Pandoura: An ancient Greek string instrument from the Mediterranean basin, similar to a lute.
Gastroelytrotomy: The operation of cutting into the upper part of the vagina through the abdomen without opening the peritoneum for the purpose of removing a foetus.
Frothily: In a frothy manner.
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I sink into my concrete bed, sticky with sweat; it’s as though Moses parts the red sea beneath me. Dry mouth. Heavy eyes.
‘Are you ok?’
Her voice taut, succinct. Very dry, like a wine rather than a desert. There is a siren somewhere nearby.
‘No….’ I briefly pause, then ‘I had the dream again…’
‘Go on…’ her encouragement, wearing me down, words as abrasive as stone.
A caesura hangs like a neon spider web; we are caught in a momentary tableau, flashing as I contemplate what words to let bubble forth. An explosion of thoughts, crashing, swelling frothily, thick as foam but bursting before they reach the clarity of reason. Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote that the rumble of thunder is to lightning, what an idea is to inspiration. I’m not sure how to begin. But I try.
‘I’m lying on a hospital gurney, there are sounds all around me and the lights are bright; it’s hard to make out what exactly is going on. There are four shadows above me, wearing masks and goggles. They look like insects, the sort that bury into another insects abdomen and lay their eggs there.’
‘Yes…?’
The recording machine’s siren is still blaring, metronomic, polyphonic, the two tone pluck of a pandoura. A strange reference. I push the insects from my mind.
‘The shadows merge into one and they put my legs in stirrups, I beg them not to put their eggs in me, but they ignore me. I’m sure they do. The pain, it hurts so bad…’
‘I know, but there’s someone coming, so hold on.’
‘The pain of the contractions, they hurt so much. I can’t do it, there’s just no way. The shadow he cuts into me with his words ” “Gastro…roelyt….ro…tomy,” he strings it out, just like that. Hangs it over me like a veil as he pulls the baby from my body, says I can’t have it, that it belongs to someone else. He takes the baby and makes me sign papers. They paid me money and took my baby…it wasn’t a choice…the shadows…’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand?’
My veneer cracking, the darkening within is blooming. This is my rumbling thunder, after all these years, to think it happens now, at a time like this. The only time left.
‘The shadows, they took him away and I never told. The papers said I couldn’t, but I have to tell someone. It has to be you. My son, I tracked him down, you have to warn him about them. His name…his name is…’
‘Is what? His name is what? Hello, can you hear me? There’s been an accident; I’ve hit you with my car. There’s an ambulance on its way, just stay with me, ok?’
She says this with no real conviction in her voice; she says it dry as a desert.
Stories On The Sofa 