skin on his right shoulder, releasing lush blood streams. He drags the cross through narrow streets teeming with people, wiping the sweat off their faces, waiting for him to drop and die. But he keeps on going, and in a hallucinatory moment sees the thief ’s tranquil face in the crowd, as if what has just happened never happened.
The cross slips from his shoulder, scraping off a large swath of skin. The soldier marching next to him lifts the cross and loads it back on, but puts it down on his left shoulder, slowly. ‘There,’ the soldier says. The liar is panting, nearly oblivious to the pain, but still manages to utter a grateful world to the soldier. The crowd thickens around them, so the soldiers have to spread it, beating it back with spears and the flat sides of their swords.
‘This does not bode well,’ says the liar to the soldier.
The soldier says nothing.
‘You know,’ the liar says and coughs up a flock of blood drops, ‘I am the son of God.’
The soldier says nothing.
‘I am,’ the liar says. ‘I have been told.’
‘Verily you are,’ says the soldier. ‘And I am Virgil.’
And the procession moves on, up the hill, on top of which most of the crowd is already waiting. The liar looks up toward it, hoping against hope that the voices in his head have told him the truth.
Jordan Wellington Lint
Chris Ware
Magda Mandela
Hari Kunzru
It is 4.30 am and Magda would like us, her neighbours, to know that she is a very talented woman, a woman of accomplishments. Magda is a nurse, a qualified pilot, a businesswoman and philanthropist, a gifted and sensitive lover, the holder of certificates in computing and English grammar, a semi-professional country singer and a mother. Yes, a mother! Magda has a daughter. Who came out of this pussy right here.
Right here, she says. Out of this pussy. RIGHT HERE. And all along the street we come to our windows to twitch the net curtains and face the awe-inspiring truth that is Magda in her lime-green thong. She’s standing on the top step, the lights of the house blazing behind her, a terrifying mash-up of the Venus of Willendorf and a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, making gestures with a beer can at the little knot of emergency service personnel gathered on the pavement below.
One of the younger and less experienced constables has obviously asked her to accompany him to a place where, as an agent of the state, he will feel less exposed. A police station, perhaps. Or a hospital. Anywhere that will tip the odds a little in his favour. Magda has met this suggestion with the scorn it deserves. She knows she outnumbers these fools. YOU KNOW ME, she says. Then, with a sinister leer, AND I KNOW YOU.
Being known by Magda is a messy and unavoidably carnal experience. All of us neighbours are known by Magda. Last time she knew me, she pushed me up against the side of my car. I know you, she breathed huskily. I knew I’d been known.
In their big reflective jackets, the policemen appear crumpled and insubstantial. They are visibly trying to block out the knowledge of her knowledge, no doubt using mental techniques they were taught at the training school: I am a powerful person. I control my own destiny . Behind the ambulance, one of the paramedics is taking a quick nip of oxygen.
They don’t realize what they’re up against. Magda is the daughter of Nelson Mandela, major world leader and saviour of his country. Don’t these Day-Glo fools see the resemblance? It’s staring them in the face. If they have any doubts, ANY DOUBTS AT ALL, she tells them, they have only to consult the autobiography Long Road to Freedom . Read the autobiography! Read page 37 and page 475! They will see. THEN THEY WILL KNOW.
Magda is coated in something that I suspect is coconut oil. She has the air of a woman who has roused herself from titanic erotic exertions to be here with us on Westerbury Road tonight. She has been INTERRUPTED. She has THINGS TO DO. There’s no sign of Errol. I hope
The cross slips from his shoulder, scraping off a large swath of skin. The soldier marching next to him lifts the cross and loads it back on, but puts it down on his left shoulder, slowly. ‘There,’ the soldier says. The liar is panting, nearly oblivious to the pain, but still manages to utter a grateful world to the soldier. The crowd thickens around them, so the soldiers have to spread it, beating it back with spears and the flat sides of their swords.
‘This does not bode well,’ says the liar to the soldier.
The soldier says nothing.
‘You know,’ the liar says and coughs up a flock of blood drops, ‘I am the son of God.’
The soldier says nothing.
‘I am,’ the liar says. ‘I have been told.’
‘Verily you are,’ says the soldier. ‘And I am Virgil.’
And the procession moves on, up the hill, on top of which most of the crowd is already waiting. The liar looks up toward it, hoping against hope that the voices in his head have told him the truth.
Jordan Wellington Lint
Chris Ware
Magda Mandela
Hari Kunzru
It is 4.30 am and Magda would like us, her neighbours, to know that she is a very talented woman, a woman of accomplishments. Magda is a nurse, a qualified pilot, a businesswoman and philanthropist, a gifted and sensitive lover, the holder of certificates in computing and English grammar, a semi-professional country singer and a mother. Yes, a mother! Magda has a daughter. Who came out of this pussy right here.
Right here, she says. Out of this pussy. RIGHT HERE. And all along the street we come to our windows to twitch the net curtains and face the awe-inspiring truth that is Magda in her lime-green thong. She’s standing on the top step, the lights of the house blazing behind her, a terrifying mash-up of the Venus of Willendorf and a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, making gestures with a beer can at the little knot of emergency service personnel gathered on the pavement below.
One of the younger and less experienced constables has obviously asked her to accompany him to a place where, as an agent of the state, he will feel less exposed. A police station, perhaps. Or a hospital. Anywhere that will tip the odds a little in his favour. Magda has met this suggestion with the scorn it deserves. She knows she outnumbers these fools. YOU KNOW ME, she says. Then, with a sinister leer, AND I KNOW YOU.
Being known by Magda is a messy and unavoidably carnal experience. All of us neighbours are known by Magda. Last time she knew me, she pushed me up against the side of my car. I know you, she breathed huskily. I knew I’d been known.
In their big reflective jackets, the policemen appear crumpled and insubstantial. They are visibly trying to block out the knowledge of her knowledge, no doubt using mental techniques they were taught at the training school: I am a powerful person. I control my own destiny . Behind the ambulance, one of the paramedics is taking a quick nip of oxygen.
They don’t realize what they’re up against. Magda is the daughter of Nelson Mandela, major world leader and saviour of his country. Don’t these Day-Glo fools see the resemblance? It’s staring them in the face. If they have any doubts, ANY DOUBTS AT ALL, she tells them, they have only to consult the autobiography Long Road to Freedom . Read the autobiography! Read page 37 and page 475! They will see. THEN THEY WILL KNOW.
Magda is coated in something that I suspect is coconut oil. She has the air of a woman who has roused herself from titanic erotic exertions to be here with us on Westerbury Road tonight. She has been INTERRUPTED. She has THINGS TO DO. There’s no sign of Errol. I hope
Similar Books
