Madia Mangalena

By Michael Haulica
Translated by Mihai Samoila

Madia Mangalena's face fills the whole screen. The bluish filter emphasises her discretely retouched eyes. On sub-wave the prophecy of Brodar's coming is broadcast. It sticks on passers-by's brains, penetrates them, takes roots, takes the appearance of Madia of Mangala. There is no more need for the screen—the image hung up on cortexes—waving like wolf-flags, with the only difference is that it's not howling. Madia is smiling. The marks of the stones are clear, story of her life.

"Let the immaculate one throw first."

And everyone crowded to throw the stone, to be seen throwing, to be known as clean.

The scars smoothed her body, made it shiny, magnetic. The clothes stick on her, the sights, the hands, all those. She walks on the street and the watchers fall around her, break, stand stone still. Madia without Time. Magnetic Dia.

Only her face remained bitten by stones. To recollection. And each caress burns the hand that had held the stone, each kiss has the taste of the stones.

"What ... What the hell's that?"

Everyone jumps aside, at first touch, burned, shocked, disgusted, scared, vomitive. They swear not to touch her ever, but next day they start again. They keep themselves busy in her way, to be seen by her, to be chosen, to let her to mind them at least. Ferocious males, men who are ruling the destinies of the world.

Her rags for wiping. Her shoe cream, her boots "Linda, Linda, where's your boots?" (love song from XXth century) her toothbrush, her purse, her tampax.

Madia Mangalena, the psalliote of Mangala. Beautiful, dreadfully beautiful. When she makes love, her movements are avoiding and receiving, fainting, watching, begging, urging, howling. She's transforming herself into syrup and brandy, worming into you and playing the full in there. She's burning you, tearing you.

But it's better to be burned rather than rust. First lesson.

Her body burns you, burning at her turn, consuming herself into you. Madia of Mangala living her death every day.

"A whore! Every jerk split her, every cock-sucker, those who are walking her around like the saint relics. A whore!"

And, yet, people gather around screens like in the mad years of Psycho programmes. 23, 24 ... 26: Andie MacDowell sold en detail for the sandwiches of the handicapped (IQ under 160).

What times! Movies—they called it. Now, on the screen, we are seeing the reality. The tricksters, the handlers of lives, are bombarding us with the lives of the saints. I don't know from where are they pulling so many saints, that stinks to me. As long as we don't understand that, we better stay home on our butts and give up the diems.

Anyhow, the dreams-maker shouldn't fall into everyone's hand.

Patina is another name for rust. And ennobles it. Second lesson.

For the moment, let's wait that Brodar, let's see what's with him. Maybe he's another Big Brother, like so many others who have passed by there. They are all gone, as they came. Some wretches. Some caddishes.

And we, the cattle, we are leaving our lives in their palms, palms not good enough for a masturbation. But it belongs to them. And they could forgive Madia, the one that we could never forgive. But how could we forgive her, isn't she our whore, isn't she? Aren't we locking ourselves with her in two-on-two foutoirs, aren't we throwing our clothes and socks and wrist-watches to gain another five square inches of skin for caresses? How could we forgive her, when she made us throwing stones? No executioner forgives his victims.

"Let the immaculate one throw first."

The marks of the stones on her face make her more beautiful. Whoever sees her, man, feels in the nostrils, at once, the smell of her blood. Her calling.

On the huge screen, Madia is moving away and behind her remains the smell that drives me crazy. I feel my blood rising in me to the top of the tops and the sensong blow up in the air around. The filters are changing, they are red now. Masna Pyia pass his dextra over the cords, the grave accords are clearing and, from somewhere, from depths, I know where from, the waves show up. The master's image grow blurred, there are only the sensong and the waves which remain.

Trembling at the beginning, increasingly agitated afterward and, finally, aggressive, the waves.

The passers-by are looking at me astonished.

Beyond hate is love. Like a door, like a wound, like a spike.

I'm the only one who had forgiven her. I love her.

I don't feel my hands any more. They are numbed. I didn't think that it could be so bad. Nay, they are not numbed. It hurts me. Especially the spikes hurt me. The lust with whom they had beaten those spikes in my palms. Like at that time. And their faces, disfigured by hate.

From here, from up here, everything looks different. Regardless, it doesn't matter any more.

In front of me a woman stopped. I look into her eyes and it seems to me that she looks like my mother. Probably, all dying men feel that. From my wounds, my blood is dripping and she starts aside, saving her basket. Too late. She looks at me and says:

"Is it you, or should we wait for another one?"

"It's me. Me."

Copyright © Michael Haulica 2003