zaterdag 29 november 2014

Just like the cat

















With a view on eternity
floating on the white of a cloud
so is her face

it’s those eyes
two eastern tinted shelves
with a haze of hairs
a blush on the cheeks
that mingles with the sky
and the wind

they keep following me
hypnotic and compelling
as if they are saying

you’re mine

just like the cat
besides her
on the painting

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

29/11/2014 

Net als de poes

















Met een blik op oneindig
zwevend in het wit
van een wolk
zo is haar gezicht

het zijn die ogen
twee oosters getinte schelpen
met een waas van haren
en een blos van wangen
die zich vermengt
met de wind

ze blijven me volgen
hypnotisch,
alsof ze me wil zeggen
je bent van mij
                                                                                          
net zoals de poes
naast haar
op de schilderij.


© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

The Woman in Red: Chapter 6





















6. Alone at last.

            How they arrived at his home, he didn’t recall very well. He had gone through Katarina’s table game. On one hand, he was so aroused, he could jump over the table, jump upon her, tear her clothes from her body and there, for everybody to see, take her. But a little angel whispered in his ear that this action wouldn’t correspond to the prevailing etiquette of the restaurant.
            Jean-Pierre had driven. The ride from The Black Oyster to his home had been a torture. He had to keep his mind on the traffic while Katarina’s hand was resting on his thigh. At a certain moment, she gave a light pressure on his leg, without trying something else. The result was the same. In this difficult position, he hardly couldn’t hide his sexual arousal.
            Just inside his home, Katarina threw her arms around his head and kissed him passionately. Her tongue wildly explored his mouth. Almost biting, she gave him kiss after kiss while she kicked her stilettos out and pushed herself close to him. She felt how he reacted to her French kissing. His knee pushed her legs a bit apart to be even closer, and she rubbed herself against him.
            When she pulled his shirt open, the buttons came loose and were ticking on the floor. Jean-Pierre took her in her arms and carried her up the stairs to his bedroom. A few other clothing were killed in action on the way to their destination. They fell on the bed together, entwined in each other and panting of desire.
            In no time, he had helped Katarina out of her skirt and blouse. With her bra, he had no difficulty. Free of it, her breasts seemed even bigger than he had assumed. He kissed and caressed them. How beautiful she was in the fainted glow of the night-lamp. They were so passionate, in no time the bedcover and the blanket were pushed aside on the ground.
            ‘Take me, Jean-Pierre, take me,… now, now, now,’ Katarina shouted loudly. He didn’t have to be encouraged and joined her in the most intimate way he knew. They began a passionate dance, one they knew by heart; a rhythm that converged with the beating of the blood in their veins. Jean-Pierre felt himself drowning and surrendered to the cadence. Katarina shouted words in a foreign language. Without understanding, he knew she enjoyed, as much as he did.
            First, he came, but a few counts later, Katarina shivered with pleasure and kept him still closer than before, deep inside her for the next moments. Her cheeks were glowing as if she had a fever. With her legs tied to his lower back, she was holding him very near. A few moments without any movement, without any sound. And then she released a deep sigh and him at the same time. Panting, they lay together side by side and enjoyed the afterglow.
            ‘Mmmm… that was… heavenly!’ Katarina sighed, and she turned herself towards Jean-Pierre and began to caress his belly. She teasingly played with the little hairs below his navel, while drawing circles, lower and lower. She laughed; a sort of gobbling sound that originated from deep in her throat. Katarina knew what she was doing. She wasn’t satisfied yet.
            Apparently his body had the same opinion. Now they were gentle lovers, caressing, discovering. They were enjoying each other without withholding. He kissed her on places she liked so much. She licked his earlobe and breathed her warm breath on his neck. Slowly, stretching the feeling, to enjoy more, she led him inside. The rhythm of their movements was slow but intense, and both Katarina as Jean-Pierre tried to lengthen their love play and they succeeded so well in it. But eventually it was over, and they lay exhausted in each others arms.
            After a while, Katarina broke the silence. ‘Do you any free days left, Jean-Pierre?’ A naughty look appeared in her blue eyes. She was leaning on her right elbow and looked rather questioning towards him.
            ‘Maybe,’ he answered a bit hesitating. ‘Why?’ He too had turned on his side and looked more than attentive as if he would read the answer on her lips.
            ‘You shall see!’ she mysteriously answered his question.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere 23/11/2014


vrijdag 28 november 2014

Stream















Jumble stumble, waves and sounds
some back and forth, over heads they go
to meander between, sometimes besides
all those women, men and children

who are rocks laying in the stream,
and flowing against the current
cutting closely, sometimes collide
suddenly spinning, turning around

to find at last an island,
a resting place
at riversides
or just a little creek
some water paddling pleasure
                                                                                           
a beach full of gapers
pirates who are amused with salt
from drops till foam of the waves
is on their lips

and every beachcomber handful loaded
is parting company to go back home
maybe they’ll come again
we’ll see next year.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

27/11/2014

Stroming
















Wirwar kabbelt golven klanken
over koppen heen en weer
meandert tussen vrouwen heren
die als stenen stroming tegen liggen
scheren rakelings soms botsen
draaien plotseling en keren

vinden eilandrust
aan oevers of een inham
wat waterpeddelend plezier

een strand  vol gapers
kapers verlusten zich aan zout
van druppels tot het schuim
hen op de lippen staat

tot jutters handenvol bezwaard
hun wegen huiswaarts scheiden
misschien tot volgend jaar.


© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

donderdag 27 november 2014

The silence of the colours





















With the passion of a butterfly
I’m landing on all these words;
flowers that give mercy to my soul

in a flight full of rainbows
I draw a dip with crevices
about a millimetre deep

I’m hungering in the yellow of the corn
float away a bit
at the height of the green from trees
where I fancy me a leaf

it’s the silence of the colours
that I alone can hear.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

26/11/2014

In de stilte van de kleuren





















Met de hartstocht van een vlinder
stort ik mij op woorden;
bloemen die mijn ziel verschonen

in een vlucht vol regenbogen
teken ik een dip
vol millimeterdiepe kloven

ik honger in het geel van koren
zweef zowat een eind
ter hoogte van het groen van bomen
waar ik mij een blad waan

het is de stilte van de kleuren
die alleen ik kan horen.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere


Requiem: Hoofdstuk 9 (1e deel)








9



           Hij was vaderloos opgegroeid. Zijn moeder sprak over zijn biologische vader in bewoordingen als nietsnut, klootzak, dat stuk onbenul dat enkel dacht met zijn lul, want verstand had hij immers nooit gehad of het had tussen zijn benen moeten zitten. Allemaal koosnaampjes die niet echt getuigden van ‘de grote liefde’ tussen zijn ouders. Ze had zijn natuurlijke verwekker eruit gebonjourd in de eerste maanden van zijn prille leven. Op zekere dag had ze zijn gitaar te samen met zijn mooie liedjes uit het venster van de eerste verdieping naar zijn hoofd gegooid toen hij voor een gesloten deur stond. De man begreep direct de hint die ze hem nariep. ‘Hit the road, Jack’. Zijn vader verdween met stille trom en liet nooit meer van zich horen. Gezien zijn eigen huidskleur moest zijn vader een buitenlander geweest zijn. Het gebeurde soms dat kwajongens uit de buurt hem soms achter zijn rug ‘De Mongool’ noemden. Hij had het maar een paar keer persoonlijk gehoord en dat was de jongen in kwestie niet goed bevallen. Hij liet niet met zich spotten.
            Hij groeide verder op in een eenoudergezin. Zijn moeder had een onderbetaald baantje bij een wegrestaurant als opdienster. Toch kwamen ze goed rond, beter dan de meeste gezinnen in de buurt die over betere jobs beschikten. Beter dan koppels die met hun beiden uit werken gingen. Het waren zaken die hij toen niet in vraag stelde. Zijn moeder koos hem een goede school uit en die was allesbehalve goedkoop. Hij kreeg regelmatig en voldoende zakgeld, waarbij hij zich als kind geen vragen stelde. Toen hij wat ouder werd begreep hij het allemaal beter.
Op een avond toen hij al in een paar uur in zijn bed lag en de slaap niet kon vatten hoorde hij weer ‘de geluiden’. Zoals iedere twaalfjarige jongen was hij bang van ‘de geluiden’, zeker van deze die hij niet kon toewijzen aan iets concreets, iets tastbaars. Het was niet de eerste keer dat hij ze hoorde. In plaats van zoals gewoonlijk het donsdeken over zijn hoofd te trekken en zijn oren toe te stoppen, besloot hij deze keer toch zijn moeder wakker te maken. Stilletjes gleed hij met de moed der wanhoop uit zijn bed in zijn slippers en ging de gang van de overloop op.
Er scheen licht onder de slaapkamerdeur van zijn moeder…en ‘de geluiden’ bleken afkomstig te zijn van uit haar kamer. Hij herinnerde zich nog goed het juiste moment dat zijn nieuwsgierigheid het won van zijn angst. Een kleine pyrrusoverwinning bleek achteraf. Hij opende voorzichtig de deur en zag een vreemde kerel die boven op zijn moeder lag. De man hijgde als een postpaard en zag zo rood als een tomaat. Zowel zijn moeder als de hijger waren poedelnaakt. Blijkbaar had hij ietsje teveel lawaai gemaakt en zijn moeders strenge blik wendde zich naar de slaapkamerdeur waar ze hem als een klein standbeeld stil en beschuldigend naar hen zag kijken.
Gezien zijn moeder deftig in het vlees zat, sterker was dan menig man en haar bezoeker eerder mager uitgevallen bleek, had zij niet de minste moeite om die rode tomaat van zich af te werpen, haar nachthemd te grijpen, aan te trekken en naar de deur tot bij hem te lopen. Dit allemaal in een reeks vloeiende bewegingen, alsof zij niet aan haar proefstuk toe was. Wat hij echter niet zag aankomen, was die eerste oorveeg. Zijn oor en wang prikte van de pijn en hij voelde de slag nazinderen tot in zijn gebit. Zijn moeder nam hem hardhandig bij zijn oor vast en trok hem op die manier terug naar zijn eigen kamer. Daar werd hij met een stevige duw in zijn bed gedumpt.
            ‘Met jou spreek ik straks nog wel!’ Zijn moeder was een vrouw van weinig woorden en het zou hem verwonderen dat ze veel uitleg over de situatie zou geven. Na wat gestommel en vloeken die hij amper kon verstaan, laat staan begrijpen, werd het weer stil in huis. Hij wist wat er gebeurd was zonder dat zijn moeder de zaken zou moeten ophelderen. Hij had van een kameraad in school wat boekjes in bruikleen gekregen waarin heel wat naakte vrouwen en mannen in allerlei standjes probeerden wat hij zojuist in de slaapkamer van zijn moeder had gezien.
Het had hem opgewonden om de foto’s in die boekjes te bekijken en zijn lichaam had er vreemd op gereageerd. Stiekem als zijn moeder van huis was, had hij meerdere malen gemasturbeerd bij het doorbladeren van de boekjes. Het zien van zijn moeder met die vreemdeling had niet hetzelfde effect gehad, eerder het tegenovergestelde. Walging en een stukje haat welde ergens uit een diepe duistere kern in hem op. Zijn moeder was dus gewoon een vuile hoer! Een vrouw die haar lichaam verkocht aan de eerste beste die wat geld op tafel kon leggen.
Zijn slaapkamerdeur vloog open en voor hij het wist regende het slagen die hij tevergeefs probeerde af te weren. Hij weende niet, daarvoor was hij te kwaad op zijn moeder. Hij zag alle hoeken van de kamer, probeerde weg te lopen, maar zijn moeder was nog rapper en deed de kamer op slot. Hij kon geen kant meer op. Als twee kemphanen stonden ze op een moment hijgend tegenover elkaar. De een murw van de slagen, de ander moe van het slaan.
Het wijde nachthemd van zijn moeder viel bovenaan enigszins open en hij zag haar grote borsten en hard opstaande tepels op en neer gaan bij elke zwoegende ademtocht. Niettegenstaande zijn pijn kreeg hij een erectie wat zijn moeder opmerkte. Ze grijnsde kwaadaardig, sprong nader en trok zijn pyjamabroek naar beneden. Het schaamrood van vernedering steeg naar zijn hoofd maar hij durfde niets te zeggen uit vrees voor nog meer slaag.
            Haar hoofd dicht bij het zijne zei ze stil maar heel uitdrukkelijk, ‘Nu moet je eens goed luisteren, klein mannetje van mij. Je komt nooit, luister goed…NOOIT meer naar mijn slaapkamer zonder dat IK het je ZELF vraag.’ Ze keek hem met een onderzoekende blik aan. ‘Je bent vannacht van de trap gevallen als men op school vraagt waarom je blauwe plekken hebt.’ Zij pauzeerde even om te kijken of hij het begreep. Het was alsof ze naar zijn penis keek, dacht hij, maar dat zou wel zijn verbeelding zijn. Hij was nu ook niet achterlijk en knikte bevestigend terwijl hij op zijn lippen beet om de pijn te verbijten. Nog nooit had hij zo’n pandoering gehad. Hij had trouwens ook nog nooit een erectie gekregen wanneer hij zijn moeder naakt zag.
Zijn moeder bleef bezoekers ontvangen. Hij was nu niet meer bang van ‘de geluiden’. Het was één van de dingen die erbij hoorden. Zij kwam niet meer terug op het gebeuren maar een jaar later gebeurde er iets wat zijn leven thuis totaal veranderde. Voordien had zijn moeder niettegenstaande ze in een restaurant werkte waarschijnlijk meer dan genoeg de gelegenheid gehad om wat drankjes achterover te slaan tussen de diensten. Hij had haar echter nooit betrapt op overdadig alcoholgebruik. Nu rook hij dikwijls de weeë geur van alcohol in haar adem als ze ‘s avonds thuis kwam.
 Als ze in zo’n roes verkeerde, werd het gevaarlijk voor hem. De ene keer kon ze hem zo maar zonder reden een muilpeer geven terwijl ze op een andere keer hem kon knuffelen en strelen als haar liefste teddybeer. Hoe langer deze situatie duurde hoe meer het hem verwarde. Als hij zich minder hij verzette tegen haar schizofreen gedrag, hoe vlugger hij kon ontsnappen aan haar onvoorspelbare buien en zich opsluiten in zijn slaapkamer. En toen op zijn veertiende verjaardag gebeurde er iets wat de verzuurde moeder- kindrelatie nog meer schaadde. Het was een keerpunt in zijn bestaan. Soms wordt een mens door één bepaald moment zo getekend, dat hij het als een smet zijn hele leven als een juk meedraagt of af en toe is het een punt waar je als persoon voor de rest van je leven fatalistisch door getekend wordt. Het stuurt je onvermijdelijk naar één enkel moment in je leven waar alles te samen komt en die voor de rest van je leven je toekomst bepaald.




De vrouw in het rood: Deel 29















29.

            Katarina zag er betoverend uit. Ze had Jean-Pierre verteld dat ze uiterst chique uitgedost moesten zijn om de eerste sleutel te bemachtigen. Hij keek naar haar en zag terug de vrouw in het rood die hem op de dansvloer verleid had. Ze had een lang avondkleed aan in het helderste rood die je maar kon bedenken. Katarina showde even haar kledij als een echte mannequin. Terwijl ze rond hem aan het paraderen was en zich even draaide zag hij dat het kleed vooraan een grote split had. Hij kreeg twee prachtig lange benen te zien waarvan de voeten in pumps gestoken waren en met hun zwart en rode kleur prachtig bij haar tenue pasten.      
            ‘Je ziet er prachtig uit, rood staat je formidabel goed. Maar dat wist je al waarschijnlijk,’ besloot Jean-Pierre toen hij het ondeugend lachje zag die op haar gezicht verscheen. Vooraan was het kleed behoorlijk diep uitgesneden terwijl de stof in twee smalle lijstjes op haar rug kruisten en dit deel ook praktisch onbedekt liet.
            Terwijl ze langs hem passeerde, nam hij haar hand en trok haar naar zich toe. Hij voelde zich bedwelmd door haar verschijning. Hij was even al hun zorgen vergeten toen ze zich dicht tegen hem aan vleide. Hij kuste haar zacht op haar bloedrode lippen en proefde aardbei.
            Ze kuste hem terug, harder en verlangend. Het was alsof zij een andere vrouw was in deze klederen. Katarina voelde dat hij opgewonden was en streelde hem daar, terwijl hun kussen nog meer gepassioneerd werden. Met een vlugge beweging maakte ze de lijstjes achteraan op haar rug los en het rode kleed landde als een rode wolk op de vloer. Ze stapte er over en had nog juist een zwart kanten slipje aan dat niets aan de verbeelding over liet.
            Jean-Pierre kon niet gauw genoeg uit zijn kleren raken. Terwijl zij hem hielp met dit werkje bleven ze elkaar af en toe kussen. Ze konden er niet voldoende van krijgen. Ze waren beiden zo gespannen geweest, dat er nu een uitbarsting kwam van opgekropte emotie. Ze streelden elkaars naakte lichaam en vleiden zich op de grond. Jean-Pierre ontdekte verbaasd dat de vloer warm aanvoelde. Blijkbaar had Katarina’s zuster vloerverwarming.
            Katarina duwde hem opzij en achterover en kwam boven op hem liggen, terwijl ze haar lichaam met kracht tegen hem aan duwde en wreef. Hun handen waren overal en probeerden alle mogelijke plekjes te bereiken, gewoon om ze aan te raken. Een gevoel van koorts overviel hen en het duurde niet lang of Jean-Pierre had de vrouw in haar gevonden. Zij had opnieuw de man in hem ontdekt terwijl hij het tempo bepaalde van hun intieme dans.
            Ze riep hem toe met alle mogelijke lieve woorden die ze kende, hij gromde van genoegen terwijl hun ruggen kromden in sensueel genoegen. Uiteindelijk ontsnapte aan beiden een kreet van extase. Ze voelden zich als een, gemaakt voor elkaar. Hijgend van de inspanning en na genietend lagen ze en elkaars armen op de grond. Haar rode kleed lag als een plas bloed naast hen.
            ‘Je bent een natuurtalent, Jean-Pierre, mmmm lekker,’ fluisterde Katarina in zijn oor.
            ‘Kat, mijn lieve Kat, ik hou van jou, meer dan ik ooit van iemand heb gehouden. Het kan melig klinken en ouderwets, maar ik meen het van het diepste van mijn hart.’ Hij kuste haar op haar oorlelletje en ze lachte kirrend.
            ‘Wacht maar tot je hoort wat ik van plan ben,’ antwoordde ze hem terwijl ze zonder enige schaamte in haar mooie naaktheid recht stond. Zonder zich te haasten nam ze haar slipje en rode japon en begon zich terug aan te kleden.
            Jean-Pierre volgde haar voorbeeld. ‘Hoe bedoel je? Het wordt tijd om me eens te vertellen hoe jij dat ziet om die tapes te bemachtigen.’
            Ze keek hem aan met haar lichtblauwe ogen waar de pretlichtjes nog niet waren uitgedoofd. ‘Ik weet welke tapes moeder gebruikt. We zullen de originele moeten vervangen door drie tapes die ik straks ga kopen. We zullen eerst ons toespitsen op Monsieur Charles. Hij houdt regelmatig van die instuiven waar allemaal chique volk op af komt. Vanavond is er zo een. Daarom moeten wij ook er goed uitzien. Ik verleid Monsieur Charles…’
            Katarina kon haar zin niet afmaken. ‘Hoe bedoel je, verleiden?’ vroeg Jean-Pierre verwonderd. ‘Is dat nu werkelijk nodig, Katarina? Kunnen we het niet op een andere manier oplossen?’
            Ze lachte zacht. Zijn verontwaardiging kwam uit jaloezie, veronderstelde ze. ‘Sorry, Jean-Pierre, het kan niet anders. Ik moet hem zelf laten vertellen waar hij de tape verborgen heeft zonder dat hij wantrouwen koestert. Ik denk dat ik het op die manier het rapst kan oplossen. Wees gerust, mijn lichaam is van jou…en mijn hart ook.’
            ‘Maar laat ons zeggen dat het lukt, dat hij je de schuilplaats van de tape vertelt. Hoe gaan we die halen zonder dat hij ons op heterdaad betrapt?’
            Katarina knikte bevestigend. ‘Inderdaad, dat was de moeilijkste hinderpaal in mijn plan, maar Cecile heeft mij de oplossing gegeven nadat ik ons avontuur in de nightclub had verteld.’
            Hij keek haar onbegrijpend aan en maakte een gebaar dat ze verder moest vertellen.
            ‘Haar vriend bij de politie heeft bij haar een paar hightech spulletjes achtergelaten die wij goed kunnen gebruiken. Heb je nog gehoord van een oortje? Waarschijnlijk al gezien in een of andere politiefilm. Je steekt het kleinood in je oor en je hoort alles wat de bijhorende zender van geluiden opvangt. Simpel, niet?’
            Jean-Pierre begon te snappen wat ze bedoelde. ‘Jij zal de zender bij je hebben als je Monsieur Charles euh…onder handen neemt, zal ik maar zeggen, en…’
            ‘En jij,’ vulde ze zijn redenering aan, ‘jij zal met het oortje mijn aanwijzingen volgen en de tape vervangen door eentje die wij hebben meegebracht.’
            ‘Als dat maar allemaal goed verloopt,’ zuchtte Jean-Pierre. Hij zag zichzelf al in de boeien, weggeleid door de veiligheidsdienst. Een ding kon je zeker zeggen als je bij Katarina was: het leven was nooit vervelend.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere
20/11/2014
           




woensdag 26 november 2014

Requiem : Prologue

There has been an error and the prologue of the story 'REQUIEM' has disappeared. So, for who follows this story, here comes the prologue once again







REQUIEM
Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

IN MY HEAD

They silently live their own life
Those words that are making a way
Through my ear and whisper

How much I listen to them
Still, they escape through
The maze of my brain

Besides, how will it be?
When they melt
With the haze of images
That is burned upon my eye

Will the ravings in which
I lose them to my lips
Last long enough
To let them stay

Will the sound of their echo
Resist to the hardness
Of my sheet of paper.

Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere
Translation of ‘In mijn hoofd’
out of the collection of poems: ‘Perpetuum Mobile’




PROLOGUE


            We all have a lot of rooms in our head. It’s a big house, wherein some of them we keep our good, in others our bad memories. Another room is probably only designed for facts and data as faces, names, phone numbers and a few of important addresses. Maybe there is even one where we save our ideas about different smells, colors and tastes. Some people claim there’s certainly a little place for moments of pleasure in a piece of tasty chocolate or a glass of the finest whiskey.
            Most of the people possess a very special chamber. There they put all the suffering, the sadness and the pain, their darkest thoughts. They sort them in a particular place; the sudden death of a son who had an accident or the suicide of their daughter of eighteen. For another one, it is the place where he hides the memories of the decaying process of a sick father or mother. There are crypts, horror chambers and a hall of mirrors in our upstairs room, each of which serves another goal. Sometimes it is just a corner to hide his fear of spiders and snakes or to disguise her shame and aversion of the deviant. Not to forget, somewhere on the left behind a thick curtain, the repulsion for dissenting people is concealed. Ready to hit unexpectedly, this monster lies there, a beast that dislikes anything that is strange or different than himself.
            A human closes consciously all these doors and keeps the keys away in a safe that he buries for security in the cellar of his mind. Somewhere in a place in his head where he alone can reach it. Secrets and suppressed sorrow preserve the best behind closed doors.
            Sometimes you have people who widely open the doors of their chamber so that anyone can look into it. So wide, that their grief and pain flows away through a river of tears out of their eyes. Their mouth pulls broadly open while they howl like a wolf at the waxing moon. They scratch their own blood from under their fingernails in their incapacity. Extrovert in their feelings, as these persons are, they want to let the whole world participate of the anguish that is done to them, they witness day after day of the trials they have to endure.
            At a certain moment, these rooms in our head are congested. With this kind of persons, where no more room is vacant, where the doors bulge of exasperated feelings and the countless ghosts keep them awake at night, one day the inevitable happens. Some still find in a last but dubious attempt a solution in antidepressants or tranquilizers. Others don’t see a way back out of their personal hell and put at a certain point the barrel of a hunting rifle in their mouth and pull the trigger with closed eyes. Is it out of shame that they close their eyes or is it to not have to watch their cowardly action?
            These are some of the painful questions where family and friends will struggle for years after their death. Incomprehensible is the word coming from their mouth! How is it possible we didn’t see that coming? And still it happens so often we cannot classify it anymore as coincidence. There are several who shoot up with an overdose of shit and leave this world, blowing out their candle with a last kick and at the same time in a few moments extinguish a lot of their burning problems. Some courageous characters jump like zombies in front of the train of nine thirty. Brave because they have still the ultimate patience, taking into account the eternal delay of the railway traffic. Again other men or women cut their wrists with a cross as penance and they cry the blood out of their veins.
..........            
            The man who cried out in the semi-darkness, somewhere deep underground, safely in his self-made hiding place, shared another meaning about this. Now and then his figure was painted as a shadow on the wall by the light of the candles. A white sheet covered his face, except for two crazy eyes that glowed like coals in the scarce light. They gave him the appearance of a ghost in the night. He would never choose for that easy way of dismay and surrender. Not today, nor tomorrow! Just like he had set up a place for his practices, there was an extra little room in his head. A very special manufactured space. A room closed with a heavy door. One without a keyhole and with soundproof walls. There, he heard the voices!
            A complicated mechanism protected the entrance to this location. Only he and the voices were witnesses of what was happening in there. Happily for his friends or colleagues, this chamber of horrors was inaccessible for them. Behind this door, they didn’t hear the yelling of his embittered rage, they didn’t see the color of his blind hate or the bloody result of his in aggression given pardon. It was a rage and hate that painted the walls of his chamber red. The color of fright and violence. It was the color of the blood he shed by the sword that he handled as a master.
            His feelings rushed like a runaway train through his body. He felt called, chosen! He was the personification of the wrath, but at the same time the Angel who gave forgiveness in the death. Both feelings conquered in his head and made a pact.
            Hopping mad as a taunted and an injured predator he scratched on the inside of the door, word after word, a sentence… a scream:


Beware of the day that I break out of my chamber!!!


Copyright Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere


Requiem : Chapter 2














2


            Stephen March nodded affirmatively. When the man lifted the white cloth with a tip to identify the corps his face paled from shock. He swallowed a few times to keep his stomach at ease. His half-sister Suzy was indeed almost unrecognizably mutilated over her whole body, but the little tattoo on her neck, the red round sickle around a green ball of mistletoe in the right down side of her neck, he would recognize it everywhere.
            He searched automatically after something else and indeed found the little scar on her chopped off left hand. The white knurled cicatrix on her ring finger was, it’s true, less visible than when she lived and the blood still streamed through her limbs. But with this two identification marks he could officially confirm to the clerk of the coroner that these were unmistakable the mortal remains of Suzy Chang. It was strange that the memory of the scar occurred to Stephen at that particular moment, here in the proximity of her lifeless body. The scar was the result of a little accident with a broken glass. To try to rescue what already was lost! Was this the epitaph that he had to put on her grave?
            His half-sister was naked, put together in pieces, like a macabre puzzle on the metal extension table from one of the cooled storage chests of the urban mortuary of Sanctuary. The new sister town of Tokyo and at the same time capital of the New World. He didn’t know what to say, he scarcely couldn’t control himself. His eyes became full and he swallowed difficulty to suppress the cry that searched a way out of him. Without realizing he put his hand over his mouth in a sort of reaction and stood there like this for a moment.
A jumpy, but soft voice tore him out of his torpor. ‘Sumimasen! Sorry, Mister March. I’m realizing that this has to be a difficult moment for you. Forgive us that we have to show this relative of yours to you in this manner. Yet we couldn’t make the remains decent because the coroner-pathologist hasn’t closed the forensic examination. The Security Service has not given their permission yet, because of the running investigation concerning the cause of death of the victim.
            The Japanese assistant was clearly annoyed with this situation. The man constantly wiped his hands in a gesture of despair. Stephen frowned surprised and waited impatiently for further explanation. As a diplomat, he heard unremarkable phrases and bombastic tainted information on a daily base, sometimes willy-nilly, but this was far above his comprehension. He looked at the man who felt himself in a difficult position.
            An aid, a messenger? From this man, with his neatly combed hair and the hair parting in the middle, with that nervous twitch around the left corner of his mouth, he had not to expect much. Luckily the man had covered already the mortal remains of Suzy and was closing the slide because inside Stephen there was something rising to the surface. Looking at the corpse, the recognition and the flashes of a living Suzy, it was something he hardly had in control.
            That’s why Stephen had to lose his anger somewhere and he unfortunately aimed it at the man before him. ‘I presume that the ripping of a human must be ‘the’ cause of death or not?’ He asked snappy and abruptly, concealing his grief and his confusion, when the man didn’t answer immediately.
            ‘Ie!’ the man answered negatively in Japanese. When he realized that Stephen was an American he said,‘No… uh, yes… I mean, as far as I have understood, the mutilations have been caused post mortem, so after your sister passed away, Mister March. Maybe this conclusion can give you a bit of consolation at this sad moment. Possibly your sister hasn’t suffered as much as it looks… on first sight.’
            Stephen suspected that the man was trying to calm him down and it felt as if the assistant was doing everything he could to reach his goal. He shouldn’t have treated the man in this way. ‘Could you please tell me who was appointed to lead the murder investigation and who the coroner is? To whom can I ask all my questions?’ A tired and affected Stephen March was a little less angry now. The impatient sound and anger that sounded still in his voice. He couldn’t hide these feelings. It was the rage of powerlessness in this whole situation. It was the rising understanding of a loss that was final and that would be from now on a part of his life.
            ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ the assistant reacted nervously. ‘Chief Inspector Norino Vastai has extended his umbrella to this case. If anyone can find this animal that has committed this barbarity, it’s him. I think Mister Vastai could arrive any minute now,’ he nervously spoke while looking at his watch for the hundredth time.
            ‘The coroner, Mister Huang, has just arrived when you were at the reception,’ Stephen received as additional information. ‘He had an appointment with Mister Vastai at ten o’clock. So you can meet with both of them at the same time… if it pleases you. Will you follow me?’
            He led Stephen through different corridors to a little space where a dozen easy chairs stood around a low table. A sort of a waiting room, he presumed, sober and impersonal. A sound of music interrupted the awkward silence in the room.
            ‘You can wait here for a moment, I will inform my chief Mister Huang and Chief Inspector Vastai that you’re here.’ The assistant was clearly relieved that the shocking identification was finished and that his task was accomplished. He greeted briefly and disappeared hurrying away.
            Stephen took a deep breath and supported his head with both hands. Despite of his one meter ninety and his hundred kilos, a giant of a bloke, he looked like he was sitting there, with bent shoulders and his head in his hands, as a broken and lonely man. A few days before he was still ignorant of the tragedy that would take place. Yesterday in the early morning when he landed at the airport of Sanctuary, after a long-distance flight from the Old World with an intermediate stop in Zaventem. He had an appointment in Brussels with the local ambassador. He didn’t know his diplomatic mission would begin with the identification of the body of his dead half-sister.
            His thoughts floated away as a seagull over a sea of time, at a moment somewhere thirty years ago. Around this time, his father, Thomas March was married for the second time. After a successful diplomatic mission in the East, he had met a woman and had set up a second life. His new wife was Kathy Chang.
            Thomas’ first wife, Maddy Silverstone, was deceased five years before he met Kathy. It had been a short and unequal battle. Bone cancer identified too late and with metastasis in the whole body. After ten weeks, his lovely Maddy had passed away, a hollow-eyed creature, in nothing to compare with the beauty she ever was.
            Stephen had kept over a little sister from this marriage. Her name was Suzy and she was the child of Kathy Chang and her first man.
            A good-for-nothing, who had left his stepmother four months pregnant with a child and had absconded. Years after, Kathy once had heard of him. It was when she read that during the escalation of a scuffle between two gangs he was murdered. All he deserved, she had taught angry and embittered.      
            Suzy Chang was the result of this relation, a little delicate ten-year-old girl, the same age of Stephen at the time. Somewhat shy with a disarming mysterious smile and raven black hair that was twisted in a ponytail. It was in this way Stephen remembered her at this moment. The tattoo of the red sickle around the green mistletoe in her neck had at that time also attracted directly his attention. When he had asked her what it meant she’d simply but proudly had answered with one word:
‘Akai!’
Later he had found out more about this group of people through his stepmother and Suzy herself, about their special way of living, their beliefs and about the rules of their teaching, where they stick to as best as possible during their life as Akai.
            Alas, Stephen’s father and stepmother had died six years ago. They were the unfortunate victims of an accident with a prototype glider or autobot. The new means of transport were at that time in a testing phase. As often with new things, something went wrong. That one time for Thomas March and Kathy Chang with disastrously consequences. Now he was the only survivor, his family was gone. He felt literally and figuratively orphaned. The loneliness that suddenly took him by surprise felt like a heavy weight on his shoulders, it was so touchable that he collapsed still deeper in his chair.
            He had no idea how much time was passed when he was pulled out of his memories by a sound that brought him back to the present.
            ‘Mister March, Stephen March?’ a voice asked again. He looked up and nodded affirmatively at the same time he rose difficulty out of his chair. It seemed that he dozed off for a moment and was dazzled to be surprised afterwards. The shock of the facts and the following identification left clearly his marks.
            ‘I sympathize with your loss, Mister March, I realize it must be difficult, but I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions about your half-sister… the victim, in this case, Suzy Chang?
            The man spoke perfect English and was dressed in the uniform of the Security Service. He took a seat and he lifted a little black gadget out of his pocket of his coat, pushed a button and laid it before him on the table.
            ‘Better than all that paper waste in past decennia, you agree?’ he started the interview. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Norino Vastai. May I also introduce you to our coroner-pathologist Mister Kim Huang, who has performed the autopsy?’
            Huang made a short bow with his hand on his heart and then gave Stephen also the Western handshake that was customary in the Old World and took a seat beside the Chief Inspector.
            Chief Inspector Vastai was a little corpulent Japanese man with short shaved military hairstyle. His eyes were very attentive and they looked at Stephen in an observable manner. Professional deformation probably. The coroner-pathologist Kim Huang, of Chinese origin, was more the opposite type of the Chief Inspector. Kim Huang was rather scrawny with a hairstyle that could be described as a ceiling mob. The absent-minded professor type… maybe? Stephen knew that appearances sometimes could be deceptive.
            ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ the inspector pointed at the seat where he came out, ‘I presume you’ve a lot of questions concerning the death of your half-sister Suzy Chang. But let me summarize what I may or I can tell you about this case. Maybe what I tell you will answer already some of your questions.’
            It hadn’t escaped Stephen’s attention that the policeman used the phrase ‘I may or I can’. At that moment he felt that there was a matter of a special case. In spite of his grief and a burdensome tiredness he sharpened automatically his attention. He shook his head briefly - but not unnoticed by the examining look of Norino Vastai - to clear his thoughts. His diplomatic background and influence would be more than necessary here, with a view to unearthing the truth.
            ‘I’m listening,’ he answered awaiting and looked the Chief Inspector right in his perceptive eyes.
            ‘The human remains of Suzy Chang, daughter of Kathy Chang, your passed away stepmother,’ Mister Vastai began, ‘were discovered yesterday morning in the ‘Deeplands’ on a distance of five kilometers from the ‘Catacombs’ by an accidental passer-by. She was found…,’ here he stopped a moment to formulate his words as tactful as possible, ‘in the condition you’ve established during the identification. She must have died between ten or eleven according to the first examinations. The victim was mutilated… presumably… after her death, to conceal the identification as we suspect. About that we’ve no decisive answer. Maybe it could also just be a sadistic act from a psychopathically killer.’ Here he stopped a moment to give Stephen March some time to digest the facts.
            The coroner had given a sign in the course of the commentary from the inspector to add something when Vastai was speaking about the time of mutilation. The inspector, however, gazed with a warning look at him, so that the man swallowed his reaction and looked a bit dazzled to the ground. Strange?
            ‘We did find a short note in the lining of her coat. The note probably fell through a hole in the pocket of this coat. I don’t suppose this was the intention. But clearly the murderer had overlooked it if he wanted to avoid the identification of the victim. By this way, we’ve laid a link to you. On the other hand, we were practically sure for a hundred percent that it was Suzy Chang. Her identification-chip, planted in her, when she was in the Old World during her stay with your late father and Kathy Chang….’ He took time to consider, frowned and looked a moment very deep in the eyes of Stephen and went on. ‘… Indeed was damaged in an attempt to remove it, with less success than originally meant. Our it-department has after a few failed efforts and a lot of brain-racking, managed to bring out her name. What confirmed our supposition by finding the note,’ he declared in his statement. ‘But you understand that we needed an independent and personal identification for our records.’
            Stephen had let this flow of words came over him and remembered only a few words: ‘Deeplands’, ‘note’ and the ‘Catacombs’, ‘Identification-chip damaged’. The Deeplands and the Catacombs were neighborhoods you didn’t frequent after dark. What was Suzy doing there? About the note, he was still most amazed.      
           ‘A note or a letter? What do you mean when you say it was linked to me? I never wrote letters or notes to Suzy. We keep in touch through our mail or mobile phone. When I was in the New World on a diplomatic mission, I always came to visit her, but that was it. What was written on the note?’
            Mister Vastai hesitated a few moments, a thing Stephen noticed obviously. It was one of his skills to read body language of human beings. One of the required and highly esteemed qualities as a diplomat, a skill that had given him on multiples occasions the upper hand in a discussion.
            ‘Your name, let’s hold it to that, Mister March.’ He wouldn’t hear more, not now, but Stephen March had his sources, that came later. They weren’t done with him, yet.
            ‘I suppose you haven’t yet located the perpetrator, otherwise you should’ve told me so. In any case do you have already a suspect?’ Stephen March didn’t even blink with his eyes when he asked this question. His senses and observation qualities were now in overdrive. He pushed away his fatigue and felt that something special was going on here. They want to disorientate and appease him. Despite his grief, he was very attentive. Nor the Chinese or the Japanese would play with him. Then they didn’t know Stephen March yet.
            ‘No,… I’m sorry, Mister March, but we’ll keep you forewarn if something happens,’ answered Vastai while he looked a moment at Kim Huang. Again, that instant of doubt and the looking to the left. His father Thomas was a good teacher and he had explained it to him. A right-handed looks to the right when he uses that part of the brain where memories are stored, then he speaks the truth or tries to remember the truth. The opposite in this case indicated that Inspector Vastai wasn’t telling the whole truth or that he came up with something.  
            ‘If you have still any questions, feel free to ask them,’ the Chief Inspector added, ‘we wouldn’t risk to harm the fragile friendship between the Old and New World, not even a bit,’ and again a glance was exchanged between Norino Vastai and Kim Huang.
            They kept something from him. Stephen had no more questions for Mister Huang. It wouldn’t bring Suzy back if he asked more details about her injuries, but he had still one for the Chief Inspector of the Security Service.
            ‘Okay, I understand! You won’t say no more,’ what resulted in a deliberate look from the inspector. ‘Maybe I have still a little question that you can answer. Have you released her apartment yet? Can I visit it without obstructing the ongoing investigation?’ he asked, clearly weighing his words to not compromise the inspector, because he had seen Norino Vastai tightened after his short accusation.
            Stephen had reserved in advance five days to catch up with his half-sister. He hadn’t known that he would spend it like this. In this way, he hadn’t to account for his absence to the home base. In the case of an emergency, they could reach them on his mobile.
            ‘Of course. Mister Huang will hand you over the necessary things, what is left of her clothes and the rest of her personal belongings she had on her. If you have no more questions…?’ the Chief Inspector finished the conversation.
            Stephen had, after all, still a question for the coroner-pathologist. ‘May I ask a last question at Mister Huang?’ And so he did, seeing that Mister Huang nodded affirmatively. ‘Have you established already the real cause of death?’ Stephen asked. Again he looked at the wordless communication between the two men before him. There was each time a moment of some secret tension, especially before answering his questions.
            ‘Your sister is deceased by the implications of an arterial bleeding, Mister March,’ answered Huang. ‘I can assure you she hasn’t suffered a long time. We’ve found a substance in her body after the toxicological investigation that indicates she was drugged.’
            Stephen noticed that the coroner-pathologist didn’t mention if the drug still worked when Suzy was killed. The answers he was getting here weren’t satisfying. He had to go investigate the matter himself otherwise he would stay even ignorant as he was when he arrived a few hours ago. For his own peace of mind, he had to know more than they told him here. Still, he thanked Mister Huang in his own language: ‘Xiè xiè, thank you.’
            ‘Bù yòng xiè, you’re welcome,’ answered Kim Huang without thinking, but surprised back in Chinese.


copyright Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

The Woman in Red: Chapter 5















5. The Black Oyster

           Two days had passed away. Jean-Pierre hadn’t heard from Katarina. The third day, when he walked back to his car after work, he saw that there was a paper under one of the windshield wipers. He hadn’t expected it to be from Katarina. In a stylish writing, he saw her name at the bottom of the note.
            ‘Tonight, The Black Oyster, eight o’clock,’ he read. How did she know this was one of his favorite restaurants? The question didn’t stay long in his head; he was far too glad and excited that Katarina had given a sign of life. It seemed like an eternity since he had met her. Never a woman had made such an impression on him.
            When it was almost seven, his nerves were masters over him. He couldn’t choose between the blue or yellow tie. Well then, just without one. In his suit, he looked handsome enough… he hoped. Jean-Pierre was surprised he found it so important, what she would think of him. Still something that never had happened to him.
            A quarter to eight, he started his car and drove in the direction of ‘The Black Oyster’. Arrived there, he searched a place for his car, close to the entrance because it started raining. Not pouring rain, but fast enough to be wet if you have to walk too far. He opened the door of the restaurant and looked automatically through the restaurant to watch for the woman in red. It had taken him only a few seconds before he saw her.
            She was wearing a red skirt, but she had chosen this time for a white blouse with a collar of lace. The front of it was deeply cut out that it almost seemed indecent, that he saw a great part of both her breasts. A place he would love to kiss. This thought crossed his mind while his feet led him to her table.
            ‘Good evening, Jean-Pierre, you had no trouble finding it?’ Her smile revealed nothing. On the table, there was a glass of soda water in anticipation of his arrival, but she had hardly drank of it.       
            The setting of the table was beautiful, something ‘The Black Oyster’ was known for it. The proprietress of the business took pride in making from every table a feast. The glasses and the tableware shined in the yellow glow of the illumination.
            ‘No problem, but how did you know this was my favorite restaurant?’ He couldn’t restrain himself asking. Maybe she had seen him here once or had she heard it from an acquaintance?
            She looked surprised at him. ‘No, really, that’s a coincidence. I didn’t know. A good girlfriend of mine has recommended it here, and because it wasn’t a long drive, I thought this was the right choice and opportunity to discover the menu of The Black Oyster.’ She ostentatiously took the menu in her hands. ‘Maybe we could start with a glass of champagne, Jean-Pierre, what do you think?’
            ‘An excellent idea, the choice is yours, I may add.’ He saw a man in a black suit approaching their table. ‘Good evening, Robert, Madam would like a glass of champagne and I will join her.’
            Katarina smiled at Robert while she was pointing at the wine list. ‘Give us a bottle of this one. When you drink champagne, you can’t stop after the first glass, isn’t. It’s the nectar of the gods, I think. Made to enjoy.’ Robert took the order and disappeared into the kitchen.
            ‘By the way, Jean-Pierre, when I drink champagne, I really get in the mood.’ She didn’t elaborate on what sort of mood she got in, but she looked so seductive over her menu she still was holding in her hand, that Jean-Pierre almost blushed.
            After a few glasses, he had to admit, that one glass asked for another. The bottle was empty after no time. Jean-Pierre got warm, and Katarina had a blush on her cheeks that colored beautifully with her red skirt.
            All in all, it was an exquisite meal. She took as an appetizer a fine carpaccio of tuna fish, lemon, ginger, and seaweed. He took a Pomo Dori salad with Pata Negra ham and buffalo mozzarella. Both of them enjoyed the masterpieces of the chef and praised him into heaven. They chose for the guinea fowl supreme with truffle cream as the main course and it tasted delicious.
            After that, there was a little pause, in which they talked about dishes they had already tried and liked. Katarina felt relaxed and put her hand on certain occasions on his. A short moment, a sensual gesture, delicate caress. Jean-Pierre felt her hand being warm now. A great contrast with the touch during the dance on that particular evening.
            At the dessert, a simple but delicious chocolate mousse, he got even warmer. First he thought it was his imagination, but then he knew it for sure. A foot under the table was softly but confidently searching upon his left leg. It moved teasingly from below to above his leg, a part of the inner side of his thigh, almost as far as the crotch of his pants. Meanwhile, Katarina held her Chardonnay in her hand and gazed with great interest above the glass, how he would react. He almost didn’t dare to move while his body in a particular place got very excited.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere 23/11/2014




dinsdag 25 november 2014

Coagulation
















It’s in my ear
that chilliness vibrates
in a sharp-edged letter

no use to defend myself
against the stripped off sentence
that penetrates me like an arrow

in my head the night is dancing
covered with a veil

the cloud in front of the moon
summons the wolf in me
down with a howl

I’m falling on the ground
crawling even deeper, desecrated,
time has become silent now

I’m coagulating
In my thoughts,
they are still unborn.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

25/11/2014