THE MALE TOTEM: Dream Fragments

Seven short stories .A raw look into the tender and terrible deeds of men in relation to other men. By the author of "The Iliad - Twenty Centuries of Translation" and "The Iliad: The Male Totem".

Previous editions of this book are in top libraries such as Harvard, Oxford, Princeton, Columbia,

One night in late summer we sat in the

square long past midnight drinking wine [...]

We are going to hell. Immigrants, the

pestilence of this place. They pick Greek

names, Thanasis, Pavlos, Nikos, hell they

are communists, they have no names, no

papers, no God. We Greek are a dying

race. There is a solution, what the Italians

do.

What do the Italians do? I interrupted.

He jumped up in the zeibekiko stance,

arms stretched out. He danced around me,

over me, like a bird that is about to attack,

yelling

Where the hell do you come from

professor,

you don't know what the Italians do!

They fucking drown them out in the ocean.

You don't know, professor?

and you say you are my friend!

You say you love me! Bullshit!

They drown the bastards. They drown them!

They have no caffeneio in their country,

no tavernas, they have no bread,

they come here and boss us around!

We are sheep, the lamb of God, he

whispered.

They drown the bastards! he yelled at the

top of his voice, a manly voice, the

helpless whimper of a child that is

punished.

He stuck his nose on my face. Now he was

calm, his voice course, trembling. His large

black eyes wet, pleading

You do not know, palikari.

You sa you love me, ha.

Your a liar, you know nothing.

Exhausted, he kept dancing and chanting,

staggering in the empty square until he

drifted out of sight in the narrow dark

streets of the village.

I sat in the square for a long time.

Witness to a crucifixion. I went back home

shattered, whispering

I know Cuckoo my good friend, I know, I

know.

(The Poutanaki)

Antar on his knees, now lifting his arms up

to his ears, now kissing the wet earth, an

apparition that the river had spewed, face

red with mud, his huge hands fumbling

the sky, lips, moving incessantly... la ilaha

illallahu,la ilaha illallahu! The thundering

voice of last night, now, humbled, grateful,

a whimper. He moved slowly, exhausted,

yet his face radiating in the tender milky

light, peace. He had found Him.

I knelt besides him, my shoulder touching

his shoulder, instantly shrouded into Antar'

s prayer. I stayed there next to him for a

long time.

The sun slowly chased the mist,

crossed the river, saw two men on their

knees facing the caves on the side of

Ahmetaga, singing..

(Antar of Ahmetaga)

Now he held up a photo of a boy around

five wearing a cap with bunny ears. I

looked at him nodding, waiting for a

comment, which never came. He was silent

looking at the picture of the boy and then

looking at me. His eyes got wet and tears

run down his cheeks. I remained silent too.

Now his body sank into the chair, as if paralyzed.

We drank some more wine but he

remained motionless looking down on the

floor of the yard.

Tell me about the children in the attic, he said.

I did not reply.

And a while later:

And the puppies? he asked. His lips were

drooping and his eyes were round, frozen.

We drank more wine in silence.

(Fotis)

He turned aside again, his whole face

contracted, his lips quivering, the snout of

an animal trying to smell the dark; always

did this when he came to the mill. Those

moments the pain on his face was gone,

this was an act of lovemaking...(Antar of Ahmetag)