Madia Mangalena’s face fills the whole screen. The bluish filter emphasizes her discretely retouched eyes. The prophecy of Brodar’s coming is broadcast, on sub-wave. It sticks on passers-by’s brains, penetrates them, takes root, and takes the appearance of Madia from Mangala. There’s not need for a screen anymore, the image is hanging upon cortexes, waving like wolf-flags, with the only difference that it’s not howling. Madia is smiling. On her skin, the marks of the stones are clear, telling the story of her life.
"Let the immaculate one throw first."
And every one crowded forward to throw the stone, to be seen throwing, to get known as being clean.
The scars smoothed her body, made it shiny, magnetic. The clothes stick on her, the sights, the hands, all those. She walks on the street and the watches fall down around her, break, stand stone-still. Madia without Time. Magnetic Dia.
Only her face remained bitten by stones. For a better recollection. And each caress burns the hand that had held the stone, each kiss has the taste of the stones.
"What… What the hell’s that?" everyone jumps aside, at first touch. Burned, shocked, disgusted, scared, emetic. They swear they won’t touch her ever again, but they start again the next day.
They keep themselves busy in her way, to be seen by her, to be chosen, to make her mind them at least. Ferocious males, men who are ruling the destinies of the world. They are her rags for wiping. Her shoe cream, for her boots…
"Linda, Linda, where’s your boots?" (love song from 20th century) her toothbrush, her purse, her period pad.
Madia Mangalena, the psalliote1 of Mangala. Beautiful, dreadfully beautiful.
When she makes love, her movements are avoiding and receiving, feinting, watching, begging, urging, howling. She has transformed herself into syrup or brandy, worming into you and playing the full in there. She’s burning you, tearing you apart.
But "it is better to burn than to rust." That is the first lesson.
With her body she is burning you, burning at her turn, consuming herself in yourself.
Madia of Mangala lives her death every day.
"A whore! Every jerk, every cock-sucker split her, as well as all those who are walking around her like the relics of saints. A whore!"
And, yet, people gather around screens like in the mad years of Psycho programmes. 23, 24… 26: Andie MacDowell sold en detail on the sandwich boards of the handicapped (IQ under 160). What times! Movies – they called them. Now, on the screen, we are seeing the reality. The tricksters, the handlers of lives are bombarding us with the lives of the saints. I don’t know wherefrom they are pulling so many saints; it seems fishy. As long as we don’t understand that, we better stay home on our butts and give up the diems2. Anyhow, the dreammaker shouldn’t fall into everyone’s hand.
Patina is another name for rust, and the naming gives it nobility. This is the second lesson.
For the moment, let’s wait for Brodar; let’s see what’s with him. Maybe he’s another Big Brother, like so many others who have passed by there. They are all gone, as they came. Some are wretches; some are cads.
And we, the cattle, we are leaving our lives in their palms, palms not good enough for a masturbation. But it belongs to them. And they could forgive Madia, the one that we could never forgive. But how could we forgive her? Isn’t she our whore, isn’t she? Aren’t we locking ourselves with her in two-on-two foutoirs, aren’t we throwing off our clothes and socks and wrist-watches to gain another five square inches of skin for caresses? How could we forgive her, when she made us throw stones? No executioner forgives his victims.
"Let the immaculate one throw first."
The marks of the stones on her face make her more beautiful. Any man who sees her feels in his nostrils, at once, the smell of her blood. Her calling.
On the huge screen, Madia is moving away and, behind her, the smell that drives me crazy lingers on. Inside me, I feel my blood rising to the top of the tops and the sensong blow up in the air around. The filters are changing, they are red now.
Masna Pyia passes his dextra3 over the chords, the grave accords are clearing and, from somewhere, from depths, I know wherefrom the waves appear. The master’s image grows blurred, there are only the sensong4 and the waves which remain. Trembling at the beginning, more and more agitated afterward, finally the agressives, the waves.
The passers-by are looking astonished at me. Beyond hate there is love. Like a door, like a wound, like a spike. I’m the only one who has forgiven her. I love her. I don’t feel my hands anymore. They are numb. I didn’t think that it could be so bad. Nay, they are not numbed. It hurts me. Especially the spikes hurt me. The lust with which they had beaten those spikes in my palms. Like at that other time. And their faces, disfigured by hate.
From here, from up here, everything looks different. But it doesn’t matter anymore.
A woman stops in front of me. I look into her eyes and I had the impression that she looks like my mother. Probably, all dying men feel that. From my wounds, my blood is dripping and she dodges to save her basket. Too late.
She looks at me and says:
"Is it you, or should we wait another one?"
"It’s me. Me."
(English version by Mihai Samoila)