magazhn 9

grEEKLIsH
were busy rehearsing in their respective
room. Mundane songs,
about love and betrayal, and separation,
reflecting strange leaps
from one marital situation to another;
in one song she would be
deploring her lost youth (were
are those happy days they seem
so hard to find), in the next she
would be a naughty teenager,
sneaking away from home (Tried
to leave without saying), from a
state of dulling wealth (as for fortune
and as for fame, I never invited
them in), to shaming poverty
(if I had a little money) – all
meaningless lyrics with catchy
tunes that seemed to excuse the
nonsense that was sung to them.
When would the tour end?
Tonight the first concert, another
twenty five to go, and then back
home, to record the next album.
A horribly repetitive circle that
would never finish.
Unless... She could leave now,
slip out, make any old excuse to
the Italian maid, who would no
doubt believe her if she said she
was going to the moon. She had
a credit card in her evening bag,
that had enough money on it to
get her by. She could put the bag
over her shoulders, leave. She
would be able to earn her living –
surely here, in her city of dreams,
in her love-land. If she practised
a bit she could pass as a Frenchwoman,
get a job somewhere –
anywhere! What did she care for
luxury and wealth and fame? As
the song she was to sing tonight
ran they are illusions, not the
things they once promised to be.
Well that was true enough.
Through the walls she could
hear Fredericka singing a new
song. The words were horribly
idealistic, expressing emotions
that didn’t exist – at least not for
her. Now was her chance, now
she could get away from it all.
‘Go! You fool!’ she mutterer
to herself. ‘Go! Leave, now!
Leave it all behind you forever.’
The Italian maid looked up,
inquiringly from ironing the shiny
Salvador Dalí’s , Uranium and Atomica Melancholica
dress-suit that Anita would wear
tonight.
‘Nothing, Irma.’ said Anita ‘Get
back to your work.’
2ο ΓΕΛ Αγίου Νικολάου
Λουκάς ΜακΛάρεν, Β2
31