave Dominic the information as he wrote the permit, she was nibbling on her boyfriend’s ear. Dominic was a strong boy and he did not let this spectacle interfere with his calm composure. He simply asked a question.
“So are you a philosopher too.”
“No. I’m a mechanic.” Dominic could only complete the permit by filling: 4307, which was her suite number.
She interrupted, “Dominic services my Ferrari. No one knows the idiosyncrasies of my engine like he.” And she smirked in a devilish manner.
Dominic was speechless for a moment. And soon he was able to mutter under his breath, while the couple was already at the elevator, “Do you know who Nietzsche is?” The question would have been directed at the boyfriend.
In this way was extinguished the romantic idealism of our Dominic surrounding the person of Georgia Takanaka.

Dominic got off at midnight on a Friday and he would be off then until the following Thursday at midnight.

On his return he read the security reports. There were five noise complaints reports about suite 4307. That seemed impossible not only to Dominic but also to the rest of the staff because how could their sweet angel betray such an important condominium rule. The no pet rule was one of the main attractions to the building. Dominic remembered the mechanic of his last shift and felt: her betrayal is possible.

It was 0143 hours when a call came in from 4308. The woman on the other line reported again persistent dog barking, wolf howls, scratching on the walls. Soon 4304 and 4306 reported similar noises. Dominic called up to 4307 but no one answered. The next step was to go upstairs and knock on that door. He knocked.
Georgia answered wearing a green kimono with white camellias.
“I’ve received three noise complaints about loud and strange dog barking from you suite.”
“There’s no dog here.”
“I hope that’s true because you know how strict the rules are here on that kind of thing.”
“Yes. I have no dog.”
“Can I come inside?” He had noticed that she was perspiring and her hair was damp, and that the kimono was thin.
“No!”
“Please.”
“No. It’s for your own good. Now go away.”
He went back to his desk in the lobby. He decided to review the parking log. There it was! The Ferrari mechanic had his car registered again. He had done so every night since the last one.
“HE must be the one bringing the dog.”
He spent the night reviewing the video system. He watched them every night ascend an elevator, kissing passionately. There was never a dog. How does he get it in? He wondered. He noticed that all the complaints were between midnight and two in the morning. At no other time was there any complaints or reports of a dog barking—not even when she was away for 12 hours at the University, which is when a dog would miss her most. What stupid dog would bark while she was home?
He watched footage for the day time hours. No person with a dog came down the elevator. No one was seen walking a dog. It was too strange.
He asked his supervisor whether he saw anyone walk a dog during his shift. No. He asked him what he had found out about this dog mystery.
“I talked to her the other morning, Dominic, and she insists that she has no dog. I don’t know what to do. I believe her.”
“Do you think it’s her boyfriend barking?”
“Her? No! Not her.”
“It can’t be.”

On Dominic’s next shift he verified that the boyfriend’s car was registered. Then he went to her floor and stood in the vicinity of her suite door but in the stairwell. He stood there an hour. He was paged a few times but he did not answer. Tenants had been waiting to be served at the concierge desk. But Dominic was resolute. And then he heard it. It began like the howling of a wolf. Soon it changed into deep growls. Soon that became deep barking. And then there was whimpering. In the midst of wolf howls Dominic knocked violently on her door.

The howls stopped. All was silent. He knocked for five minutes but no one came to answer the door. He went back to his desk and wrote the report.

About an hour later he saw the boyfriend descending the elevator. He had an angry look on his face, and he was shaking his head, and banging his fist on the elevator door, as if in self-reproach, humiliation, and resentment. One could tell that he was muttering vulgarities. Soon Dominic could see his car speeding out of the parkade.

From that day forward there were no more barking complaints from the neighbors of 4307.

It occurred on a shift that lasted from 1600 Hours to 2400 Hours. It was approximately 1800 Hours. It was dinner time and Georgia came down and sat on a leather sofa in the lobby area. She called someone on her cell phone.

“Hey there Jessica! It’s Georgia. I was wondering if you want to go get some sushi … That affair ended … He didn’t want to bark anymore … I know, I shouldn’t … I should have after the first time … I will respect it more … I must … So how about in a half hour at the usual place?”

When she returned, Dominic could tell by the look on her face that the sushi had satisfied her. She was alone. She looked at him as if she was pleased to see him, and sorry that she did not give him the attention he craved for while she was sitting in the lobby talking to her friend. He looked at her with the eyes of a creature that guards a junkyard—when it is tamed.

He could not wait until midnight came when he would be off shift. Midnight came and he was certain that she was alone. He handed over the keys and equipment to his relief co-worker and instead of walking in the direction of the main entrance, he walked towards the elevator.
“Where are you going?” asked his co-worker.
“There’s some business I got to take care of upstairs.”
The co-worker pretended not to hear.

When he arrived at her door, he did not knock. He knelt on the ground, with his back arched back. He howled like a wolf, “Awooooooooo!” He did it again. A neighbor came out. “What the hell are you doing?” she yelled. Then he began to bark passionately, “Woof! Woof! Woof!”
“That’s it,” she said, “I’m calling the police!”
He continued.
When the woman entered her apartment, Georgia opened the door quickly.
“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.
He whimpered.
“Get in here!” she commanded
He crawled inside. She closed the door.
“Stand up like a man!”
“I thought you liked that?”
“What makes you think that?”
“All those barking complaints, they were your boyfriend.”
“So you figured it out. He’s not my boyfriend. It’s over. Why would you want a woman who wants you to bark?”
“I figure that once I fulfill you for a night you won’t need me to bark anymore.”
“I don’t need you to bark right now.”
“What can I do? I’ll do anything. I’ll learn Nietzsche. I’ll learn to tell you about his relationship with Wagner, and his influence by Schopenhauer, how he detests Kant, his views on Greek tragedy, and some theories on why he went crazy. I’ll tell you about Existentialism and Bernard Shaw and Joseph Conrad.”
“I know all that.”
“Yah, but who else does, that’s as young as you, and beautiful as you?”
“Not many. Learning Nietzsche won’t impress me.”
“Fine then; Kant.”
“I don’t think you can handle Kant.”
“I’ll do it. That’s how much you mean to me. I keep on falling asleep during his Prolegomena but I’ll read that and both his Critique’s.”
“Any silly philosophy professor can do that. Kant’s even worse than Nietzsche.”
“So tell me. What should I learn? What will draw you to me?”
“You know; none of my students so far has exhibited such a passion as you for ideas. You would actually torture yourself with Kant. Have you heard of Alicia Felicia?”
“Yes. I have not gotten to her. She doesn’t appear until like after the Second World war.”
“Oh. Start reading her quickly. You can send me e-mails about her. But that won’t get you anywhere with me. Get to know her well enough. And then read some histories of philosophy. Elect who you think are the major thinkers in the history of philosophy and write me a compare and contrast essay to them and Alicia Felicia.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Oh and I hope I don’t have to tell you that if you don’t like her, you won’t get very far with me.”
“I believe that philosophy is a practical science. Would you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Then if Alicia Felicia is anything like you then I’m sure I’ll write an essay as a tribute to her … and you’ll give an A+++.”
“That’s charming.” And she gave him one peck on his left cheek. She gave him her business card and then kicked him out of her apartment. Dominic walked past his co-worker with a beaming smile, it was a smile that told his co-worker that this would not be the last time he saw him walk past his concierge desk, smiling.

THE END

PRIVACY AT SEA

2007-03-18T14:37:00.000-07:00

Saturday, March 17, 2007

Friend:

She walked alone along the beach on Monday night, her head bowed low to read a sheet of paper, held afloat by two cupped hands. Sometimes the sheet caused her to peer straight out ahead into the distance, perhaps into the depths of her imagination to recall a face, to hold a hand. There were moments when she looked up to see the stars, perhaps to seem like twinkles from some eyes. Sometimes she kissed the moon, and so cast away the stars from within her glance. One time perchance she had to dance with the beaming beacon-tower; so forceful was the letter that she spun around in hand, her head cackling at the sky, her hair caressing the sea-breeze with affection.

And then she walked away, her feet playing with the sand.

On Tuesday morn the dawn was seen full-force, the waves were roaring calm, the breeze was a promise of some ecstasy, as the seabirds began to moan, as the fishermen roamed near and off to the horizon, as if they caused the sun to rise.

When the sky grew blue a blade of silver could be seen out at sea. It was a yacht painted chrome. Soon it anchored some miles away and seven men soon began to carry a rowboat onto the shore. They carried guitars, an accordion, and a saxophone, all wrapped up in cases. They approached the Vespa Scooter shop on the main boulevard, hiring one for each. Six of them seemed eager to allow the seventh one, a young man—fully dressed in a white suit, with no shirt, and a white panama hat—to choose the first motorcycle that he wanted.

Their instruments strapped to their back, they sped away to mingle with the town.

On Wednesday morn the Marine Time News had an article on page three about a troupe of jazz players. They were called the Marine Terrace Gang. They were apropos for writing successful popular songs based on the works of the great romantic poets; this band able to make translations from the German, French, Italian, and Spanish. They were in this Greek town until sometime Saturday evening, when they would set off to the islands of Portugal. They were asked to stay until a last show on Saturday. The article mentioned how they booked a gig at Club Arete for that first night merely to pay for the accommodations when picking up the Captain’s fiancée, and that was it. But they were asked to stay. The picture reveals that the Captain is the man in white suit in the middle of seven smiling men, arm in arm, their glasses of whisky dangling in between.

Every morn the sea greeted the dawn in its style of that day. Every morn there was a little write-up of the Marine Terrace Gang in the Marine Time News, every morn in a different styled pen. Every day the news was good.

Very early this morning the Captain and his gang walked along the beach. He shook each of his men’s hands, giving each a bill of money as he did it, to soon watch them in the little boat rowing to the yacht.

Soon lights were seen from the yacht. And the captain began to walk to and fro amidst the sand. His feet inadvertently sprayed the sand up. And then he seemed to take note of his tossing of the sand with his feet. He stood in place, one leg began to wiggle slowly and steady. His head began to nod in a circular movement. He stood still. Then he began to tap dance, fighting with the sand—heeling it, kicking it, and stomping. His rhythm could be heard by his faint scratching of the sand with the leather of his soles.

But very soon a female voice began to scream joyously, “Romano! Romano!”

It was her. The Monday Night Woman, the lonely lover. She ran to the man in white. He caught her and spun her around with glee.

When they stopped and stood to face each other, it seemed that she was ready to begin to once more tell him of her love, but he kissed her too quickly with one passionate kiss. And then he put his pointed finger to her lips. They turned to face the black horizon, in solemn silence, and the light which was the captain’s yacht.

Soon the whining from guitars could be heard echoing from the sea, answered by the joyous call of a man-made brass conch. Sailors’ love songs were the crying from that ship.

The lovers seemed in that moment like two islands of consciousness alone to face existence and its flux and song.

And then the music stopped. She seemed to love this surprise hired gesture from his band. She kissed him passionately. As well he kissed her so. And then the fool stopped her again, just like when he muted her throat some moments ago, damming her declarations of love. But he was no fool. And he did not speak—he sang.

His three stanzas are easy to remember.

Their eyes were locked together.

And at the twilight serene,
When we along the deserted shore,
When deep from the sea, from its force,
Sailors’ ballads struggle forth,
While the sea kisses softly the sand
And the moon wounds the darkness with light,
And the breeze is the whispered breath
Of sweet aromas and dew.

And seeing your eyes moist by tenderness
That opens to my smitten soul your sky,
Ecstatic with love and sweetness,
With gentle and eager submission;
Magic, love lending to their beauty,
And my ego detaining the soar
To where it found its dream
Now certain of the sayings I once dreamt.

And inhaling your perfumed aroma,
Amidst murmurs, to remove your dress,
As I penetrate into your thoughts of love,
As I count from your breast the beats,
Exhaling my infinite passion,
Tender sighs, languid moans,
While sucking your nectar provokes
Your tender smile, half-open lips.

Eyes still locked, they were silent for a moment. And then I saw consciousness transform into existence. I saw the images of the verse, made from the lines from his lips, turn into the action of his body. Soon I saw her naked flesh, and his teeth soon biting into it. It seemed as if the three of us were dancing with the sea, our vision spinning with the world. I could not look away.

I knew what they were doing was their form of blessedness.

I turned my head away. I rose from my hammock and walked up to the main boulevard. When my feet hit the boardwalk, I had the sudden urge to return.

I named it. I told myself that I deserved to be there too, enjoying the breeze. I asked myself why their act of love had to take precedent over my time at peace with the sea. I had slept there every night this whole month so far. All the solemn contemplations I had! All the final answers to life’s hard questions finally achieved.

I did not return. I knew also that I was jealous of the man and hungry for his woman. I returned home to settle for sweet dreams.

Good night my friend.

Yours Truly,

Marino Bambino.

P.S. The poem the man in white recited was not his original. Walking home, I recalled the words, and recognized it, and identified it as his English translation of a poem by the nineteenth century Spanish Romantic poet, Jose Espronceda, called “Fragmento” (Fragment). The Captain’s was a good translation. Below I have included for you, my dear friend, Jose’s original.

Y a la luz del crepusculo serena,
Solos vagar por la desierta playa,
Cuando alla, mar adentro, en su faena,
Cantos de amor el marinero ensaya,
Y besa blandamente el mar la arena,
La luna en calma al horizonte raya,
Y la brisa, que timida suspira,
Dulces aromas y frescor respira.

Y humedos ver sus ojos de ternura,
Que abren al alma enamorada un cielo,
Extaticos de amor y de dulzura
Con blando, vago y doloroso anhelo;
Magia el amor prestando a su hermosura,
Y el pensamiento deteniendo el vuelo
Alli donde encontro la fantasia
Ciertas las dichas que sono algun dia.

Y respirar su perfumado aliento,
Y al rumor palpitar de sus vestidos,
Penetrar su amoroso pensamiento
Y contar de su pecho los latidos,
Exhalar de infinito sentimiento
Tiernos suspiros, languidos gemidos,
Mientras a libar sus nectares provoca
Blanda sonrisa en la entreabierta boca.

For your information, my friend, “Y” is pronounced like a long English “e”; “ll” is pronounced like an English “j”. An “h” is usually silent because a Spanish “j” sounds like and English “h”. And a “g” can sound silent too. Otherwise, you would pronounce the words just like you would read in English or French.

THE END

JOSE GAINZA
--------------------------
You can contact me via e-mail at yolandolava@yahoo.com

Nathan Love Shiloah

2007-01-04T16:21:00.000-08:00

By Jose Gainza

Based on a story by Arnold Post, Nathan The Radiant, from a book called, Israeli Tales and Legends

Rest assured that there is no god of retribution—there is no god. I know—this from the lips of a philosopher and a profound storyteller. There is the will of Man, there is his sacred code of action, and there is his conscience. A man must be honest and accept this, or suffer the consequences of his delusions.

Nathan Love Shiloah was not a believer, knowing this since his days of high school; perhaps earlier. And he struggled ever since to be a moral man, to be a happy man, despite his renunciation of supernaturalism. He investigated the issue in books and he soon found the infamous Nietzsche: the philosopher who declared that men are no longer commanded to action by their fear of their leper-loving god, nor their biased-racist god, and therefore, men find themselves in the midst of a crisis of values. Men, therefore, historically, go through a stage of Nihilism, which is necessary for the grand cleansing of mankind, to lay way for a superior type of animal. His is the philosophy of the Superman. And though this philosophy was quite attractive at first to Nathan Shiloah, he could not escape the horrors that his logic led to when following Nietzsche’s premises.

Soon he decided that this was his philosophy: A man must work for his own keep, he must buy his own way. A man must find his one love, his work; he must excel in it and be satisfied with the joy that it brings him. The standard of his goodness would not be charity, or obedience to god’s morality of altruism, or the breaking of his “metaphysical” pre-determined inferiors. It would then revolve around his efficacy, translated into a practical profession, providing for a fundamental sense of joy for life. It would be about the joy of achieving values, engaging in productive, even artistic activities, and the joy of creating his, sufficient wealth. And charity would not be beyond his reach, though; surely he would help a friend in need, or a worthy stranger who became impoverished by some tragedy, or an allowed ignorance. He would thus detest sloth. He would not lie, cheat, or steal—and know the first causes for why. He would work and think.

In his twenties he moved from Toronto to Alberta. At first he learned the cattle trade, and developed a tremendous strong body, though lean, to compliment an already strong mind. Soon he moved on to the booming oil industry and became a favorite of his of his foreman and managers. He had few friends, few vices, except for a bottle of good scotch every few months; and so, his savings account grew vast to a point when he decided he would invest in real property.

He moved back to Toronto to invest his money. He bought a house and rented it out to boarders. After some years he bought a few more. Soon he bought a string of small apartment buildings. By the age of thirty five, with the help of an honest and brilliant stock broker, he became a millionaire.

But something was missing in his life. It was obvious he wanted someone to hold at night, someone to eat meals with, to go shopping with, someone to scold lightly on occasion, someone to forgive, someone to worship, someone to pamper, someone who could predict his motivations, and someone who could move him. For years now in his easier life, he had taken up poetry. He had become quite prolific for a man just starting out in his thirties. Though the muse was there in his mind and in that sphere forever willing, she was not there, existential, and in the flesh; just a hope was she.

One night after dinner, he knew he was tired of writing poetry and that it was time for a break. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few weeks, he would write again. Tonight, he would buy himself a good bottle of scotch and watch a good movie or two on television, and order some Chinese food.

He walked on Queen West eastbound from Brock, from where the government liquor store was. He passed a few small private art galleries, and passed them by with indifference, for they resembled kindergarten arts and crafts. Soon he saw her. She was standing in a window, and she was smiling with pride, in a simple dress, but the contours of the folds making prominent her feminine sexuality. The Toronto skyline, the eastern wall, was behind her, so that she was at some window at the east side of the Don River, somewhere on ledge close to Queen East. Nathan Love Shiloah was in love for the first time in his life.

He could not help but enter the gallery, this time. It was a small gallery; there was almost as much space in the window display. There was only three more painting on the walls of the tiny show room almost as beautiful as the one in the window. One was of a beautiful man, young, Nathan’s age, like the woman, seeming to be a self-portrait of the artist. Another was of the city, and Nathan knew the vantage point: a school yard at Dufferin and Davenport, atop a hill, seeing the skyline from the Northwest from the property’s southern ledge. The third was of a town in a small productive valley.

Soon Nathan heard a voice call out from the back room, “I’ll be right out!”
And in a moment the beautiful painter came out, with the most angelic and benevolent aura, though smeared by paint.
“I love your work,” said Nathan.
“You have good taste,” was the artist’s answer, underscored by a welcoming smile.
“Who’s the woman?” was Nathan’s blatant question.
“Yes, she’s real. She’s my precious one.”
“Is the commitment forever?” continued Nathan with such daring.
The painter grinned like a champion and answered, “I’m glad you’re so honest. She is bewitching, isn’t she? Yes, we’re married.”
“I’m sorry for being so frank.”
“It’s okay.”
“Can I buy one?”
“Any one but her.”
“I’ll take the valley. How much?”
“How much you offering?”
“Ten Thousand.”
“Wow!”
“You can buy your wife some precious things.”
“I will.”
“Who do I make the cheque out to?”
“Richmond Virginian.”
“What!”
“Blame my parents. That’s my name. The surname was inescapable. They chose the first; they were fanatics of revolutionary America.”
“Okay.” He handed over the written cheque bearing his own name and address in gold bold calligraphy.
“What do you do … Nathan?”
“I made my wealth in real estate. Will you join me for some scotch? I was going to go home and watch some movies as a rest from work.”

Richmond led Nathan to the back room and locked the front door of the gallery. The room was several times larger than the showroom, well-lit, with several paintings covered by white blankets. Richmond would not reveal even one more no matter how much welcomed scotch he consumed.

After Nathan listened attentively to Richmond talk about his work and how his motivation was to capture in one frame the most profound and blessed themes, Nathan asked, “What’s her name?”

“Hannah Josiana Virginian,” and Richmond’s eyes sparkled.
“What does she do?”
“She’s a poet. She’s not published but she’s a poet.”
“I can change that.”
“Perhaps.”

And Nathan spoke of anecdotes from his time in Alberta. He spoke of the time he tamed ten horses in one night. And how he found a missing herd of cows, that had fled a hundred miles, and how he brought them all back to a suburb of Calgary in unprecedented time, alone. And he spoke of the time he, by his forethought, prevented a destructive oil hemorrhage, which he had to fight so hard to make others see. And he spoke of how, for a time, he was the greatest shot in the Greater Calgary Area. He spoke about his philosophy of work and Richmond agreed. It was clear in that one night that they were of the same soul.

Now that their cheeks were flushed due to the scotch, Nathan regrettably proclaimed that he had to go back home, and to call it a night.

“You know, Nathan, my wife needs another poet in her life. We haven’t met her yet.”
“I write poetry. That’s actually what I’m taking a break from.”
“I’d love to read it.”
“I have a website under a pseudonym.” Nathan handed him a business card with the URL.

Nathan walked home almost overcome by his love for Hannah. But he did not feel guilt for coveting his brother’s wife. He was “scheming” in his mind to conquer her, to prove that he was a better man than Richmond, though a great man too. He thought of situations that would bring about a happy ending to the usually fatal triangle. He was confident that he would succeed.

Meanwhile, Richmond had finished reading all of Nathan’s poetry on the internet. And Hannah can be pictured at home, asleep on the couch from waiting for her love, and a cold pasta dinner getting colder on the dinner table, the candles long since blown out, and the cork back in the wine bottle. Richmond turned off the computer with a sense of torment and torture.

For the next month he suffered silently from the guilt a man feels when he knows he possesses something he does not deserve, as if his marriage were now some theft. And Nathan could not bring himself to face Richmond and tell him of the upcoming competition, though he knew one day very soon he would. And then one day rational and honest Richmond knew what he would do …

Hannah came home one night to discover several bouquets of flowers positioned throughout the apartment, a provocative dress draped over the living room futon, and pearl earrings hanging from the key rack. A note bore an address of a restaurant and a time of rendezvous. That same day, Nathan received an invitation to have dinner with Richmond. At the same hour that Hannah and Nathan were sitting across the same table, after both giving the receptionist the name of Richmond as the party to meet, with a pleasant bewilderment on both of their faces, Richmond was on a plane to Miami, just for a short trip, wearing the most radiant, brilliant, benevolent, and unprecedented glow of his life. And the waiter, after meeting with the receptionist, was walking over to Hannah and Nathan’s table prepared to present them with a note from Richmond:

MAY WE ALL LIVE FOREVER HAPPY APART … AND TOGETHER … TOAST TO THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS AND THE COURAGE IT REQUIRES. I LOVE YOU BOTH.

THE END.

The Threat From Helios

2006-10-11T16:11:00.001-07:00

By Jose Gainza

One week in early summer, in the early evening, nineteen year old Justin Firkin, was riding his blue mountain bike through the wide, quiet paved streets of Toronto’s Bridle Path. He was almost unconscious that he had stopped before the property jeweled by a large glass structure. Squares, triangles, and curves were attached together and stacked atop each other. It was a large glass home of blue-green, like a piece of rough exotic emerald stone waiting to be cut for a ring, though born from the earth with clean geometric lines. He thought that it was the type of home he would like to live in some day.

Suddenly he saw smoke rushing out of a place he knew smoke should not emit from, a large window that could have been the location of the master bedroom, or a home office. He climbed the brick wall, unaware of the pain in his feet from landing from such a height. He flew to the entrance of the house, and smashed through the door’s glass with a lawn sculpture. He opened the door and yelled out. No one answered. He yelled again, even louder. No one answered. He flew up the long curved staircase, the smoke as thick fog before his vision. On the landing he heard a coughing at his feet, where he felt something living hit his feet. He picked up the victim and rushed him outside to breathe the sweet oxygen, and to meet the ambulance that would soon arrive, so indicated by the distant sirens. It was an elderly man and he was conscious, though struggling to breathe.

“Is anyone else inside?” Justin said it in a commanding yell.

The old man shook his head, indicating no, coughing violently, as he lay outstretched on the soft, well-manicured lawn.

And soon the ambulance arrived. The fire department managed to save most of the structure, though a very expensive renovation would be required.

The old man subsequently moved to his Muskoka cottage for rehabilitation and to await the completed renovation of his beloved city home. But by late summer the work was done, and his health was much better. Though as reward he had promised to pay for Justin’s college education, he insisted that Justin borrow his cottage for a week, before the summer were to end. He would allow a few of Justin’s trustworthy friends to join him, or Justin could use it alone. Justin chose to go alone.

Justin chose to use the large quiet home as a sort of fortress of solitude, to rejuvenate, and enjoy himself alone, before he was to decide what career he would choose. He enjoyed the long quiet drive to the cottage, gradually, step by step escaping from the loud, busy, crowded city; driving the copper colored Range Rover he had borrowed from the old man he had saved. He enjoyed the reading he was able to do, which he rarely did in the city, from the old man’s grand book shelf. He enjoyed the jazz, intense and rare, from the owner’s collection. He enjoyed the fine meats, cheeses, fruits, and vegetables, left for him in the owner’s fridge. He enjoyed some of the fine wine, scotch, and brandy, awaiting him with bows and notes addressed to him. He enjoyed the cool morning awaking wrapped under luxurious fox pelt. He enjoyed the walks through the green echoing woods, and the sounds and buzzing of nature. He enjoyed the sun basked swims in the lake and the naked dips at night.

And on one of those nights after one of those dips, he felt unusually cold, as he exited the lake pool. He began to shiver immediately, which made him rush to the cabin, all the way thankful that he had lit a fire in anticipation of his return. As he passed the threshold of the door, he began to take off his robe, which soon was dropped to the floor as his naked body arrived at the fire; his skin beginning to tingle in delight amidst its warmth. He stood before it like a man carrying two pales of heavy water, both arms outstretched so. He turned around slowly to feel the shifting streams of radiation hit his skin. He began to stretch and breathe measured and deeply. He began to squat and he enjoyed the stretching effort, part pleasure part pain, of his firm thighs, hamstrings, knees, and calves; the growing freedom of his lower back, and the length of his spine. In that moment he loved fire as such, as he loved the feeling of saving his benefactor some months ago.

And he thought about fire as such as he stayed close to the one before him—as his body grew hotter and hotter amidst the stillness of his thought. Fire can be destructive, he thought, as it could have destroyed the owner of this oasis. Think of Nero and Rome. Think of San Francisco, twice. Think of volcanoes. And yet we need it so, the source of light, the source of warmth. And the tool of brutality and nihilism: think of the library of Alexandria and the lost works of Aristotle. How blind would we be without the sun! How futile and degenerate our ocean travels without our lanterns, lighthouses, without our stars. How dark our searches without the flame to shed the light. And isn’t ignorance like a darkness? And isn’t knowledge like an enlightenment? I open my eyes and expose my ignorance to enlightenment. And yet I can shut my eyes—and I can shut my mind. So that my mind is like a moving flame of my control; I can control the time, duration, and subject of thought; I can control the intensity of my mind’s fire: I can think harder, I can harness a better light more engulfing, and grow in wisdom—with my burning will, my glory flame.

And in that moment he fell in love with fire—and feared it too. For, weren’t there, too often, those geniuses who went too far: those scientists, philosophers, psychologists, those who burned themselves with their own torch? At what point is light an evil? In what way does fire destroy? In what context will too much thought make us lose our mind?

That night he knew his vacation was worth it, and that one day before he died, he would find out when thought is dangerous—or what type.

Leona Greenwood possessed a profound love for her father. She was protective of him, of his fragile, vulnerable soul, because she felt he loved his job too much. He, Allistor Greenwood, was the CEO of Greenwood Lumber, headquartered in a lumber town of northern Ontario. Since her earlier youth she hated the changed countenance that greeted her some nights. It was tired, sad, angry, bewildered. But she knew that he worked most of his hours with a stern face that still promised a faint delightful glow that was his ever-present love of living action, work. She would often remember the smile on his face upon witnessing his cavalcade of trucks marching away with a shipment destined to become the homes of some new neighborhood. And yet there were nights when he came home with that horrid face. As she grew older, and became more involved in the operations of the business, she came to learn that Allistor often had to deal with nagging government inspectors, encumbering government regulation, looting competitors, whining customers, apathetic employees, Machiavellian managers—all a drain of the usual delight of running a business that supplied North America with lumber. Leona wanted to protect him from all this, she wanted to save him, to fly him to a place where the realities of the modern lumber industry were not real.

And when she would tell him of this wish, Allistor would laugh. He could not imagine a world where business was not the way it was. He was not a dreamer but a doer, who basked in the delight of doing work he loved, in the delight of growing bigger, to do more of the same. He would call her his little flame, because that is what she would be if she got her wish: an annihilating flame for his enchanted forest.

And so she became a part of it. She grew to love it like he did. But her motive was to run the company, and not out of some brutish ambition, but out of her love for him. She wanted to take the helm, to protect Allistor from the storm, to lead him to a happy retirement, where the sun shone all day, extinguishing night once and for all.

Because, really, her happiness sprung from a different activity, an activity that was more profound and more complex than the mechanism of running a lumber company. Essentially, she was an aspiring philosopher. Her most enjoyable activity was to read the sages of the last three thousand years, to write her theories down on paper, to walk the forests of her father in a solemn philosophic contemplation, in her peripatetic forests. Helping to run her father’s empire was what she did when she was not involved in philosophic inquiries. She rose quickly and Allistor admired her for it. She rose to the stage where it was clear that she was a dangerous rival to the other executives in waiting. She was just a regional operations manager but she was only twenty.

One day Allistor Greenwood decided to take a vacation. It was in the form of camping out on a newly acquired parcel of land in British Columbia, for the purposes of surveying, and determining manufacturing logistics. Leona stayed behind to run the main operations.

Justin Firkin, still nineteen, still undecided as to his career, still in the autumn shortly after his cottage of solitude, was watching the national news one afternoon, stretched out on his sofa. One of the top stories made him shoot up from the couch, and stand staring at the news anchor and the video footage provided. Vocelios Daily reported in his deep, strong, thunderous, ominous voice,

“In British Columbia today a conflagration, the magnitude of which has not been seen in recent history, is ripping through hundreds of acres of forests. It is reported that the land has been recently acquired by Greenwood Lumber of Ontario. Among the casualties is believed to be Allistor Greenwood, CEO and founder. His reasons for being at the scene are unknown at this time. Trustworthy sources predict that Mr. Greenwood is unlikely to survive the fire because the flames appear to have engulfed the location of his camp. Mr. Greenwood is 68 years old and would leave behind his twenty year old daughter and heiress to his billion dollar fortune. “

The footage was of a rolling blanket of forest, and the scattered walls of fire, smoke black and grey rushing to a grey sky. The vista promised nothing but destruction. Justin’s first instinct was to fly into the television and transport himself to British Columbia, to save his second victim of fire.

And his eyes began to tear at the realization that his intentions were futile, and that this old man would surely perish and that the plane dropping water would only tease the thirst of the fire, and that the small army of firemen would be fighting the fire for weeks. And he remembered Vocelios Daily’s mention that he had a daughter his age. And he felt the torture she must be feeling at this very moment. He wanted to hold her, to console her, though he had never met her. He remembered the pride he felt in saving his benefactor, and he knew what he would do with his life: He would become a fire man.

Meanwhile Leona Greenwood sat in her office staring at the television she had just turned off. She knew that her father would not survive the inferno. And she commanded that she not cry in that moment; she would wait until the evening when her day’s work was done. She was also not the type who rushed into her suffering; work, thought devoted to lumber manufacturing, would be her way of postponing the inevitable.

But she did allow herself to think about the matter, though she would suppress the hurt. This is not the way I wanted him to retire. It was not Earth that I wanted him to leave; not earth I wanted him to turn into. I just wanted him to leave the heavy politics of lumber. He called me his little flame but I was not the flame who burned his forest and his soul. It must have been human accident because it’s too late in summer for the sun to cause the inferno. How many acres will we lose—and what will be the consequence of that? It doesn’t matter … because now I wonder if it’s worth it for me to stay with Greenwood, now that my father is dead. There is nothing left to save. It is fitting that he died amongst his trees, melted and fused into his forest. All that remains is his soul found in the remnant of his business. His vision still remains: to be the best at the lowest price. His style still remains: honesty, justice, reward. His industry must still remain. His wealth must be transformed. I must still remain to provide him with the legacy he deserves.

In January Justin Firkin enrolled in the Academy for Fire Prevention Training. In preparation for that he trained every day at the gym to develop the body he would need to bear the endurance and strain of fireman training. He began to read used textbooks he bought at Goodwill on chemistry, physics, and biology. He began to dream of the day when he would become fire chief, or the day when he would be appointed National Commissioner of Fire Prevention and Safety. He even dreamed of some time when he would invent a new type of portable fire extinguisher, or discover a substance that would instantly extinguish a forest fire. The idea of his new found career excited him.

Leona, within five years, took full control of the management of Greenwood Lumber. She became CEO, Chairman of the Board, and majority stock holder. She became known in the business world as a prodigy: the Atlanta of the woods—so young, a female in a man’s sport.

It was time for her to make one of the biggest decisions of her career. She had to decide where the next big investment was going to be. Everyone in the company, almost everyone, thought she was crazy. Her idea was to build a giant greenhouse, the size of ten football fields, to begin the nursing of Palm trees for the fine furniture industry, and to start a new trend. She was going to hire designers to tell consumers what they could use the new wood for; and scientists who could discover ways to grow tall trees in a matter of months, when it used to take decades perhaps. She found a scientist who promised he could do it. Working in seclusion and isolation at the new greenhouse-laboratory, the scientist would be able to apply his new developed method and nutrients to the species of trees that constituted the bulk of the mainstream forestry industry. She had showed the necessary people the numbers and the science behind her idea, and after a hard, hard battle, she won them over and secured the funding. The landsite was chosen, cleared, and tilled. The seeds were ordered. The endeavor would be starting in a matter of weeks.

Justin Firkin was performing squatting exercises with a long bar weight on his back. He was looking, concentrated, into his own eyes, grunting softly with every plunge. He wore a now moistened tight fire department t-shirt, and fire department cargo pants that wrapped his legs tightly. The television was on behind him and he could see the reflection of the grey-haired, glasses-wearing, white Vocelios Daily. Suddenly Vocelios’ voice caught his attention for he was discussing a series of suspicious outbursts of forest fires.

“The sun seems to be setting for Greenwood Lumber, amidst a series of infernos. Greenwood Lumber lost its’ founder and then CEO five years ago in another tragic forest fire. The great, great majority of Greenwoods’ land holdings are now in flames. Vast forests in B.C., Quebec, Ontario, Alaska, and California burst into flames suddenly at approximately the same time today. Arson is highly suspected. In fact, authorities believe that Islamic terrorism may very well be involved. It is widely known that Allistor Greenwood was one of Canada’s major contributors to the cause of the state of Israel and its defense. His contributions have totaled into the tens of millions of dollars. Since his death, a fund was started in his name devoted to the support of the state of Israel. Osama Bin Laden in one of his recently released audio recordings is heard encouraging his disciples to sabotage the industry of the western world. He is even heard specifying the burning down of our forests. Allistor’s successor, Leona, has refused commentary. On behalf of our station we would like to sincerely give our condolences to Miss Leona Greenwood. Experts believe that Greenwood Lumber will never recover and will fold soon.”

A picture of Leona was flashed on the television and that moment seemed like an eternity, for Justin saw her in that moment so beautiful, such a goddess, such a precious gypsy. He had already put down the weight and was seated now on an exercise bench. He hoped to meet her one day. And he seriously started to think about that substance, yet to be invented that would stop forest fires instantly. Because, to him, nature was not malevolent at all, and the two tragedies at the hands of fire, were not the result of nature’s conscious providence or some doomed fate. Destiny was not punishing Leona, certainly not, for being so beautiful, so intelligent, so talented, so successful. Nature was on his and her side, he knew.

And so until he could discover the opportunity by which he would meet her, he would remain working for the Marine Unit of the Toronto Fire Department, located on Queen’s Quay West. The chief had enthusiastically welcomed Justin as part of the team.

After ensuring that the company pension and the company emergency fund were intact and could provide for just severance pay for the thousands who would remain jobless, Leona Greenwood retired from the lumber industry forever. For five years since her father’s death, she still did not let herself engage in the activity of sad wailing that she knew would have to come some day. The emergency death blow that had struck her company—the consequent urgent need for the head executive to be at the utmost rational, patient, and diligent—could not allow her the long since promised lament. And now she was free. She left behind the forests of Northern Ontario for the granite, glass, and cement of Toronto.

She moved into a penthouse condo at Spadina and Bremner, a skip and a jump to the Rogers Centre. Her suite was on the southeast corner so that her vista on the south was the vast waters of Lake Ontario, and on the east, the wall of rising towers which was the dominating skyline of Toronto. Her tower was fifty-six floors of grey-toned glass and industrial plastic, which gave its skin a silver, fish-scale-like illusion of geometrical perfection. On the roof in the middle, stretching from north to south was a white concave elliptical cylinder, which gave the entire structure the illusion of a very tall mast and sail.

To contemplate the lake on a daily basis provided her with a constant comfort, a guardian against the memory of the infernos that had plotted to ruin her life. And the wall which was the city to the east of her, was a majestic barrier against the flames of the past.

And then one morning she let herself feel. It was still purple in the east when, naked, she pressed her raised palms and forehead against the glass of a window, and closed her eyes, and breathed with effort. When she opened her eyes again the sky was metallic blue, and on the horizon she could see a small ball of fire. It was the sun. Her fear returned in that moment.

“Have you come to get me too, Helios? Have you come to end the peace and tranquility, which is all I have left? Have you come to start and end my sorrow in one swift blow, one scalding scorch? Man has worshipped you since the beginning of time and yet you bring such doom—is that your final end? Are you my destiny—to be engulfed by you? The only man I have ever loved in any way—you consumed him: my father. My work, my sacred mission—was evaporated by you! And what is to become of me? Or have you come to watch me weep? Have you come to laugh at me, laugh like you always do when the beams of your laughter reach every man? And when my face is wet with tears and body drenched in sweat will you allow your rays to dry me?”

But the sun did not answer; it just kept growing closer, brighter, perhaps more menacing. She watched him, Helios, marching closer and closer to his conquest of her and the world, until her eyes began to hurt and she had to fight the ensuing temporary blindness. She now only felt the sun by the pain in her eyes. And then it was time. She crashed to the floor and lay on the soft carpet, and cried, wailed, convulsed, shivered, choked, and screamed—finally.

When it was over she rose from the wet carpet and smiled. It was over. The sky was now light blue and the sun was too blinding to look at. But she was not sad anymore. The sun of this day had set her free. And in that new moment she welcomed the sun again. The full context and benevolence of its energy came back to her. She thought of the Greek man who stole the fire of the gods and was punished by the gods, left chained to a rock to be eaten by carrion birds. And she thought about the other ambitious Greek who tried to fly to the sun on wings made of wax, and met his doom when the sun melted those wings. And she thought about the Greek philosopher who held the sun as the symbol of his intellectual enterprise, the ultimate goal of it, where men should seek to grasp the sun, the source of light and enlightenment, so that the holder can see the most. And that was the end of his goal and he asked not: what for?

And she inferred that the story of Prometheus was a warning for men who want to know too much. And that the story of Icarus was a warning against those who think their mind is adequate enough to know the truth, but out of pretense. And the prescription of Plato was a recipe for lethargic insanity. And this was enough for now. All she had to remember was what there was still to live for? And this was it—to think like this. Philosophy was still the sanction of her life—though not necessarily for all—but it was for her, the individual. This was who she was: a philosopher. And she could afford the lifestyle. And it would be philosophy that would allow her to bear never falling in love or to taste a man.

She was very conscious of the trauma that the two great losses of her life had caused. She was convinced that she was doomed never to experience the greatest of human ecstasy. Love and sex were not nature’s promise for every man. A person who has it within him or her to feel the depths and magnitude of sorrow that she had experienced that morning could never reach the heights of joy henceforth. Philosophy would help her along the way, though—thus was her lesson from the sun.

She went for a walk along the lakeside in the afternoon. She sat on a bench by the fire station. She was accepting with serenity the destiny she had convinced herself of. And then she saw him.

He was not tall but his body was proportioned and balanced. He was not skinny but lean and well sculpted, not bulky at all. His male beauty was not of that highest class, which borders on the feminine. It was a masculine beauty but it was fine; that point where masculine beauty escapes from the feminine but still dances among the highest class from which it has escaped. His nose was a perfect triangle, on a small but hard head. His skin was the color of a cashew nut. His eyes were brown but sweet, loving, and angelic. Though his face was fit for that of a warrior in the act of slaughter, it also was the face of a loving father holding his beloved infant. His head was shaved and black, though it may have been coffee brown. His skull had the quality that could serve as the standard for a master sculptor and his bust. His cheeks were thin, delicate, and flat, not too high, and not low; though they could promise a terror if one were to witness them in rage and fury. His hands were strong, a little bit rough, and a little bit long. His legs were thin but seeming large only because of their strength, perhaps the legs of a swimmer. His torso was compact but hard and well-trained. And she could swear that his pointed chin owned a dimple. His walk was calm, steady, relaxed, but his step was strong, when not in a hurry, and walking causally instead. The rhythm of his strides was even except for a subtle contortion of his buttocks: his left leg led, and his right followed, simultaneously raising his right buttock cheek as if it were winking at some pleased on-looker. It, and he, was truly adorable, she thought.

She saw him enter the fire station. She waited for him to come out. Two hours later, he was rushed out hanging from the side steps of the fire truck, dressed in uniform.

She bought a high-powered telescope that same night.

The next morning, she arose just after sunrise. She sat at her station, fifty-six floors up, and surveyed the station. She sat there all day. She found that he was there a lot. But, also she found that he left for calls frequently. But so did others and he was left behind, for he was not hanging on the truck’s side, as he always was when he did leave the station. She knew what she would do the next day.

She decided that it would happen in the afternoon, when most of her neighbors would be at work. She waited for the truck to leave on which he would not be on. She turned on the stove, set the element to highest, and let the egg on the pan overheat and burn, she poured an excess amount of oil, over the element, and soon a flame was born, which grew bigger and bigger. She had succeeded. She locked herself in her bedroom and waited. She heard the sirens start.

When it was all over, and she had convinced Justin to carry her downstairs to ground level, she was bewildered by the mocking smile on his face. A few firemen stayed in the apartment to investigate the cause of the fire. The kitchen, living room, and den were ruined. Justin and Leona were alone in the elevator, and she held him tight.

“Leona, my name is Justin.”
“Justin, the fire was arson by my own hand.”
“Why did you do it?”
“So that I could meet you; so that I could meet you in the act of putting out my fire; so that I could love for the first time in my life, the hero who could save me from the flames. Beautiful angel.”
“I’ve wanted to meet you since the tragedy of your father—and more so, since the ruin of your business.”
“I will willingly face charges and pay for the damages.”
“Yes, you must.” He looked at her with sincere reproach but was too glad to be holding her. She brushed his cheek and looked him in the eyes, “You are the Helios of my destiny, my destined romantic passion.”

THE END.

Panache and Love By Mike

2006-10-11T16:11:00.000-07:00

By Jose Gainza

Justin Firkin was once a concierge person, a tenant service representative, at an opulent high-rise condominium. The tower wore a sparkling skin of sapphire coloured glass, and rose, slender, towards a large sapphire sphere at the crest. The tower resembled Atlas holding the world above his shoulders. Justin knew that in a few years he would achieve his goal of becoming a fireman. According to his plan, concierge work would pay his bills and grant him savings, while he waited to achieve a job as fireman. His tuition would be taken care of by the grace of his benefactor, an old wealthy man Justin had saved from a house fire recently. It was a job he knew he wouldn’t have to think about much when he was away from it, and it would help cover what wasn’t covered by the benefactor’s grant.

The interviewer told him the job would consist of getting people their mail, of giving them parking permits, of getting violators ticketed, of storing and issuing residential keys, of dealing with various contractors—the type of stuff that people take for granted and yet the stuff they would miss if they weren’t around. And so he was serene in his job. And since he knew what he wanted in his life, he was genuinely happy. He would not be the stereotypical brooding, melancholy concierge man, bitter at the people with money whom he serves.

His supervisor and trainer, Patty Mc King, an Irishman proud and ashamed of being Irish all at the same time, was immediately impressed by Justin’s character. He was a boy of subtle charisma with a mind that grasped things easily; intimate with the pool of common sense, so that the instructions were easily understood and connected to that pool.

Not surprisingly, he was particularly interested in learning about the building’s fire plan and emergency procedures. It was simple: an alarm sounds—an announcement is made—elevators are prepared—keys await the hands of the saviours—more announcements—the false alarm is usually the case—the day continues. In the event of a real fire things get slightly more complicated and what exactly to do can never be written down completely in advance.

In regards to the fire announcements the following instruction was stressed by Patty Mc King, “One is only to use the fire panel microphone to communicate during a fire alarm. Under no other circumstances, unless otherwise instructed by Property Management, are you to use this microphone. You got it?” “I got it.” Justin answered with a slight annoyance because the instruction was clear. And besides what did Patty think he would do—serenade some sexy resident some day? He got it.

As soon as one got past the front door with one’s mini electronic transmitter, one no longer needed it to get to one’s floor in the elevator. Justin found this immediately odd because it seemed to be common knowledge that one can always get past the lobby of almost any building. Why wasn’t such an opulent building supplied with a heightened security feature? He thus knew that he would take this problem seriously. He would stop everyone who attempted to ‘piggy back’ and verify his or her identity and place of abode.

On a morning he arrived one hour and a half early for his first shift, which gave Patty Mc King the opportunity to go for a cigarette break at five to seven. It was then that a beautiful young woman rushed past his desk in the lobby and out onto the street. She was wearing a tight runner’s tank top and spandex shorts, her blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. He noticed her return first at seven-thirty in the morning, while Patty was on his second opportune cigarette, she pacing in the front vestibule, catching her breath. He was watching her on the camera system. He could tell that she was sweaty and her clothes were quite damp. Her face appeared very red but she was influenced, it seemed, by the runner’s high, for there was a subtle smile on her face—as he zoomed in with his camera—and the blushing cheeks were glowing, and she appeared newly energized. After a few moments, he wondered why she had not entered the building, as she started to appear impatient. He continued to watch, silently contemplating her athletic beauty. Soon he heard the rattling at the glass entrance door, and he could see her hand knocking against the glass. He made her wait. And soon she began to pull at the door violently, which angered Justin. He pressed the button underneath his desk and awaited her to confront him. She seemed the type, not the type who would slyly attempt to sneak past him.

“What took you so long?” She commanded.
“Where’s your transmitter?”
“I run every morning. Everyone knows to open the door for me.”
“I am new.”
“I noticed. I expected them to pass on the message to you.”
“They did not. Why don’t you carry your transmitter?”
“Because it’s too bulky and I don’t like the noise when I run.”
“How are you going to get into your apartment?”
“I left it unlocked.” This admission shocked him.
“Why don’t you just leave your key with us and pick it up on your way in? Why haven’t you submitted something in writing formally requesting that we provide you with this service?”
“No one has suggested that.”
“We can take care of that right now. I’ll type out the letter very quickly and you sign it. I’ll then file it away and you can refer to it whenever you notice someone new. On your way in tonight, drop us off a photocopy of your driver’s license and that will make it official, once I confirm your status with Property Management.”
“Sure. My name is Tracey Candelina. Suite 1600.” He wrote the letter.
About an hour later, she rushed by him without noticing him, wearing a soft cream coloured suit, and a black silk blouse, her hair loose, and the scent of vanilla lingering behind her.

Piggy backing was an epidemic. By noon, he had confronted twenty-three people who gained access after following someone in who had used his or her transmitter. Most claimed to be guests just visiting for a few hours, most claiming that such was there habit, and most expressing annoyance at having to identify themselves to Justin, or wait for his phone call up to the suite, or at having to return to the enter phone system to call up their host to let them in.

He was shocked when one male resident called him to complain. “So what’s the problem buddy—why didn’t you let my girlfriend in?”
“Because I didn’t know who she was and I discovered that the only one with documented authorization to access the building, in relation the suite in question, is the person on the proof of ownership, a man by the name of Carl Jasper; no additional authorization has been granted to secondary parties.”
“I’m Carl.”
“Good.”
“So are you going to let her in next time?”
“If you fill in the proper paper work I will.”
“I’m a busy guy. I don’t have time.”
“Then I will not let her in the next time.”
“What’s your problem?”
“At the last place I was in I made the mistake of letting a girl up to knock at a suite. I saw her always very intimate with a man I knew to be the resident, and he seemed to adore her. So I thought nothing of it. It turns out he was entertaining someone else when she got up there. He almost got violent with me afterwards. I’ve learned to respect the privacy of the individual.”

The resident was silent for a moment and then he chuckled. “You got a point there,” he said, “I’ll fill out the paperwork later on today.”

Patty Mc King called later that day to check up on him. Justin Firkin voiced his concern about the piggybacking epidemic. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “in a month they’ll need their transmitters to even get up to their suites. Then you won’t have to worry about the intentions of the trespassers—they won’t be able to trespass.”

This reassured Justin but not completely, because how could he rest assured until then? A month seemed way too long. Since he was new, he knew that the lack of security was not his responsibility yet; he had not caused the rift. Was it Patty Mc King? Perhaps. He knew that most new recruits were apathetic. He would continue to be strict with the residents no matter who would get angry and no matter what the intensity.

Soon the Fed Ex man arrived with a delivery for suite 1600. He logged the information into the logbook. And then he was pleasantly surprised to find the name of the company that supplied the thin box. Victor Hugo Book of the Month Club was the name of the sender. Justin looked up the website and found that this company sent a new leather-bound volume of the works of Victor Hugo every month to its subscribers. It was an expensive subscription, one Justin would not be able to afford any time soon. Justin himself had read Les Miserables, Notre Dame de Paris, Torquemada, and Hernani, and he loved the experience. Mr. Hugo was so passionate, dramatic, and prolific and there was a lifetime of his works still to read. That Tracey had such a long-term subscription was evidence of a lovely soul, and a rare one. He had something to talk to her about.

Around two o’clock, she returned, and approached Justin with a delivery notice she had obtained from her mailbox. He gave her the package with almost as much excitement as he expected from her. She grinned widely for a moment, “Finally it’s here!”
“I love Victor Hugo,” he declared. “Which one is it?”
“It’s one I haven’t had the pleasure to read yet in all my years of having discovered him: Torquemada.”
“I’ve only read four of his works. I’ve read that one.”
“Please don’t say anything about it. I’ve been fighting my friends for years not to ruin it for me.”
“Fine. I’ll just say that it’s a hot one.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“You will.”
“I’m glad to find someone in such a lowly position who is well read.”
“I’m glad you’re one who has the audacity to name the level of my position.”
“I used to bar tend before I began my career.” And then she walked away.

He had skipped lunch because he was not hungry. He told himself that he would wait until he got home to eat again. But 4 p.m. came and his relief did not show up. He called headquarters and they told him that he would have to work an extra four hours but promised that someone would relieve him at that time. Another guard arrived to give him his break. He ate the sandwich he had brought for lunch while reading the daily newspaper. He was surprised to read the following story:

The headline read: Business Suit Rapist Targets Opulent High Rises.

It reported a string of rapes at several of the luxurious condominiums in the downtown core. The suspect would follow his victims into their own residences, after they themselves had used their transmitters at the main lobby entrance. The unsuspecting victim seeing the man in an expensive business suit had no suspicion that the man was not a resident himself. They smiled at him as they rode the elevator with him, and after he had pressed the button for a higher floor than the one that they had pressed. Then he would follow them out of the elevator and when the time was right he would pull out his knife or gun and force them to let him into their dwellings. This was the typical scenario.

Justin sat there at the lunch table dumbfounded. He was struck with a sudden terror, and struggled not to think of what might happen to Tracey if this man chose her as his victim. He vowed to stop every piggy backer he could.

But what could he do when a string of ten or so residents arrive at the entrance door at the same time, only one person needing to use his or her transmitter to let the rest in? Who does one stop? What does one say? Does one make each and every one of them go back and wait to use their respective transmitters? He was impatient for the day when residents would need their transmitters to access their floors as well as the main lobby door. But he did exactly that; he stopped each and every one of them and insisted that they each take turns using their transmitters. A few of them did appreciate it.

Soon a happy looking elderly woman approached his concierge desk to request a visitor’s parking permit.
“What suite are you here to visit?”
“Suite 1600. She’s my daughter.”
“I’ll just call up and confirm.”
“Yes, please do.” Tracey confirmed that she was indeed expecting this woman who was her mother.
“I’m glad you checked on that. I’ve been let into this building and given visitor parking very easily in the recent past. With that recent article about that monster, I’m glad you take the extra precaution.”
“I found that article horrifying too.”
“I’m reassured by the knowledge that my daughter can take care of herself and overcome a potential attacker.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“If you don’t mind me asking: what does she do for a living? I know that she runs every morning and that she likes romantic fiction.”
“How do you know she like romantic fiction?”
“She received a package today from the Victor Hugo Book of the Month Club.”
“Oh, she must be very excited today. She’s probably reading it right now.”
“So, what does she do?”
“Oh, yes … she runs a personal trainer school and agency. It’s called Human Triumph. She’s very successful.”
“I’ve heard of them. Can I ask you a strange question?”
“What is it?”
“Do you think a guy like me has a chance? What does she want?”
“Aren’t you an audacious one?”
“My apologies.”
“I’ll tell you in one word?”
“Thank you.”
“Panache.”
“Panache?”
“Panache.” She walked away.

Justin Firkin was reading through the rulebook, and he had a little over an hour to go in his extended shift. It was a quiet patch of time he was in the midst of. A young woman and a middle-aged one were sitting on the lobby sofa having a conversation, their dialogue easily heard due to the prominent echo in the quiet lobby. The younger one was welcoming the older one home.
“Roxanne, it’s been almost a year since I’ve last seen you! How was California this time? What movie were you starring in this time?”
“I was playing a chef who is in danger of losing her life by her own hand. She is addicted to her own cooking and that cooking is leading her to create greater and richer dishes. She is growing evermore obese, and her energy is escaping her. Her cholesterol is high and she is developing heart disease. But she believes it is her mission in life to provide the world with the best food, as long as she is able to remain living, because she believes that she is a vehicle of destiny. She believes that men have reached a stage in history in which she was destined to be born and provide them with perhaps the best food that has ever been created. The problem is that no one wants to stop her because they too are addicted to her cooking. She dies of a heart attack on the day of her triumph, the end of a grand festival, in which her masterpieces are the main event.”
“It sounds like a very rewarding role.”
“Yes, spiritually it is but I regret that I have turned into a whale.”
“The change is not hard to notice and I was struggling not to express my concern. I was hoping not to insult you and yet warn you.”
“You’re right. I will lose it. It is going to be an agony … By the way, I’ve noticed that you have lost your baby fat and have turned into a goddess. Even though almost a year has passed it is still hard to believe the high degree of perfection you have achieved in still such little time.”
“I owe it all to Tracey!”
“Who?”
“She lives in this building. She runs a personal trainer company. She is a miracle worker. And if she is not available her workers are almost as good. Actually, with the knowledge that she possesses, she should have gone to medical school, though I’m glad she didn’t. She is a true muse. And yet she is a true genius. She knows what your body needs to get what you want, and she’ll tell you what you really want. She prescribes the perfect diet, one that is not an ascetic torture. She teaches you how to breathe and how to withstand those nagging temptations. She tells you what novels, poetry, what movies, what songs, will inspire you not only to lose the weight but also to live a better, more moral life. And if you’re fortunate, sometimes, very rarely, she’ll give you one of the greatest massages in your life, so good that you are almost tempted to became a lesbian.”
“I’m glad I ran into you then. I must try her out.”
“Here; her business card.”
“Thanks.” They hugged and went their separate ways, the actress up to her suite, and the younger one in the direction of the work out gym.

Eavesdropping over this conversation gave Justin the sudden impulse to ask himself, what ‘panache’ was. He looked up the word in an on-line dictionary: dashing elegance of manner; carefree, spirited self-confidence or style; flamboyance. He knew that he could be such a person, and he remembered that he often was. Wasn’t that time when he saved his benefactor from the fire, an instance of this? Wasn’t the fact that he was willing to be a concierge person, a part of it? There was some of it in the way he asked the mother how to conquer her daughter. He felt as if there was no more time in the world for him to show her this, as if tomorrow would never come—as if life would end at the end of his shift. He searched his mind in desperation for how to express his panache by the end of his shift. But he could think of none.

No one hour of that extended shift passed as quickly as that last hour did. Headquarters had kept their promise and a relief person had arrived a few minutes prior to eight o’clock. He handed over the keys and equipment to the other person, gathered his belongings and began to exit the premises. And as he approached the main door, a small group of people were witnessed piggy backing after another resident who had used her own transmitter to gain access.

He stopped the trio of middle-aged trespassers, two females and a male. He ordered them to present their transmitters and to use them each, or either one of them to proclaim the other two as his or her guests. The trio disobeyed him and stared at him for a moment sternly in an attempt to intimidate him.
“Let me see your transmitters,” he ordered.
“Do you know who I am?” Thus was the taunt from the dark-skinned male.
“Do you know who we are?” Repeated the female.
“No, of course not, which is why I am asking you to present your transmitters.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” said the white man, ”I am Paul Wilkinson, president of the board of directors.”
“Then you know that I can’t take your word for it. Either present me with your transmitter or present me with your driver’s license.”
The president had expected that declaring his status would intimidate Justin to the point of, automatically upon hearing those words, ‘president’ ‘of’ ‘the’ ‘board’, to relinquish his responsibility and wave his arm in a gesture of welcome, and bow in an attempt at apology. Thus he was annoyed at Justin’s answer.
“So which will it be?” Continued Justin.
“Neither. We’ll just walk in. What are you going to do about it?”
“Don’t test me.”
“Really?” And the president made to go past him, and Justin grabbed his arm and manoeuvred to press the president against the glass wall of the vestibule and pinned both of his arms behind his back, causing the president to scream in anguish.
“If you are who you say you are, then you shouldn’t have a problem with me being so strict with the rules. You should thank me for it. If it’s my first day here, how am I supposed to know who you are? What did you think that my trainer would say, ‘the president you’ll know who he is because he’s the one who goes around flaunting the fact that he’s the president’? No, of course not! Based on all my knowledge, I am within my rights to detain you in this way. Would you like me to go through with the entire process, or will you just end it right here and present me with either item that I asked for?”
“Take out my wallet from my pocket,” said the president grunting, annoyed, knowing that he was beaten, yet admitting in that tone that he was indeed wrong. The president had identification, and his two companions, two other board members, did have their transmitters. This fact enraged Justin, “Then why the hell did we go through this fiasco!”

And he rushed out of the building furious at the foolishness of the human race. The board members rode up in their elevator silently. The female member was remembering the strength of the new concierge man and was beginning to feel warm inside. She couldn’t help but remember a certain action of his tight buttocks, the slenderness yet the ferocious strength of his torso, the soft beauty of his masculine face, the lines of his legs, the shaved head that gave her the urge to massage it. But they rode up in silence, each departing silently onto their respective floors.

He couldn’t sleep that night. It was not the knowledge of the possibility that he might be fired the next day. He would easily find another job. It was not the knowledge that the president might, in an attempt to avenge the embarrassment caused him, press charges or sue. Justin knew he was still right. He wanted to teach a lesson to all the residents, not just the president of the board. He wanted them to understand, to grasp, the potential dangers in their thoughtless, passive, apathetic actions. He wanted to teach the same lesson to the whole human race. And he wanted, needed still, to dance the panache dance for his new beloved, tonight, before slumber hit his boiling daring.

And then he thought of the answer. He knew what he would do. He dressed in his best suit and called a taxi. He arrived at the sapphire tower in less than half an hour. The man who relieved him earlier buzzed him through the front door. Justin greeted him with a big smile, made small talk he was barely conscious of, and made him laugh a few times, and when his co-worker was deep into a story, Justin made his move. He snatched the keys that had been left on the tabletop. He rushed into the fire panel room and locked the door behind him.

The co-worker was helpless. He did not know that there existed a spare key to the room in the key box, and he did not think to consider it. He did not call a supervisor, or the police. He was actually amused and curious to see what Justin was planning to do inside that room. Suddenly he heard a long beep coming from the speakers up in the ceiling. It was the cue someone had activated the mike of the fire panel and was about to make an announcement. And then the voice of a statesman, a warrior, and a poet combined, thrust forth:

“Ladies and Gentlemen … Ladies and Gentlemen … Wake-up! Wake-up! Listen to what I have to tell you. Listen to what you need to hear.
“There was a primordial time when the non-security of land-owners was taken for granted, thus men of right had to fear the thieving criminal, more so than he had to fear the criminal’s fellow beasts. But to the mind of some wise man it dawned on him the means to protect himself from the brutes. Private men would transfer their right to defend themselves, over to a general body representative of the community. Thus any transgression against the property of a man, including his person, would be met with the force of that newly governing body; would be met by Justice. Soon that threat from the brutes became marginal. And soon, the centuries passed and we developed into our modern societies geared around protecting its citizens from criminals. The criminal is always a threat, though he may be marginal.
“Just read today’s paper and see what threat threatens you. There is a rapist running loose in our city, and in our neighbourhood. You may say that he will not strike here—that may be so. But you’ve never let yourself know the true nature of the criminal. He is a man who needs victims to survive. He is unwilling and even unable to survive without crime. To commit a crime is always on his mind, always ready for that opportunity, when someone is thoughtless, careless, unprepared, naively trusting, stupid, scared, weak. He is waiting for it, as that monster has waited for his opportunity to violate those women. That’s all he needed: the opportunity.
“I insist to the board of directors that immediately you secure the funding to install the transmitter readers into your elevators. This is imperative. Fail to do so, and you will pay … eventually. And until then, use your transmitters, don’t piggyback, expect your neighbours to use theirs to. Embrace certainty, embrace knowledge, embrace reason! Don’t let your feelings govern your security. Just like a good man can play the role of a villain, so a villain can play the role of a good man.
“It’s not just this specific threat that one should defend against. How about the thief? How about the terrorist? You live in one of the most beautiful buildings in the world—don’t you think there are terrorists salivating for the opportunity to destroy your sapphire? And the homeless who want a night’s bed in your stairwells, or the vandal who wants your walls as his canvass, or you windows as his stress reliever? You want security? It’s simple: don’t piggyback; don’t piggyback ever again. In the name of your children—don’t!
“I gather each and everyone of you is an important human being. But there is one person living in this tower who is the most important of all, perhaps in all the world—I swear! She does not deserve the threat all you piggy backers open for her. Have you seen her? Do you know which goddess I speak of? Have you seen her silky, firm legs in the morning, so strong, so swift? Have you seen her gossamer blonde hair as it floats in the wind? Have you dreamed of falling asleep within, between her breasts? Have you caught her sweet nectar fragrance as she escapes from this fortress of hers? Have you been struck dumb, deaf, and blind at the vision of her brightness, her utter beauty, her doll-like face?
“Have you caught a glimpse of her soul? Do you know the stature of her mind? Do you know, so rare, that she is a worshipper of Victor Hugo? Do you know that she inspires men and women to perfect their bodies and ameliorate their souls. Do you know that she is a student of medicine, one of the greatest benefactors of mankind? Do you know that any criminal would want to reach her bed because they, deluded by her mystique, are then forced to believe that she will wipe away their sins with her lips? Do you know that she’s a daughter? Do you know that she’s a runner, and do you know she is so strong?
“Do you imagine, like me, the angelic, sonorous, melody of her song? Do you imagine the poetry that is swelling within her towards eruption? Do you know the stages of philosophic wisdom she may have reached? Do you know what her favourite foods are? Do you know if she likes wine? Do you know what she dreams about? Do you know what she watches on television? Do you know where she has travelled? Will she enjoy it if I take her to Greece or Miami? Do you know if she wants children? … Do you know … Do you know … Do you know if she will hate me for this outrage … or will she love me?
“For the sake of my love, for the sake of my life—if you are too unselfish to care about your own safety, protect my beloved … do not piggy back … please.”

He exited the fire panel room to face his co-worker, who was grinning and shaking his head. “Aren’t you courageous?”
“I’ll take full blame for this. If they fire me, at least they’ll remember this, and it might help the situation here for all of you who remain.”
“Soon the telephone rang at the concierge desk.” It was not a board member. It was not a resident complaining. It was not Tracey. It was the voice of an older woman who was speaking to Justin’s co-worker. This is what she said:
“Tell our friend, our orator, that he defined the word well.”
He told this to Justin. And Justin smiled. The co-worker asked, “What word is that?” Justin remained silent for a happy moment. “What word?” Repeated the co-worker.
“Panache, boy, panache!”
Justin Firkin walked out of the building and into the moonlight.
“Panache? … Panache? … Panache.” So repeated the puzzled co-worker.
He googled the word on the Internet, and understood the word when he read the following quote by Nathaniel Green:

If one is looking for it, Panache can often be found in those occasional moments of regret, when one finally receives from oneself the words one should have said, and the actions one should have taken to achieve the turning point—finally but too late.

THE END.