Macedonia
by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2006 by Tom Lichtenberg
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Introduction
Macedonio Fernandez invited his future readers to reinvent his novel, The Museum of the Novel of Eterna. I am taking him up on his offer. This is an open-source novel. It will span continents as well as generations. It is pretentious. It is impertinent. It takes a lot of nerve to rewrite the world's first good novel, but why not? I will tell it in my own way. I will take a stab at it. I will either have fun, or else I won't do it. I will write when I write and I won't when I don't. I will stop when I stop. I am starting it now.
This is dedicated to the ones I love.
And to its five main influences:
Macedonio Fernandez
Julio Cortazar
Jorge Luis Borges
Clarice Lispector
Manu Chao
La Presidenta
When Macedonia ran for president, they began with name recognition. Such an unusual name, they thought. We must use it. It was the twins who knew how to spread the word, by printing out thousands of little slips of paper, like fortune cookies, and distributing them throughout the capital city and even into the suburbs. They took the night trains out. The slips came in different colors - all nice pastels - and contained the one word - Macedonia - done up in their favorite Papyrus font.
They had a meeting about slogans, but that ended quickly. We only need one, Esperanza declared. "Wisdom, Beauty and Power. Why choose when you can have it all?"
When they see her face, Miranda decided, they will want to see it again.
When they hear her voice, added Edward, they will know it from the radio. It will remind them of something definitive. No doubts.
People on the street began talking about Macedonia. There was even a story in The Daily Spectre. What's with this mystery word? Why is it littering our streets and our bars, our theatres and bus stops, our schools and our parks? Everyone assumed it was the start of some ad campaign, and criticized the people behind it for making a mess and not cleaning up.
We'll persevere, said the twins. Now their idea was to plaster the papers on walls, in tunnels, on subways. Esperanza wasn't sure about the publicity but remembered the saying - it's all bad. She was working on the platform and acceptance speech.
"Now Is The Time". She thought it was good. No one could argue with that.
"The People, Together, As One". If we have to.
Her followers held meetings that went late through the night. They were concerned about timing. When's the election? Next year? Didn't matter. Don't worry, Lola said, there's no hurry. There's bound to be another one someday. We'll build up our brand and when it's our turn we'll be ready.
To the Read-Aloud Reader
Macedonia, the Novel, may be read aloud if you like. It will be helpful if you already speak english, otherwise it might come out funny. I cannot guarantee it will sound good out loud. I didn't write it aloud. I wrote it in silence, well, typing. Typing makes noises but usually it's hard to hear the words as they're typed. It's possible that someone could do it. That would be some trick.
If I were to read this aloud, I would probably pause now and then, and drink water. This would help keep your throat from hurting too much. If reading aloud, go ahead, make some noise. Don't whisper. It's not meant for whispering. You can use funny voices for characters. They won't mind. Lola would like a deep voice, kind of husky. She's small but she thinks herself mighty. Edward would sound pretty formal - you could probably guess from the name. Esperanza is lively and laughs quite a bit. Macedonia is both serious and serene. Milo doesn't care what voice you use. He just doesn't care.
Other characters may have preferences, but since they haven't been created yet, they can't tell me right now. There are only those five, so far.
Please, go ahead, read aloud. It won't bother me. I will put on my headphones and listen to sambas.
Introduction to the Twins
The twins figured prominently in the planning of the novel. One of them was always off carting books around, while the other one stayed by the phone and relaxed. Calmly the twins decided their roles. Glancing at each other mildly was all it took to divvy up assignments. Milo would handle contingencies. Lola took care of preparations. In case of unforeseen events, neither one would do much of anything. It was better to let those things slide.
Afternoons were often devoted to planning. Hunched over their notebooks, first one then the other would take a turn sketching. And then there were lists. In a shoebox the organized scraps of forgotten ideas gathered dust and the ink disappeared. These were the days of foreshadowing.
One of them would be growing soon.
There was never a doubt that the twins would come through. Reliable as always, they showed up on time, and waited in front of the house. The neighbors' dogs barked for as long as it took. Anyone who might be driving along could see for himself that the twins had arrived and had brought all their stuff. They had boxes and bags of it, things spilling out, mostly yellow, but some pink and green.
Then they'll tumble into the den, and sprawl out on couches or bean bags. They might not talk much at first. Milo will fidget and Lola will listen to music. In the meantime, the plan is in motion. Asked if they're ready, they'll always say yes, and then, when it's time to move out, they'll be first through the door and back on the street. The twins know the way and look serious.
This time they won't be deterred.
For the Skip-Ahead Reader
If you are already concerned about how this novel will end, I invite you to skip ahead to the last few pages. There, everything will be made clear. All loose ends will be tied up, all mysteries exposed, all questions will be answered. I understand your impatience. I almost always skip ahead to the end of a novel, when, at a certain point, I just need to know. I am concerned about the characters. Will they be senselessly killed off by some brutal beast of a narrator? Will they suffer some other disaster?
If you don't like what is happening with the characters or the plot, you have a few options. One, throw the book as far as you can across the room, or off a cliff. Two, just stop reading, put the book in the trash, forget about it. Three, rewrite the book yourself. Why not? I promise I won't sue or send you menacing letters. Four, pretend it really isn't happening. Never underestimate the power of denial.
If I stop reading a novel partway through, I almost always take the opportunity to throw it as far as I can. I once threw a novel across four back yards in San Francisco. That was fun.
Sometimes you skip ahead readers will read the last pages, decide it's okay, then go back to reading from where you were, but now it's all spoiled. Why wade through the details? Why go through the grind? Maybe you liked the writing, but it's lost something now. That's just the chance you take. If you are a skip ahead reader, you've done this before. You can cope.
If you have just skipped ahead and returned, I thank you, and welcome you back where you were. And now, let's proceed.
Introduction to a Dream
I was out driving one night, very late, going nowhere at all, in my truck with the stripe down the side. I drove slowly along the dark country lanes. There were clouds in the sky and no stars, and no lights. I noticed I'd already gone twenty miles and for some reason I thought that important. Another mile and a half, I said to myself, and I'll stop, and I'll see where I am.
In a mile and a half I did stop. I pulled up in front of a driveway. It seemed quite familiar, in fact the whole scene had a definite deja vu feeling. I have been here before, I thought. I got out of the truck and walked up to the door of a little white ranch style house. I knew it was number fourteen. I know someone here, I was sure, but I didn't know who it would be. I knocked on the door and I waited. After a bit the door opened, and there stood a man of my age, unfamiliar. I felt sad that I still didn't know him.
I'm sorry, I said, I must have the wrong place. I thought I would know who you were.
The man looked at me strangely, and then said my name. Tom? Is that you? Is it you?
Do you know me? I asked
Yes I do, he replied. I'm Alan, he said, Alan Leighton.
I just shook my head. I did not know the name.
I knew you a long time ago, he pursued. You worked in a bookstore downtown in DC, and I was a customer once. I bought a Machado de Assis. We started to talk, and soon we decided that we would be friends. We exchanged our numbers, and got together one time. We went to a movie, I think. I don't remember it now. Wait, it was called Oblomov, the one that was based on the novel. It was long, and dreadfully boring. We walked for awhile along the canal, and talked late into the night. But we never got together again.
Why not? I said, I thought we were going to be friends.
We didn't hit it off, I guess, he replied. I mean, we were friends, but just for one day.
Oh, I muttered, and that was all I could think of to say.
Well, good night, Alan said, and he closed the front door. I turned and walked back to my truck. I drove back the way I had come, and after twenty one miles and a half I was home.
Introduction to the Parts of the Novel
The novel will consist of many parts. Each of these is called a chapter. The chapters will be very small. Each chapter will focus on one, and only one, aspect of the novel. The chapters will be short because I do not have much time. I can only write in short bursts and I am easily bored.
There will be some sequence to the novel. It is probable that earlier parts should be read before later parts. This is not always required, merely convenient, and occasionally enlightening. It is not necessary to keep track of the characters. They can keep track of themselves.
Some of the chapters have characters. Some of the chapters have plots. Some of the chapters are about other things. Don't worry. It will work itself out. If you are the kind of reader who needs to know where you are at all times, I will include a progress bar. This will have some nice effects like a barber-shop pole and advances along at your pace. This way you keep track of yourself, like the characters do. Everyone's on their own in the end.
Introduction to the Green Glass Door
The green glass door makes its first appearance in a dream. The dreamer was standing in a long, dark hall. He could hear noises, like people shouting, but there was no one else in the hall. There were many rooms on either sides, and all their doors were closed. He walked down the hall slowly, and the shouting seemed to move along with him, always ahead. Sometimes he thought he could make out words but forgot them the moment he heard them. The corridor ended at a green glass door. Behind it, the shouts were even louder. He felt that he should open the door and discover the source of the noise. As soon as he opened it, there was silence. The door opened on to a huge empty room, the size of a grand ballroom, with shiny hardwood floors, and stained glass windows way up high on the immense vaulted ceiling. Cautiously he made his way around the room, as if any moment the shouting would resume. He circled back to the green glass door and exited, closing the door gently behind him. The moment he closed it, the shouting began, even louder than before. Quickly he re-opened the door. Silence.
Introduction to the Ultimate Plot
The ultimate plot has a timeless and universal quality, something that resounds in every individual. We all can relate. We identify with the hero. Something is rightfully his, yet he is denied it. Others are keeping it from him. Whatever the cost, he must have the thing. Call it The Big Book Of Resentment.
You have all heard this story. A baby abandoned at birth. Someone predicted bad things would occur, so the King and the Queen (mom and dad) give it up to a peasant with instructions to kill it. Of course he does not. He raises the boy as his own. But the boy is a Prince, not a slave. One day he finds out who he is. By this time he has grown, is a handsome young lad, and strong and belligerent and brave. He goes on a trip, a long journey home, where he announces his presence to all. The King and the Queen are dismayed - his brothers and sisters as well - but what can they do? They have to face up to the truth and they welcome him back. But it's not enough. Nothing's enough. Nothing will ever be enough for this guy.
What does he want? Everything. He wants the best room in the castle. He wants the prettiest girls. He wants everyone to kneel down before him. He wants to be King above all. He's given a choice. Three goddesses come. He could have power or wisdom or beauty. The boy has to choose. Guess who wins? Aphrodite, of course, and Paris (our lad) chooses Helen. The rest we all know. A war to the death. Ten years then a horse then disaster. Does Paris really care? What's it worth, the whole world, what are others, their lives, when you, yes when you have been cheated so much.
This story could be about you. About when you were small and your sister got more presents than you. Your mom and your dad liked her better. She was a black belt, she could do dancing, and you, just a slug, even fat. They never liked you, they liked her, you could tell. And someday, you swore, you'd get even. Your parents grow old, they get sick, they need help. Go ask Alice, you say, go ask her. She was always your favorite, so go to her now. Don't ask me, I got nothing to say.
A woman gets pregnant, and she has a son. Her boyfriend and her are too poor. They give up the kid for adoption. Later on they get married, they have other kids, they turn out the happiest family. Years pass, then one day, a visitor comes, a young man who looks just like their children. I'm your son, he declares, the one you gave up, now I'm back, so welcome me home, and they do. He moves in with them, everyone gets along, it's just happiness for ever and ever. But something else happens, the other kids turn. Who's this guy who gets all their attention? Who the hell is this guy who didn't live here, who didn't grow up with us all. Now our mom is in love with this man. Now our dad is all proud of him too. Hell with that, they decide, and they go their own way, they grow up, the family collapses. All that's left is the kid who was there at the start, and the parents, who didn't even know him.
The ultimate plot can wear many disguises, eternal and infinite shapes.
The Earliest Memory
This is how it happens. I'm walking down the street. It's a hot September day. I have just purchased a book by Guy de Mauppasant and another by Gertrude Stein. I wonder if the same percentage of interesting writers exists in every culture at every time, and it's only the social structure, the economic structure, and pure dumb luck that determines which ones are ever heard of, which ones persist through time. A new character for Macedonia pops into my head. I walk with him for awhile. I start to sweat a little bit. My office is some blocks away. I return to the office and sit down to tell his story, but first I write this prelude. There are lots of possibilities. The impact of this character on the plot is still unknown.
For Marquis, the earliest memory is a voice on the radio saying "it's three o'clock in the morning in Monteaudio", followed by the sound of his mother and father, fighting in the kitchen. Why am I awake? he wonders, then he listens.
"I told you he'd return", his father (August) says.
"It's a curse" declares his mother (Bonita).
"Stop it with that nonsense," August replies, "there's no such thing. There is no curse, it's just bad luck"
"Same thing" Bonita says.
"Okay", says August, "let's not quarrel about the words. So what are we going to do?"
"We can move away" she suggests
"He'd track us down again", he says.
"Then we'll move away again", she insists.
Marquis has gotten out of bed and ventured near the kitchen. He sits out in the hallway, hiding and shivering. The night is dark and he is sure he's never felt this way before. Half-afraid but dying of curiosity. Who is "he"? What's going on? He waits and shivers and waits. Suddenly their voices stop. It is three oh five in the morning.
"Damn radio", Bonita says, and footsteps coming closer to the door. She grabs the portable radio and for a moment wants to smash it against the wall. Instead, she violently forces it off. Standing by the door, her back is to her husband, and she starts to cry. Quiet sobbing, but Marquis hears and cannot help himself. He runs to her and throws his arms around her legs.
"What are you doing out of bed?" she asks, and picks him up to take him back.
"We all need sleep", says August, and the lights go out.
Andando
I will be moving on soon. There are too many loose ends, it doesn't make sense. More and more I feel a sense of urgency. I must find a place to be human. I can live with uncertainty, but I'm not sure I want to.
An assortment of snapshots, that's good enough. Old photos just thrown in a box and let sit. A girl and a boy in a fountain. A flower. A dinosaur. Warriors. You could make up a lot from a little.
In the center, a notion. Hold on to that. Start out with a solid idea, and then move around. Circle it, watch it, think of its parts. Mosaics are made of small pieces. Each piece on its own is a color, a shape. What holds them together is key.
I will be starting out on a journey, and the trip will be words. Each one makes a sound like a train on a track. Rock steady, now picking up steam.
I wanted to show you the thing at the bottom. This time it's an object of sorts.
Sit back and relax. We're going. Andando.
Introduction to the Sub Text
Quite often a work of fiction is a pretext for the author to proclaim his opinions on various subjects. In such cases the subtext of the work takes the form of "mommy, mommy, look at me!". The author likes things he approves of and dislikes all the rest. Some things are better than others, some places are better, some people are better, some foods are better, and bla bla bla. Now we know.
At other times the author is not aware that his biases are gleaming through the characters and the plot. Here the subtext is an unintended glimpse into the author's inner life.
The literary types make their living by analyzing these subtextual contexts. This is how we know that so-and-so was a misogynist, that so-and-so was a racist, that so-and-so had a fear of committment, and so-and-so-on.
The novel becomes a meta-novel, a substitute for the real life of the author, and the analysis of the fiction becomes a meta-biography, and the interpretation of the interpretation of the interpolation of the interwoven becomes a sublimation of the deconstructor's intention to expose the inner workings of his or her own private insinuations.
Might as well come out and say it.
I like pie.
Entrance to the Introduction of Federico
It is now proper to introduce you to Federico. He has been waiting patiently, has been alluded to at least one time before, and is now ready to step onto the stage.
"Hello", he says.
What? Won't you answer back? He's come up very politely so far. If I were you I would at least nod my head and say, "okay, so this is Federico, and I don't know anything about him".
Very true. You know nothing about him, other than the fact that his name is Federico and he was willing to say hello to you, even though you, apparently, were not so willing to return his greeting. That should tell you something about the man, for he is a man. A young man, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with a bit too much hair on his head. He is perpetually in need of a haircut. He hasn't shaved in a few days and so he also has a bit of stubble. He goes to work like that, would you believe it? And he works in a hospital. They must have pretty shabby standards in terms of appearances.
Federico has been working for several years, since he finished up his education and now is capable of helping other people, which is something he likes to do.
He has no family.
Just thought I'd mention that. Federico was given up at birth, to a shepherd, no less, and raised on a ranch. He quite liked living on a ranch, and learned a lot about medicine and diseases there. He liked it, but as a youth he had to wander, leave the family farm and find his way in the world. He ended up here in the capital city, and has so far made his way quite nicely.
Now, then, won't you say hello to Federico? That's better.
"Pleased to meet you", he replies.
A Letter from Edward
I received a letter from Edward and feel compelled to share it with you, a reader who has already come to expect something from this character:
Dear Sir or Madam,
In accordance with our prior arrangement, it has become necessary for me to cease my relationship with this project, effective immediately. Our mutually signed contract allows for this termination by any party, at any time, for any reason. I am not therefore required to state my reasons, but I suppose some explanation is in order.
I do not see my place in this situation. I was never abandoned at birth, or given up for adoption. I have no siblings. I am an only child and got along remarkably well with both of my parents. I have no primal wound. I have no big book of resentment. I am not in want or need, am fully satisfied with both my current station in life and future prospects. I am, as you see, not a candidate to be the protagonist in this work, as far as I understand its essential and ultimate plot.
One of the others, and I daresay, any one of the others, may turn out to be this key personality. I can not be, and will not be, that one. As I have no wish to be a bystander, innocent or otherwise, or bit player, available for momentary amusements and perhaps some enlivening discourse (of which as you can plainly see I am quite capable), I hereby tender my resignation as a character in this novel.
I wish you well in your endeavor, as I do my former colleagues, especially the delightful Esperanza, of whom much more should be written. I should be glad to be considered in future if you require a leading man without such deep conflicts as you intend, perhaps a dashing action figure in some colorful adventure.
I remain, respectfully, your former figment,
Edward Hoffman
Experience
Macedonia has lots of experience. According to her biography, at one time or another she has been a short-order cook, a bus station ticket agent, a supervising regional parks manager, a radio broadcaster, an elementary school teacher, a wife and mother, a mechanical engineer, and a police lieutenant in the army.
You might know her if you saw her. She's the woman of the world. Most people would think she has no chance of becoming President, not only because of her gender, but those perceptions are changing fast. Why should a President have to be a politician? Really, it makes no sense. Lately we are seeing a lot of Presidents whowere bureaucracts or tin miners or retail clerks or even military men. Some have even been starving artists, even a writer or two. The nation is becoming receptive to change.
And even if she has a glass eye. Who can tell? It looks just like a real one.
Macedonia is somewhere in her fifties. Her children are not an embarrasment. She has an ex-husband who is in fact a liability of sorts. He drinks. And he says stupid things. That's pretty much why she left him. Oh, and the ridiculous haircuts he gets.
She lives in an ordinary house and drives an ordinary car. She is not one to make fashion statements. If I have something to say, she declares, I say it. I don't mince words.
She's something of a card sharp, a trickster. She cheats. For money. And she doesn't really care who knows it. She flaunts it. See if you can catch me, she profers. Her sleight of hand is something to behold, or not to behold, that is. She can do all the tricks. Put a card in the deck, and she'll find it, even when closing her eyes. Her fingers just seem to know.
Some of her people have wondered, if quietly, if a swindler and fraud is Presidential material.
They love her, did I mention that? Everyone loves Macedonia. She's a talker alright. Serious and serene. She's got power in words and they gather around, at the bars, in the parks, and wherever she goes, they follow, they love, they obey.
Introductionto Miranda
Miranda is pretty brazen about her aimlessness. A mere twenty-two years old, she has already figured out that nowhere is exactly where she likes to be. You might find her napping on a cross-country train. You might spot her in a supermarket aisle, pondering detergents. Don't expect her to look up when you say her name. There are a lot of Mirandas around.
Although she aims for aimlessness, she tends to appear when you least expect her, and that can almost be relied on. Once when the twins were tending to their flock of memos, herding them into oblivion in the form of a ritual bonfire, the phone rang out of the blue, and it was Miranda. The twins exchanged glances and agreed to let it ring.
In a small city like ours, you tend to recognize more of the hundred thousand people than you might think you would, especially if you take the same bus every day. Looking out the window, passing by all the little shops and their keepers, you know who woke up blurry, who read the news, and who puts one foot right in front of the other. The exact change people climb aboard and don't waste time. The driver pushes off and hopes to strand at least one old guy at the stop.
The fog and the cold are specialties here. Miranda tends to follow the steam from one vent to another. As the day warms up, she slows her pace and looks for ledges. Her mother was a wanderer. Her father raised her in a barn. Her family remembers her as staring out the window all the time, a four year old in search of new horizons.
Someone searching for Miranda could start anywhere. You might as well ask the sky. At the end of every rainbow, Miranda. At the end of the line, and wherever lost packages accumulate. Notes posted randomly on telephone polls will reach her. This is how she found her way in here. Someone searched, and she was found.
The Big Book of Resentment
All of us carry a big book of resentment around with us wherever we go. At appropriate times, we open it up, and log another entry. Someone is better-looking than we are. Someone beats us at cards. Surely they were cheating. We were going to say something, but then someone says it first. We would have said it better, but now it's too late. Someone gets a bigger slice of pie, and we like pie.
It isn't necessarily a book of big resentments, it's that the book is big because there are so many of them, and they accumulate from very early days, when we're babies and things are not exactly how we want them to be. We do not like this food they are stuffing in our mouths, but we have no words to tell them. We push away the spoon and they think we are being cute.
Someone cuts in the line ahead of us. Someone gets a better seat. Someone came into the restaurant after we did and look, they already have their food and we do not. Someone got the promotion after we worked our butts off but they were bigger ass-kissers. We deserved a gold star but only got a silver one because some other guy pushed us and we pushed back and we got caught not them.
We want to sleep, but someone wakes us up. We want to go, but someone's taking too much time getting ready. We want to use the bathroom, but someone else is in there. We want noodles, we get rice. We ordered the blue, they shipped the green.
We've got a lot of entries and one of these days we're going to sit down and organize them into nice little categories and add things up and find out who it is who ripped us off the most. Was it the weather? Was it the city? Was it the school? Was it mom and dad? Was it the obnoxious little sibling or the obnoxious older one? Was it the boss? Was it the so-called friend? Was it God almighty who after all is pulling all the strings behind the scenes if you believe that kind of thing.
Some resentments we write in blood red ink. These can never be erased. Others are merely penciled in. Some are only notes we planned to fill in details later, then forgot.
The book gets heavier all the time. We carry it around. We bring it out for show and tell at lunch with friends. Some resentments are shared with others. Some are ours alone. Some we never talk about. Others we bring up all the time. How interesting. Tea cups made of tin foil.
We love our book. In some ways it is who we are. If we lose it, let it go, than who do we become? Selfless, without memory, without pain. We might as well be clouds.
Introduction to the Possibilities
At this time, we are considering the possibility that Macedonia will run for president and actually win. We are considering the possibility that there will be an assassination attempt, and it will be Edward, our former character, who is either the assassin or the last-minute-hero-rescuer. We are concerned about Marquis, and the yet-to-be-named character who is causing his parents so much worry. We are concerned about Miranda and where she is now.
This is all to say that we, the imperious and recently discovered "we", are entertaining various possibilities. If you would like to submit your own plot or character suggestions, please forward them to us now. We will be accepting them for at least thirty days from exactly now.
The city may or may not suffer from a two-day general strike. Shopkeepers might close early on sundays. There could be a scare about terrorists or some such alarming development. Someone, driven by a sense of resentment and revenge, is bound to take some sort of action. This could be the crux of the matter.
Or maybe the plot will center around the questions of who, what, when, where and how. We are setting up several parallel conditions. What are those twins really up to when they exchange those meaningful glances? What's up with all those boxes of notes?
Here is how we do it. We make up some stuff, and then we ponder what it all means. We wonder how we could make so many mistakes, and yet each one only serves to push the whole forward. There is no turning back. If a character can't cut it, we cut him. If a plot development fails to develop we let it go. We cannot lose. We're making it up as we go along.
Consider the possibilities.
Freedom.
Rebuttal
As a courtesy to a character, I am reprinting a rebuttal to a recent introduction. This rebuttal takes the form of an interview between Esperanza and Macedonia.
Esp: It has recently come to our attention that you are said to cheat at cards.
Mac: This is absolutely not true. I have never once cheated at cards.
Esp: So you are not "a swindler and a fraud".
Mac: Of course not. I am a decent, law-abiding citizen.
Esp: Is it also true that you were once a police lieutenant in the army.
Mac: This is also a prevarication. I don't know who came up with this or why. I have never been a non-commissioned officer of any kind.
Esp: Do you have a glass eye?
Mac: Of course not.
Esp: In regards to your ex-husband, do you have any comments to make about his haircuts?
Mac: Ridiculous. Where do they come up with these things?
Esp: What would you like to say to the public?
Mac: Don't believe anything you read.
Wikipedia
Needless to say, I was both surprised and profoundly discouraged when I came across this Wikipedia entry concerning my novel:
"Begun in the spring of 1823, and spanning continents as well as generations, this haphazard, sprawling mess was left to flounder incoherent and incompleted on the internet. Consisting mainly of prologues, meta-prologues and brief, confusing introductions to characters of uncertain relevance, 'Macedonia' was best described as 'a method in search of a madness'.
The distinguished meso-american botanist, Pedro Trevelyan, is said to have conceived 'Macedonia' during a bout of malaria contracted while traveling by stage coach through the jungles of Uruguay in search of a cure for hiccups. Later, Lady Daphne Verguenza picked up the thread and added some peculiar chapters of her own concerning a vague presidential assassination plot. Macedonia Fabricatta, the legendary Italian horticulturalist and riverboat queen, was somehow interpolated into the true historical events surrounding the unprecedented appointment of the first female radio broadcaster in the history of the americas.
Some time after this, a decidedly European twist forces the novel to flounder in a sequence of dreams which meander through Catalonia, Normandy and the Baltic. These dreams, the fevered offshoot of a popular movie about a ragtag group of lesbian rugby players from the outback who overcame vast obstacles in order to become the first ragtag group of aboriginal lesbian rugby players to be featured in a major film, often involve images of snakes and baths and rainbows.
Fortunately, one is spared from further developments along this line, for the novel veers unexpectedly into patchy monologues concerning a theory of the novel, metaphysics, and the author's sense of duty to his imaginary yet devoted readers.Finally, the piece comes to rest on the rocky shores of a retelling of the Iliad, dressed up in the modern garb of adoption, delivery vans, pop-tarts and ingratitude.
Not for the faint of heart, this grueling episode bears all the hallmarks of mid-nineteenth century twaddle, including a romance between a poet and a duck, after which the reader is invited to participate in a book tossing contest to see how far they can throw the very novel itself. This I was happy to do, and my copy is now resting peacefully at the bottom of the small pond that graces my neighborhood."
I don't know what to say. Of Wikipedia I can only comment, caveat emptor. You get what you pay for.
The Committee of the Lost
Federico arrives early and stays late. He is working all the time. He notices all arrivals at the emergency room and at a glance decides if there is anything he can do for them. If there is, he rushes over and does it. The other doctors and nurses move out of the way. Doctor Fred is the best. All his patients love him, especially the little old ladies and the ones with amnesia, who arrive from the country every day but don't know how. Some of them cannot pronounce their own names. One Florencio Maglinao stuttered so badly he came down with a case of hiccups that lasted several days. Even Federico could not prescribe a cure.
Through the crossroads of this single room, almost all citizens of the city have passed at one time or another. Often it was the very last place they ever saw. Sometimes it was the first. It's no accident they put this place on the road from the airport, in the heart of the city. At all hours of the day and night the door is open, the breeze sweeps through, the rain allowed to freshen the floors and the walls. The nurses gather behind the wooden platform and the doctors share an office behind a curtain. On the single desk a radio is always on, beaming facts and information essential to a person's well being, especially the time, and the weather, and the inexorable laws of nature.
At twelve oh three the announcer declares that the gravity on Neptune is only one-fifth as strong as the gravity on Earth, even though the mass of that planet is more than seventeen times as great as ours. Once you understand this fact you realize that it's no help whatsoever in your daily life, and you're reminded of all the other facts they drilled into you at school. You know this world is not the only one.
Some lost people gather in a corner and have meetings about abandonment. Some were brought and left by others. Some have given up on themselves. They meet sometimes, now and then, and form The Committee of the Lost. They take turns telling their stories. Each one has something new to add. After the ritual sharing, they fall silent, and listen to the radio and the sirens in the distance. Macedonia is speaking to them now. "At the tone, the time will be twelve oh four, and twenty seconds ... Mosquitoes dislike citronella because it irritates their feet."
Esperanza comes on tuesdays. Edward met her here. The Committee has no members, but anyone can join. Miranda shows up now and then. Federico knows them all.
Florencio
It happened pretty suddenly. August and Bonita met at a midsummer party by the river on a very hot night. They both had way too much to drink and found themselves naked and entangled in the morning in the weeds behind the outhouse. They were practically children at the time. They told no one about it, but nature found them out and soon everybody knew. Bonita was sent away and August forced to work a number of jobs to pay for her internment. After the boy was given away, she was allowed to return home but forbidden to see August ever again.
Well, that didn't work. The village they lived in was quite small and there was no way to prevent any two people from ever meeting. Slowly they got to know each other over the next few years while they came of age, fell in love, and eventually married.
August continued to work several jobs throughout his life. He was a fisherman first and last, but also a foreman, a repairman, a maintenance man, a mechanic, and a builder. He could really do almost anything he set his mind and hands to. Bonita also worked very hard, restricted as she was to her place and time's ideas of woman's work. Neither one could read or write too well, and this made it hard for them when they finally decided to move to the nearest city, some years later.
They stayed with one of Bonita's cousins while they looked for work and went to school at night to improve their basic abilities. Bonita tended to her cousins' children and August did whatever he could. Their life in those days was hard, made even harder when Bonita was with child, again and again, especially because they always died, each one. Sometimes they died inside her, and a few died shortly after birth. It seemed they would never have another living child.
They felt they were cursed, and they both knew why. It was the one they had given up, back when they were still both children themselves. He was always haunting their thoughts, and even when they managed to make their own home and found steady work and finished all their learning, they could not rest easy. They wanted a family so badly and the family would not come.
Finally a child survived, a little boy they called Marquis, and when Marquis was only six months old, a visitor came to their door. This visitor was a young man, probably around twenty. He claimed to be the child they'd given away, but was he? They opened their home to him and let him in. They accepted him as their own, even though he looked nothing like either one, or like any of their kin. He knew nothing of their village, nothing of their ways. He'd been raised there in that city. He was big and strong and angry.
His name was Florencio and he refused to work, though he was more than able. He demanded extra food. He demanded the only bed. He would not help Bonita in the house. He would not even look at the baby. He only talked, and never listened. He had a lot of grievances. If only they had not given him away at birth, he would be different. Instead, he declared, this is how I am.
Florencio made life miserable for the little family, and they did not even know if he truly was their son. He could be anyone. Lots of people knew their story. What were they to do? Bonita's cousins were no help. They were afraid of Florencio and his famous temper. It was rumored he had been in jail for killing a man in cold blood. August was a peaceful, quiet man. Bonita wanted only to be with her baby. They talked quietly late at night while Florencio was sleeping. They decided they would run away.
They came to the capital. It took all the money they'd stashed away to get a ride on a truck with the few things they could sneak out of the house while Florencio was just around the corner gambling with his friends. They were so scared he would see them escaping, but they were fortunate. Neighbors who had compassion for them were watching out and distracted him at the very moment he might have discovered them.
August and Bonita started over, and for a few years everything was good. The baby Marquis lived and thrived. August found new work. Bonita was very happy. Every day they were together was a blessing, and they knew it.
Introductionto the Critics
Already the novel is receiving some criticism, and it has not even been written yet. Some of the critics are afraid that the book is too silly. Some have said there are parts which are too sad. One mentioned there was not enough suspense. Another added that she had no idea what was going to happen, and, as a skip-ahead sort of reader, that bothered her. All agree that the proliferation of introductions is most unfortunate, and they would prefer to read a straight-ahead novel, with constant characters of definite relevance, and a plot that lurches inexorably forward.
Some questions were presented to me directly, in a petition by a group of critics demanding explanations, as follows:
Who is Florencio Maglinao, and is the Florencio of August and Bonita the same Florencio who came down with an incurable case of hiccups?
What are the skin colors of the various characters? You have not mentioned this, nor have you described the breasts of your females.
Why was Edward introduced in the first place, if he was later to resign his position as a minor character in the novel?
Will the alleged simplistic retelling of the Iliad contain a counterpart to Hektor, who is our favorite in that story?
How did Macedonia Fabricatta become a renowned horticulturalist? How does one do that? We would like to try our hand.
Can we have more of the twins, please? We like them.
I understand that Monteaudio is a sort of joke on Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, but it is not a good joke. Please tell your editor to fix that.
How come the plot keeps creeping into the introductions? In the original Macedonio Fernandez novel, which you are presently butchering, the prologues come first, followed by the novel itself.
How dare you impugn the Wikipedia by quoting a non-existent entry? Don't you know that sensible people use valuable time making important contributions to that esteemed resource?
And in conlusion, we, the undersigned, wish you would not make us read anything we will not like.
Thank you for your consideration
The critics
Esperanza
Esperanza will tell you that her life began on a cold April day in the middle of the afternoon, when she was somewhere between fifteen and twenty one years old. She had just stepped off the train and that was all she knew. This city was unknown to her. The face she saw in a shop window, not her own. The pale, thin body that accompanied it was strange and unfamiliar. When she opened her mouth, someone else's voice emerged. She had no name, no thoughts, no sense of where she was.
She did not speak the language and there was no way to tell someone about her state, but somehow people helped her, and she found herself in Federico's waiting room. Dr. Fred examined her and found her sound of body if not mind. Classic case of amnesia, he told himself, except amnesiacs do not typically forget how to speak. She could only stare with wide blue eyes beneath her yellow bangs. She had no papers with her. She stared at the soup the nurses brought as if she'd never seen soup before.
Federico wasn't sure what to do with her. There were places he could send her, but these were not happy places. Clearly she was lost, more lost than most. He decided the committee might help. If she were to belong anywhere it was with them. She followed where he led and sat down where he pointed, on a soft brown couch in a corner of the hospital. A few others gathered in that section. A voice on the radio was soothing to her although she could not make out the words. It was Macedonia who would teach her how to speak again. Macedonia who would tell her what she needed to know.
The twins sat down beside her. Edward was also there, and immediately fell in love. He was a short, very strong young man, with a pencil thin mustache and slicked back hair. The twins were nine years old at the time. They tried to get her to talk. Milo wrote down words on scraps of paper, words in various languages, but it seemed she could not read them, for she always shook her head. Lola said these words out loud, in case she recognized the sounds. Esperanza wasn't deaf, but she did not understand.
It was Lola who pointed to the radio and got Esperanza to smile. Lola repeated words that Macedonia was saying, and explained them with pictures and pointing at objects. Slowly, Esperanza began to repeat the words and indicate the corresponding images. Lola said there was hope after all. Esperanza repeated that word several times. This is how she got her name.
Introduction to the Rain
Certainly Miranda, with her wild long black hair and her baggy jeans, would have found nothing unusual in the sudden appearance of Esperanza. She would not have been surprised at her amnesia, nor her apparent foreign-ness, her whiteness, or her desparately quiet voice. Had she been there that day, Miranda would have taken her by the hand and led her back into the streets. She would have put her on a bus and told the driver to just keep going. She would have sent her anywhere but to the committee of the lost.
Fortunately for Esperanza, Miranda was not there that day, and it was the twins who took her home, and gave her their room, such as it was, for they lived in the ruins of an old metal shop, and their bed was a discarded frame with a pile of foam rubber on top. The tiny Esperanza nearly disappeared inside that heap of pillows, and there she slept for nearly three days. In the meantime, the twins were organizing things. Milo had written a series of notes on pink and yellow scraps, while Lola painted instructions in lipstick on the floor.
They knew all about being lost. They had been lost together, during a storm, at sea, at the age of four and three quarters. Milo clung to the captain's desk, and Lola clung to Milo, as they tossed all night in the warm, dark southern ocean. No one else survived, nor were they ever found. Instead, they drifted ashore near the fisherman's docks, and crawled out of the sea like the very first land creatures. They stole some fish and started a fire. Already they knew everything they needed to know.
The twins never knew where they came from, and didn't care. They had rules, they had a method. They made their own way in the world. As time passed, they collected certain people, beginning with Doctor Fred. Milo's leg was crushed by a falling pier one day, and Lola knew it was time to bring in someone else. It was not hard to find the doctor. He had the habit of being everywhere he was needed. He did not try to own them. He merely fixed the leg, offered a room for awhile, and left them alone.
After Milo recovered, they disappeared again, but Federico knew they would return. He had told them of the committee. It was always changing, as some were found, and some got lost again, but the corner of the hospital, it's collection of couches and chairs, the small wood stove, the table with books and magazines, was always open to anyone. For the twins, it became their office. They were the shepherds who welcomed the strays, and gave them direction.
Outside the city roared and choked on the engines and fumes of buses and cars, and everyone who was not lost was busy rushing to their places. The sky as always darkened at noon to let a downpour sweep the streets and send the people scurrying into bars and shops. The twins peered out the door and waited for the next arrival, who could arrive at any time.
Macedonian Clutter
I was enjoying my morning tea and cinnamon bun, when the doorbell rang. This was unusual since I rarely have visitors, and that day was no exception. When I got to the door, no one was there. Instead, I noticed a newspaper clipping had been left half-jammed in the mail slot. I took it out, and returned with it to my breakfast nook.
The clipping was an article from the crime section of that morning's The Daily Spectre. "Wanted", it read, "two suspects have been implicated in the recent spate of 'Macedonian Clutter'. These incidents of litter, vandalism and graffiti, somehow centered around the word 'Macedonia', have been plaguing the city and even the surrounding suburbs in recent days. Metro police got their first leads today when residents of the Outer Dandruf neighborhood reported sighting two juvenile males, apparently identical, approximately twelve years old, with long straight brown hair and striking, bright green eyes. The youths were said to be wearing old denim jackets, black sneakers and gray trousers. Metro police are offering a reward of One Hundred and Fifty to anyone with information that leads to the arrest of these vagrants."
Naturally, I was concerned. Apart from the factual errors, which are customary for that newspaper - indeed, almost a tradition - it was clear that the twins sighting could wreak havoc on the plot of the developing novel. If the twins were to be caught before their characters were fully developed, it could have devastating consequences on the remainder of the narrative.
Fortunately, I realized that the twins would be made aware of this article through The Committee, whose varying members spread far and wide throughout the community, and would have time to make alterations to their appearance, as well as put them on their guard and make them more cautious in future proceedings.
Retraction
Hmm. Ahem. Yes, well.
This is embarrassing.
Not sure quite where to begin.
The thing is, you see. Yes. Well.
Okay, then come right out and say it.
I'm afraid, that is, I'm sorry. I mean, I'm afraid I have to admit I've made rather a big mistake. You see, I was writing under the impression that the Macedonia, that is, the person, about whom this historical account is being written, is the same person, I mean, was the same person, as, well, I screwed up. I really thought this was about Macedonia de San Miguel, the notorious bank robber, forger, and gangster who roamed this country in the middle of the past century.
I seem to have gotten a few things wrong. The time, for one thing. The place, for another. The person, yes, of course, the person entirely. It could happen. I'm not the first person to have mistaken one Macedonia for another. Clearly, that Wikipedia article we recently encountered is proof that the same error has been made before. Nevertheless, as a recounter of historical incidents, one might expect a higher standard.
I really am very sorry.
Now, to further clarify, Macedonia de San Miguel was actually deceased at the time the events in question took place. Macedonia Fabricatta, the famous horticulturalist, as you will not doubt recall, never actually resided in this country. She was, in fact, also deceased at the time of the events in question. Both of these Macedonias are not the Macedonia of this novel. Their appearance here has been regrettable. I once again apologize with all my heart.
Our Macedonia, the real Macedonia, it appears, is someone about whom almost nothing is known. That her name was spread around on slips of paper all over the capital and even the outlying suburbs, this much is certain. Repeated references to this occurence appear in The Daily Spectre over a period of several months during that year. Only her first name is known at this time. I will of course attempt to gather more information, and will pass it on to you as it becomes available.
A woman known by that handle was said to broadcast the time and accompanying factoids on Radio Reloj during the decade in question. Whether or not this was her real name is presently uncertain. I guess I could round up some pay stubs or something, interview some people, check around. Okay, I will.
Just so you know, right now this is where we stand. Macedonia, Radio Reloj, slips of paper, a rumored presidential campaign, a collection of lost and missing children casually overseen by a kindly medical doctor, a city, a country, and some bits about abandonment, resentment, and dreams. I thank you for your patience.
This has been your author speaking.
Introduction to the Red
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