Sunspot Literary Journal
Volume 1 Issue #2 © 2019 Sun Dogs Creations

Over His Eye/Valyntina Grenier

Changing the World
Through Words and Art

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Table of Contents
The Truth About Swans / Christina Robertson / 1
Priorities / Kit Alloway / 11
i am trying to forgive you / Zachariah Claypole White / 12
he promised her he’d take everything with him when he left andhe did / Dave Sims / 15
Eric Is / Randall Weber-Levine / 16
it all melts down to this: a novel in timelines (Chapter 14) / Ben
Miller / 18
Image Contest Winners and Finalists / 29
Sunspot Logo / Timothy Boardman / 29
TypeFace / J. Ray Paradiso / 30
Single Word Contest, Cunt Edition Winners and Finalists / 31
To Russia with Love / Morrow Dowdle / 32
You’re Not Listening to Me / J. Ray Paradiso / 33
The Black Iris / Katherine Todd / 34
Cuntaminated / Sharmin Mirman / 35
The First Epistle to Carmelo DeAndre Jones / Max Carp
/ 37
Special Dual Language Presentation
The Doll / Piero Schiavo-Campo / Translated from Italian
by Sarah Jane Webb / 45
La bambola / Piero Schiavo-Campo / 65
Contributors / 86
Cover: Over His Eye by Valyntina Grenier, Winner, A Single Word
Contest, Cunt Edition

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The Truth About Swans
Christina Robertson
The flock of Sandhills are so high up in the cold that their peculiar
rippling call sounds as though echoing off God herself, falling to theearth as perhaps evidence of her existence. They are migrating in long
hatch marks, south over the city of Chicago today. I’m down here,
flying solo, tramping through slush puddles to my coffee place, yet thefalling sound easily seduces me into feeling something more importantis going on, something I need to be part of. That faint undulation
makes me want to let loose something wild inside myself. I make goodon a difficult promise to fight this all too familiar urge—I need totighten up for goodness sake. It is not actually my coffee place, just theneighborhood hub where I’ll make another effort to join the legion of
beings I have been, for better or worse, conscripted to. I decide to wait
to cross with the light. There was a terrible accident here last summer.
The café is busy, warm, its windows steamy. It isn’t packed withcyclists as it is on mild days, filled then with impossibly lithe bodies inskins of black and yellow, orange and blue, red, green and white,narrowed shoulders emblazoned with bold endorsements for Schwinn,
Bianchi, Ridley, Condor. There is laughter and gear talk on those days,
routes and speeds and hammerfests and breakaways, and rough talesof epic fails and crashes, brutal “endos.” Tucked in, here and thereamongst them is usually a young mother or two, their gooey toddlers
disassembling a blueberry muffin or some such. I like to nurse mycoffee, letting the yarns and convivial one-upmanship become
background music for me while I absently watch crumbs fall to thefloor and work on my Reality Journal. I confess, I find perverse
satisfaction in witnessing the ruination of a perfectly good muffin.
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Besides, to be precise, the journal is a droll therapy assignment. I am
trying to change my life for the better. Or so I’m told.
Today’s crowd is different. A few annoyed commuters are being edgedout by a hulking mob of texting, heedless teenagers. The fancy prep
school down the block must be going on some kind of field trip. This
privileged youth no doubt lobbied for a little up and coming soccer
mom and dad extravagance before boarding the yellow bus. I study
the girls. They are mascaraed and tautly sullen. The boys, still babyfaced, seem awed by them, mulling the tantalizing possibilities they
hope will present themselves at the back of the bus. One boy with anespecially angelic face stares full on at the barely contained breasts ofthe girl beside him, mesmerized, as if they are Death’s last light.
Towering over the fray, darkly handsome Derek pulls frothy works ofgenius off the La Marzocco. Occasionally his dawn blue eyes rise toread the room. A masterpiece of roses climbs his arm and a cascade ofpines tumble down the other. No skulls or thorns or Chinesecharacters. No excerpts from Thoreau or Whitman. No bike tattoos.
Warm red blooms and brisk, majestic evergreens, as if he’s got a secret
hero’s life in the enchanted forest of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
He’s mine.
The café owner offers greetings to each customer, entertaining
observations designed to stroke ego: It’s cold! But just the sight of you
warms us up, right guys? Derek might offer a nod, but otherwise remains
silent. It seems like the tall, beautiful ones always do, right? OK, let’scall a spade a spade. Derek isn’t really mine, but at times he peers atme over his handiwork, abstractions of ferns and hearts and wheat
shafts to top drink orders, and the edges of his eyes lift in what I readas a nuanced message. He always makes a swan for me. It’s why I cometo this place and not another café where I might better fit in—or inwhich I might disappear. His swans call me out.
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It’s not a crush I have. I’m too old for that, too far from anything that
could connect us in real life. I’m long divorced, and the mother of a sonin college. In fact, I could, just about, be Derek’s mother. In my higher
mind I certainly don’t flatter myself in thinking he sees anything otherthan the silver thatches in my hair and the flaccid tone of my arms. But
he must perceive something else, something that inspires swans. I
imagine it as a courtship ritual in one of my many parallel universes.
God, I love those places.
This is the thing—I lie. Paula, my therapist, uses that word freely in
our sessions. Telling her I lie was probably the only truth she got outof me in the beginning. But eventually she wore me down. Not that I
couldn’t bite back at any time to protect my mental creations, nor thatshe succeeded in prying out some violent trauma that had left me witha compulsion to rewrite the past. I’m just getting tired of thismarathon. Paula seems as good a place to stop as any.
The fire in my gut when she first explained her extravagant diagnosis,
pseudologia fantastica (compulsive lying, to you), has subsided. Imight get a little defensive when she questions me, but I no longer
feign rage, no longer panic and leap into fight or flight the way I did
at first, soon after being mandated to treatment. Then Paula’s dimly
lit office with its painstakingly predictable décor made me sick. I hated
its unrelenting calm and multiple framed degrees from smart, but not
the best, universities. I hated her nauseating patience. How, wheneverI thought I had her indoctrinated, when I thought I’d won and she wasgoing to join me in my preferred version of the truth, my alternate
story, she’d yawn. Or ask me what really happened and why I felt that
account wasn’t good enough; what pushed me to lie. I would try to up
the ante then; I’d get friendly with her, appeal to the girlfriend in thetherapist. I know, I know, it’s a lot money, but I needed it...and they wanted
to pay! Yeah, I thought I’d give it the old college try, but, you know how it
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trying to convince her of things I wasn’t so sure of myself anymore.
She started to win. She succeeded in making me feel like crap. And thatcrap was fascinating.
Listen, here’s a little-known fact about Sandhill cranes: once they
begin to mature their plumage fades from cinnamon to a dishwatergray. They begin an odd Springtime ritual then, industrious preening
with Midwestern mud, rich in iron oxide. Streaks of it seem to restore
some of that youthful glow to their feathers.
Sometimes I find the truth outside is really distant, like watching amovie. And the truth inside is small and ugly, alien and insatiable as adamp little hatchling. What is wrong with reaching? Expanding myconcept of self? Is it wrong to share things with people the way I wantthem to be? The way they should be—inspiring praise, providing
excitement, diversion, refuge? Paula calls it “manipulation”. I call it
outwitting. She calls them “fabrications”. I call them reasonableassumptions and suspensions of disbelief. After all, isn’t the world filledwith BS? Rife with things that seem insupportable, untenable,
illogical? Impossible? That five hundred tons of metal can take arunning start and lift off the ground; that a deaf man can write
emotionally kickass symphonies, that two people can find trust in one
another though they are strangers? That children can grow, evenwhen deprived of everything that is dependable and right. That for
millennia, those dirt gray cranes have flown thousand-mile journeys
simply by waving muscle and rust tinted feather.
I believe they are working on increasing their odds when they adopt
that mud-rusty patina. I get it! Out there in the great muck and flow,
stifled by the pitiless drudgery of it all, the ongoing attempts on thelife of your soul, you have to make yourself desirable, distinctive,
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with a surge of anticipation for the day ahead, one fabricates it with“attitude adjustment;” fake it ‘til you make it. One coaxes it with a swipeof lipstick and eyeliner, borrows it by tuning into a favorite station,stokes it with a cup of coffee. Are those lies? Putting your “best footforward”, “wearing many hats”, “pitching” your idea, “wooing” a mate,“winning someone over”. C’mon, isn’t that all a little suspect?
You know, it used to be that I enjoyed stirring in a bit of sugar anddisrupting my swan with the spoon. But lately I’ve begun to feel a knotof guilt over destroying the beautifully crafted creature. Guilt issomething I can only recall experiencing way back in childhood, whenmy shining exaggerations (if I must) took their first steps onto thewire. I wasn’t sure why I was fibbing. It just seemed a better answer
in the moment. I wasn’t interesting enough to be a nerd, brave enoughto be a jock, sexy enough to be a slut, caring enough to be a best friend.
I had a secret intelligence, animal cunning. There was a thrill inembellishing my stories, relief in upping my test grade, in elevating
my inconsequential social status. Lying got easier. It became a game,
something I excelled at. The sense of accomplishment made it ok. The
guilt went away. I could do without the friendships I lost. Those
people weren’t smart enough anyhow; dummies dulled by acompunction to be polite and moderate, i.e. boring.
I steal a glance at Derek as, with each pass of my spoon, my swan
becomes a cleaved heart, then a formless striation. He is working on
the next order. Silly for me to feel bad. He doesn’t know what I’ve done
to his swan and, really, why would he care? Everything is made todisappear here. That’s what’s great about food and drink
establishments: everything is presented with as much appeal as
possible, it is consumed, and disappears.
Sorry. I attribute these bloated insights to Paula and her dogged round
up of my “falsehoods”. Without Paula I wouldn’t be feeling bad about
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now, tried to get to him, briefly, until he would undoubtedly distancehimself. Still, it would work just enough for a quick stroke to the oldego. For a short, dreamlike moment my silvering hair would rewarm
to chestnut, the slight dragging of my cheek would rebound and age
spots would unbind back into freckles.
This brief time—the time I might have had him convinced I had
something he wanted—would be a badge of achievement in humandesirability. That was something I never thought I’d have back on the
day I was dying of shame, having my eight–year-old head shaved, thetreatment for lice at the Night Ministry family shelter. It was
something I gave little consideration long ago, in those days of chaos
when mom was out of her head on methamphetamines, before I was
taken away. It was something I finally gained, then lost again years
later, when I found Steve’s wedding ring on the kitchen counter, Stevegone to live with the pretty young Apple Genius who’d fixed his
phone. Rising above, fooling people, has been my balm in Gilead.
I haven’t mentioned Derek to Paula. I’m afraid I will offer up avariation of the truth that will be too creative for her tostomach...where he actually asks me to meet him after work andconfesses he is attracted to me—a May/ October—OK, November—thing ensues. We stroll off, kicking stones, touching, brushing against
each other, swapping humorous anecdotes. We end up on a park benchgazing at the swans that glide in the lagoon...or we climb out onto therocks at the lakefront and count the scrappy gulls on the break wall.
Either way we are most assuredly leaning against each other for
warmth, marveling at our spiritual connection, the one we read clearlyin each other’s eyes. Our dissatisfaction with the paltry cards life has
dealt, dissatisfaction so deep it is blooming on his skin and rushing off
the cliff edge of my brain.
What? It could happen.
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One of the bevy of mocha sipping teen vixens is holding court near thecondiment table. She draws from her to go cup, blue eyes twinkling,
perfect cleavage on display beneath an unzipped parka, then fingers a
fan of ski tags dangling from her pocket. Her nail polish is dark blueand badly chipped. Nevertheless, she is a particularly pretty girl witha face that had probably launched a thousand likes. There is sotto
laughter from her associates, three attractive, if less luminous
wannabes. She—Breck I think her name is—is telling them somethingwith her eyes and a couple of strategic grimaces. Just behind her,trying to stand so close it would look like an accident should they
touch, is the reason. It is the cherub, a boy Norman Rockwell would
have painted in the simple hues of a past era. Boys often look benign
at this age, plain as donuts, until that mysterious moment when
Nature takes them by the hand and leads them to a full costumechange. Somewhere in the midst of high school they become men.
They still don’t know what to do with what they’ve gained, but the
girls quickly help them figure it out.
Breck seems to me to be one who may have already helped a few. She
glows, as a sun, the others huddled around her. As far as I can see, thecalculation of her movements, her attitude, one of sublimely casual
disinterest, the perfect weight of her lashes and contrived sexiness ofher hair convinces me that she’d snacked on boys from an early age.
The rougher cut girls around her are feeding off abundant innuendoin her cute-mean sign language. It is quick and easy for me for me todecipher. They are planning to toy with the naive, baby-face behindher. She has sensed his hopefulness and, like a spoiled child given aballoon, has a primitive, irresistible urge to pop it.
His name is Scotty and gullible is written all over him. Like most boysin the grips of infatuation, he is dumb as a rock. This I’m thinking as I
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see Breck strategically back into him—accidentally on purpose. With
contact, a deep flush blooms in his cheeks and the creamy foam fromhis hot cocoa splashes across his knuckles. He quickly pulls his handaway in an effort to avoid spilling on her, unfortunately flipping thecup onto himself. The drink slops down his pants. Breck stifles a giggle
with her squad. She knows she has innocence cornered.
He winces looking down at the very suggestive stain on his tan jeans—the stain that would be there all day. The guys all lose it. But it is when
Breck, grabbing a handful of coffee napkins, kneels down before him
and makes a coy attempt at rubbing off the stain that the uproar really
begins. He pushes her away and the whole coffee shop sways its
attention. It is too late. The soldier has risen. She glances slyly at her
gal pals from her suggestive position on the floor. Scotty’s expression
strains between utter torture and rapture, his cheeks now purple. The
guys have commenced to howling and yipping like a pack of hyenas.
The boy doesn’t know how to play this as it becomes apparent
he...doesn’t know how to play this. Misery wells in his eyes. The girls
erupt gleefully.
Here is the truth about swans: they are not the proverbial brainless
beauties they appear to be. They are highly intelligent creatures that
can actually distinguish between people; remember who has been kindto them and who has not. They seem ethereal, but are muscular,
hollow boned, yet strong enough to inflict serious injury, even tolarger animals, even to humans. And, for all this high drama, they are,as a species, nothing more than close cousins to the obnoxious Goose.
I don’t need Paula’s voice in my head asking what’s really happening.
I know both sides of this scenario, just as a swan can float and fight, or
plain gray cranes sense the benefit in rouging themselves. I know
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humiliation. I know nakedness. And I know the intoxicating effect ofcrafting a win. Over the years I’ve learned how to control thecharacters in all my plays.
I sidle over to the pack and ask Breck if I can help her up. The boys
freeze. The girls freeze. Before I know what is coming out of mymouth, I am introducing myself as a documentary filmmaker working
on a very interesting project about human conscience. I tell her she
has all the qualities we have been looking for in a subject: being highly
photogenic (she smiles and glances at her entourage), having
leadership quality, and a streak of cruelty. She stares at me in disbelief.
I’ve got to give her credit for that. I take out one of my ambiguous
business cards, the one that reads itsastory.com and has an MFA after
my name. I hand it to her and review what I’d seen her do to her friendthat caught my eye. I frame it, objectify it, glorify it, sounding quite
professional, if I do say so. I restate its callousness and perfect lack ofconscience. Call me, I say. I even hand a few cards to the other girls,
telling them we might be interested in them as well.
A harried teacher appears at the door of the coffee shop, annoyed athaving had to wait so long. She points to her watch and signals them
all to hustle. Derek’s eyes watch from their clean heaven as the kids
start shuffling out, some leaving cups and stirs behind. To mysatisfaction, Breck still looks confused and embarrassed, chewing on aruined fingernail. From the doorway, her gaggle of hopefuls all glanceback, excited. I smile and wave one of my cards overhead as they
depart.
I look down at my deflated latte. No time for another. I shift my gazeover to Derek. He is, of course, staring at me, as is most everyone elsein the place. Bending forward over the counter, propped on his trellisof roses, he asks with genuine interest if I am really a filmmaker. I fix
him with a direct eye—BS lesson 101 is never glance away—and reply
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with all but a nod, I’m always working on a good story. I figure that’s true
enough.
I realize I haven’t the time to make an entry in my Reality Journal
now. Paula will chalk this up to “resistance”. But Hell, it’s just thatparticipating in life’s theater has a more interesting pay off. Feelingthe pressure of the hour, I zip up my jacket and try to catch Derek’s
eye once more on my way out. He is gone. It’s for the best; I only havea minute or two’s walk to decide which version of what made me lateto share with Paula. I mean, frankly, I don’t really mind her so much.
She’s like one’s loyal dog. I don’t actually want to mess up our thing,whatever it is. This is what I am thinking about as I step out onto thestreet. And there he is, Derek, leaning against a sunny wall, shivering,hunched, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Can we talk? he asks, gazingat me with those sky-eyes. My youth comes rushing back, lifting
curves, pinking me up, adding heartbeats, erasing the mileage of years,
husbands, children, careers, mistakes. The air out here feels clear andcompelling.
It could happen.

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Priorities / Kit Alloway

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i am trying to forgive you
Zachariah Claypole Whitei am trying toforgive you
hope creeps
hurricane slow
across my handsoverwhelms
the rivers and leviesof my palms
settles along my wrist
i carry storm
waters to you
scatter themin honey jars
along your window
in every dream
you throw open the door
smile as thunder enters/
our fathers speakin lightning strikes
you tell me of thefirst woman
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whoweighted prayers along her tongueand lined your teeth with firefliesin the dew-damp grass//
we test LSD
with inexperiencewrap our hands in sap and wire
plant
an apple tree
in the crossroads
i pick the sour fruitwith knives and matchsticks
you press
like weary lips
to my foreheada hammeryes
i have seen the angel
beneath my chairshe does not speak
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and i do not listen///
would you understandgreet mein the cemeterywhere our ghosts
have grown haphazard
beneath the honeysuckle
i am trying to forgive you
and yet…
and yet…
and yet…

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he promised her he’d take everything withhim when he left and he did / Dave Sims

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Eric Is
Randall Weber-Levine
Eric is a man with unrestricted will. He awakes. He sits in bed
struggling to get his mind ready for the day, checks his phone to see atext from Emily, contemplates what to respond, mills about in his
underwear. He heads downstairs, puts a cup of coffee on the stove,
takes a glance at the morning news on his phone, reaches for a mug.
He looks at the cereal selection above his cupboards. He considers theSpecial K first and then the Cheerios. He thinks for a second. He
decides Cheerios.
Eric is a man with restricted will. He goes to work. He checks emails,
sits in on a meeting, chats with Greg in the cafeteria, drafts a memo.
He walks down the same corridor he walks down every day letting his
fingers graze the bumpy wallpaper, ambles into the bathroom taking
in the scent of fresh urinal cake, takes a piss, looks up to the heavens
as he gets to the end. He stares at his eyes in the mirror questioning
whether he actually enjoys his job. He thinks for a second. Without
realizing the hands of capitalism that have molded him, he decides he
does.
Eric is a simulation yet he doesn’t know it. He leaves work. He getsin his green Volvo, turns on the radio, rolls the windows down, listens
to “Shattered” by the Rolling Stones. He sings along “laughter, joy,and loneliness and sex and sex and sex and sexxxxxx,” feels thesummer breeze swinging through the window, bobs his head to thetune, drums on the steering wheel with his right hand slightly off beat.
He contemplates changing the radio station. He thinks for a second.
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The program decides to keep the radio station, and he feels content
with what he believes was his decision.
Eric is a simulation and he knows it. He arrives home. He smells thewarm scent of his wife’s chicken potpie, hugs his children, helps withhomework, watches 60 Minutes with his wife. He gets in bed, feels thesatin of his wife’s nightgown, rubs his fingertips up and down her spine
gently, rests his chin on her head. He deliberates whether he should
try to have sex with her or get as much sleep as possible. He thinks
for a second. The program decides to have him kiss her passionately,and he accepts the decisions as his own even though he knows it’s not.
Eric is both everything and nothing. He smiles. He lies back sated,
smells his wife’s lavender-scented hair, looks out the window to thestars sitting heavy on the black sky, reflects. He thinks for a second.
It doesn’t matter who is making the decisions. They are part of him
no matter what. Life is short and sweet. And the beauty of it all is notin the decisions.
Eric is happy.

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it all melts down to this: a novel in timelines (Chapter 14)
Ben Miller

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Image Contest Winner and Finalist
Sunspot Lit reached out to the creative community for an image that
represented the mission: Hearing Every Voice, Writing a New World.
The magazine received a number of spectacular entries. The works
varied in tone and approach, and each had so much to offer.
Timothy Boardman submitted the winning image. He notes:“The center of the image is a gradient based sun, very simple, with aseries of sunspots placed on the logo. The encircling white around thesun in this design are representative of the light, [Sunspot Lit's] light,
emanating from these sunspots, and giving voice to all. The slogan,‘It's Lit’ is … wordplay to represent your literary focus, while also
being very straightforward about who you are as a literary journal.”

Sunspot Literary Logo / Timothy Boardman
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The runner-up for this contest was J. Ray Paradiso with “TypeFace.”
His submission arrived early in the process and was a top contenderright from the beginning. It remained in the top selections for theentirety of the contest due to its clean style and literary focus.

TypeFace / J. Ray Paradiso
You might remember Paradiso from the first edition of Sunspot Lit. His“Sunspot Suite” and “Half Life” perfectly bridged the shock-value
wryness of “Vulnerable Shares” by Sussu Laaksonen and the darker“Train Prayer” poem by Aaron Graham.
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Single Word Contest, Cunt Edition Winners and Finalists
When Sunspot decided to launch an annual contest focused on a single
word that would change every year, we deliberately selected a divisive
word. We hoped that the focus on an inflammatory word would
generate creative responses from authors and artists worldwide. The
role of women in different societies, gender identity and fluidity, andhuman rights are, in some ways, the defining issues of our times.
The creative community responded with powerful works that blew us
away. The tone of various pieces ranged from angry to empowered,from jackhammer decibels to whispering calm. In every case, theundercurrent lifted veils and carried all people toward a climactic
resolution.
The significant quality of so many entries confounded the final judging
process. There simply was no way to choose between the top two
entries. The decision, therefore, was to declare two winners. As
promised in Sunspot's guidelines, the cash award was not split; it was
doubled.
Valyntina Grenier, First Place for “Over His Eye.”
Spotlighted as this edition’s cover art, the artwork works on several
levels. The colors and simple lines, combined with the sexualized
overtones of lips mirrored in several places, took “the male gaze” to a
new level. She received first place for this powerful image.
Morrow Dowdle, First Place for “To Russia with Love.”
Dowdle’s poem vividly touches on violence in the world of women.
Boldly drawn in shades of unrelenting black, the poem still holds spacefor gray nuances and, eventually, light.
A number of finalists have been kind enough to allow us to publish
their works. We think you’ll find them as provocative as we did.
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To Russia with Love
Morrow Dowdle
On any given night, the stories flow
like the filthy Volga in which the children
would wash themselves after eating supperfrom the garbage heaps. It might be her friend,wrapped in a carpet on an apartment roof,
doused with gasoline and set on fireover and over until she died, slow-cooked.
Or how the prior tenant had been axed,and she and her mother had to scrub blood
before they could move in. Or how
the elderly neighbors kept their brotherin the freezer, feeding off him piecemeal.
Or how soldiers and police would rape girls,
and girls would hook for spare change,
believing they lost less than they gained.
I marvel at how she can appear intact,
when the world was a rabid dog,
people its bared teeth and claws.
I can forgive, then, how she stroked
my husband from knee to thigh,high as we were on wine. I can forgive
my husband for wanting to taste
the lips, the cunt that knew trespass
before it knew love, yet stillfound its way to love. It tastes
as sweet as it ever did.

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You’re Not Listening to Me / J. Ray Paradiso
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The Black Iris
Katherine Todd
“Is it supposed to be a cave...
Or is it a stylized flower?”
I giggle a bit at her
wide eyes when I tell her thatno, this painting is not of acave or an iris, but, “It isa cunt,” I turn and stage whisper.
Her little cheeks flush crimson
and a liaison sauntersover to us, about readyto kick us out, but I screech, “Run!”We push our way out onto
the street, laughing at the fear of
one simple word, because it had
not been said to one of us yet.
But it will, and it will sting morethan where he slapped you, more than whena stranger snapped photos under
your skirt and you saw them online,
more than everything said toyou that night you broke his nose.
But neither of us knew that was
our future, so we stole some
fresh fruit and laughed at its core.

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CuntaminatedSharmin Mirman
In a workplace infested with backstabbers and bitches, slime balls
and snake oil salesmen – phonies, enablers, liars and cheaters - I wasa misfit. This was no place for a woman like me – an introverted
introvert empath – Brooklyn transplant – direct, loyal, honest,
adaptive. I could be a chameleon and fit in with them – observing thecallous - the devious - the wretched imposters - the shrewd - theunderhanded manipulators - the planners that got away with all that
their power allowed – the actors on the public stage – a cast ofvillains and opportunists - smiling and playing such sincere
characters – so believable – if you only knew! If you saw behind thescenes – if you read their murky auras – if you saw who they werewhen the cameras weren’t on – when the masks came off – when
their treacherous malignant hearts beat away their morality – beataway their consciences – beat down whoever got in their way – beatdown the truth – the rules - the right way – the decency – the noble– the traditions. They slithered around the halls - cloaked in therotting husks of decency turned to dust -– the facade sloughed off
like empty snakeskin - crumbling and scattered like brittle dry leaves
at their feet - honor eviscerated from their very souls. The
inconsolable ghosts - watch and weep silently - bereft. The halls needsweeping - the halls need sweeping.
They made their plans behind closed doors - a cohort of cunts consorting, colluding. They hurt good people - stabbed them in theback when nobody was looking - when they could get away with it –and they could - and they did - because of their power – because of
their lies - because they had two faces – so much taken! Dispensabledisposable employees - discarded like bloody tampons - flushed awaywith no concern - out of sight – out of mind - forgotten – moving on
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with no accountability – lacking a true north – a moral compass andthe right to ever say my name again.

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The First Epistle to Carmelo DeAndre Jones A.K.A. Notorious
Max Carp
The First Epistle To
Carmelo DeAndre Jones A.K.A. Notorious
Author: Donny B.

Theme: Christian Experience
Writing: c. A.D. 2019

Date ofIntroduction:
I. Great Christian Virtues,
1:3-8

Salutation, 1:1-2
1 DONNY B. BULGER,
of Hoboken, New Jersey, aservant of Jesus Christ, toye who has obtained like
precious faith through therighteousness of God andour Savior.

3 For our gospel came
unto ye not in word alone,
but also in power and in
the Holy Spirit, as ye havefull knowledge of themanner of men you and I
were back in the day in
Atlantic City, wanting ofnothing but to get awhoop whoop.

2 Grace be unto ye, bro,and peace be multiplied
through the knowledge ofGod, and of Jesus, Our
Lord,

4 And it was written thatfrom faith springeth
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virtue, and from virtue
knowledge, and likewiseknowledge giveth birth toself-control and brotherly
love.

II. Conflict of the Spirit with
the Old Nature, 2:1-7
2 Now, then, when ye areafter the flesh ye do mind
the things of the flesh, butwhen ye are after the
Spirit ye mind the thingsof the Spirit.

5 But he that lacketh theselatter things, especially as
particular to mypredicament, of which I
am compelled to write toye, is blind and hathforgotten that his old sins
had been purged.

2 For to be carnallyminded is death, where to
be spiritually minded islife and peace.

6 Wherefore, I will not be
negligent to put ye inremembrance of thesethings, though ye knowsome of them and ye may
be suspecting of others.

3 And I know that in myflesh dwelleth no goodthing, for the good that I
would, I do not, but theevil which I would not,that I do.

7 Yea, I think it fitting as
long as I am in thistabernacle, to stir you up
by means of an apology,

4 It is no more I that do it,
but sin that dwelleth inme that doeth it.

8 Knowing that it should
serve as instruction to ye,that ye may continue tohave faith in our Lord andthat your faith beincreased in abundance.

5 And I speak unto ye as
unto carnal, even as unto
babes in Christ.
6 For whereas there is
between us strife anddivision, are ye notcarnal? Am I not likewise38

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carnal? Do we not walk asmen? Ye tell me, bro.

pimp of the streets and acavorter.

7 For while one saith, I
owe ye nothing; andanother, Ye are in mydebt; are we not carnal?

4 And that comely c*unt
whom ye called by thename of Chocolate
Thunder, with the skinthat the sun hath looked
upon, she did tempt me sowith her carnal ways.

III. Donny’s willing descentinto depravity, 3:1-15

5 Verily, I said to her, Thy
hair is as a flock of goats,that appear on Mount
Tammany,

3 Wherefore, I will not be
negligent in paying my
debts to ye, as I willingly
walked after the flesh in
the lust of uncleannessand did not settle myaccounts.

6 Thy neck is like theTower of Pisa builded forthe motion of thy head,that bringeth to mind a
beloved bird of my youth,
the three-toed
woodpecker,

2 One would be in his
right to surmise that ye
have tempted me so, notunlike the Serpent, but thesin is mine to bear alone.

7 Thy breasts are likechocolate ice cream cones
melting on the Turnpike
in mid-July,

3 I was indeed struck by
the large gold cross ye
carried round your neck,showing ye in that light asa brother in spirit, eventhough I be a man of thecloth and ye be a lowly

8 Ye are indeed a supreme
c*unt, no false
advertisements, for there
is no blemish in thee.

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9 And then God gave us
up to uncleanness throughthe lusts of our own
hearts, and we diddishonor our bodies
between ourselves.

of that promise whilst I
absconded to the nearest
parish under the cover ofdark and shame.
15 And thus I haveremained indebted to ye,
my brother in spirit andpartner in the carnal, all ofthese years, even as I
forgot not my trespassing.

10 And we did serve thecreature more than theCreator, and that we didmore than once, nay, evenmore than thrice over.
11 And God gave us up
unto vile affections, for
Chocolate Thunder did
exchange the natural use
for that which goesagainst nature,

IV. Progress towards
maturity thanks to Alcoholics
Anonymous, 4:1-28
4 Yea, it is indeed possible
for those who have tastedof the heavenly gifts, andyet have fallen away, torenew them again unto
repentance.

12 If ye shall catch mydrift.
13 And after our lustorgans gave us a baptism
of delight, the harlot did
make me promise tofurther remunerate ye in
jewels or silver inexchange for working thatwhich is unseemly,

2 Although perhaps weare meant to cut to thebone ere the light ofredemption illuminates
the dark night of the soul.

14 But I found myself inthe throes of my reprobate
mind, and I did make light

3 And as surely as the
happy hour is long I did
hit rock bottom, for whilst
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wearing my priestly garb
I did proceed to retch allover the counter at The
Drawn & Quartered Pub(yea, bro, the one
downtown).

a mighty man arose fromthe barstool adjacent tomine and stoodeth there
like a fir tree, nay, like anangel, at my side.
7 He wipedeth the foul
fluids off my chin, and his
likewise, and suddenly
there came a sound fromabove like a mighty windand he saith to me, Lookit
here, ye ignorantsonofabitch. I cannot
promise to fix ye, but I
shall help ye be moreloving of yourself. I
cannot grow for ye, but I
shall help ye know a new
freedom.

4 Oh, the depths of mydepravity knoweth nobounds! And I looked
round me and saw thescorning faces, andthought, why dost thoujudge thy brother? Why
dost though set at nought
thy brother?
5 Brethren, do ye not see,an orphan I was and aplaything for my earthly
fathers, and father figures
likewise, and my heart
was broken long ere I wasto attain the stature of aman. Do ye not see that I
groan within myself,
waiting for theredemption of my body?
Do ye not see that myheart’s desire is that I
might be saved?

8 Verily, verily, it
appeared unto me likecloven tongues as of fire,and I fell to the damp
floor and asked “Who art
thou, Man?”
9 And the Man saith, I am
what I shall be unto ye. In
the name of Alcoholics
Anonymous I hereby
grant ye sponsorship.

6 Verily, soon as thethought entered my mind
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10 And I, trembling andastounded, said, “Sponsor,
what wilt thou have me to
do now?” And He saith
unto me, Before the Moonis full in the sky ye shallsee me again. And I shalltake ye with me then andit shall be told thee what
thou must to do.

organs, and he laid hishands on me that I might
receive back my hearing,and saith to me, Arise andcleanse yourself, ye filthy
lout. The AA gang awaitsye.
15 And as I stood bereft ofa cutting rejoinder, theSpirit made me go with
Him, nothing doubting.

11 And all the drunks andsundry derelicts at The
Drawn & Quartered stoodthere speechless, seeing
the Man but hearing novoice.

16 Thus began myinstruction, and I took fast
hold of her and kept her,for she is my life.
17 Day upon day and step
upon step I toil on thisroad, wishing my heart
not to fail for fear, and forlooking after those vile
things which are comeupon the earth, but lifting
my head up to see
redemption draweth nigh.

12 And for seven days
afterward I did lose thefunction of mine ears, as
all I could hear was likethe swarming of bees. And
neither did I eat nor drink
any spirits, bro.
13 That I haverecollection of.

18 And Sponsor’s wise
words carry me through.
“Keep coming back,” Hesaith unto me, “It works if
you work it.” And that I
do, one day at a time, even

14 And on the seventh day
Sponsor found me curled
up naked like a babe onto
the floor of the clergy
house, clutching my lust
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as I may bleed out for
Him.

corruption of c*unt
through lust.

19 And it hath come topass that a year later I
find myself at the ninth
step, whereby I am tomake amends to people I
have brought harm to. All
but ye I have not beenable to reach, for they, as
I, are surely keen on
covering the shame, so
rejoice in receiving thisgift of atonement in thename of all whom I have
injured.

22 For was it not writtenthat if one of thy members
offend thee, ye should castit from thee, lest thy
whole body should be castinto hell? Verily, I havemade myself eunuch forthe kingdom of heaven’s
sake.
23 Even as I writhe inpain I feel the infection
spreading through mybody yet I am at peacewith my soul and only
wish I had made use of a
sharper instrument. Be
that as it may, I do hopethat by the graciousnessof yer heart ye mightpresent the family jewels,
haha, to Chocolate
Thunder for safekeeping
and eternal reminder thatsalvation is always at
hand.

20 I shall not ask ye forforgiveness, though if
forgiveness is granted me,
I shall be pleased andgrateful.
21 I only ask that ye
accept this jar that yeshall find inside thepackage along with thisepistle, and which requires
no explanation other than,yea, it doth indeed containmy lust organs, now
forever separated from the

24 Indeed I do now hear
the ambulance sirens
drawing near, or is it justthe bells ringing the end
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Volume 1, Issue 2of the world, as the wholecreation groaneth andtravaileth in pain together
with God’s children.

knowing the whole story?
Ye may think ye
understand, but ye don’t.
May the grace of our Lord
and Sponsor be with ye,
bro. Amen.

Benediction
25 Whilst ye receive thistithe of fleshly mint, I
pray ye not omit theweightier matters of thelaw, mercy and faith.
26 And should ye feel acry for help arise within
ye I shall not be far away
to lend a hand, nor would
I face ye in judgment.
27 I shall now leave yewith this piece of wisdom,as the infection spreads
within my body and yetcleanses my soul, in
knowledge that I shallescape the bondage ofcorruption that is in theworld through c*unt andc*untiness likewise.
28 As Sponsor saith, Who
art thou that judgest
another person without
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Special Dual Language Presentation
The Doll
Piero Schiavo-Campo
Translated from Italian by Sarah Jane WebbOn March 9, 1902 Alma Schindler married the musician Gustav
Mahler. From then on, she was known as Alma Mahler. What do weknow about her? Everything and nothing. History informs us of thecountless lovers and affairs that made her the most intriguing andtalked-about woman of the twentieth century, eclipsing her artistic
production. The daughter of a painter, from a tender age she mixed in
the intellectual circles of Vienna and became acquainted with theirforemost representatives. She was still very young when she met andhad a love affair with the artist Gustav Klimt, and possibly others(Max Burckhard? Alexander von Zemlinsky?), but at twenty-three she
decided to settle down and marry the famous conductor, twenty years
her senior. Alma loved music. She wrote some Lieder and sang one toher husband, accompanying herself on the piano. Mahler listened
attentively, then, without saying a word, he got up from the sofa andretreated to his studio. What estranged the couple, though, wasn’t
Mahler’s indifference towards his wife’s artistic efforts, but the deathof their first daughter, Maria Anna, who contracted diphtheria at theage of five. It was then that Alma, devastated, realized what her fatewould be: to love madly, and to lose her beloved–along with the fruitof their intimacy.
First, she fell in love with Walter Gropius, the future founder of
Bauhaus, the school that would boast Paul Klee and Wassily
Kandinsky among its teachers. Alma couldn’t help putting her wholeheart into everything she did: she would have died, rather than lead a
mediocre existence, and secret encounters she would have viewed ascheap. That’s how Mahler learned what was happening to his wife: shetold him forthrightly, except for the most intimate details.
The Maestro tried to restore their relationship–he even consulted
Sigmund Freud, in the hope that the eminent psychologist would give
him some advice–but refused to divorce his wife. He hadn’t long to45

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live: he was in New York when he fell ill, in 1911; he returned toVienna, but died that same year. In 1915, Alma married Gropius; thetwo separated in 1920, when Alma discovered that she was pregnant
by the poet Franz Werfel, whom she married a few years later.
Between Mahler’s death and her wedding to Gropius, Alma Mahler
had a tormented affair with an intemperate genius, the expressionist
artist Oskar Kokoschka. It was Klimt, one of his teachers, who
introduced Kokoschka to the general public in 1908, but the young
painter’s art didn’t appeal to everyone. It was hard, strong, clumsy, fullof contrast–almost as if Kokoschka were determined to depict his
troubled soul, rather than reality; or as if reality itself were nothingother than the sheer projection of Kokoschka’s mind: in short, of his
folly. Alma Mahler fell in love with him, but realized that they would
never form a stable relationship. Insufferably possessive, he demanded
to see her at all hours, to spend all his time with her. He surrounded
her with care and attention, lavished praise on her paintings; yet Alma
was well aware that, in their rapport, she was nothing but a piece of
Kokoschka’s soul. After two years of passion and strife, Alma Mahler
decided to leave her lover.
Kokoschka was devastated. He’d let Alma inside. Kokoschka hadn’t
given her his heart, as the average bourgeois would have done. No:
Alma was a part of his own soul that had suddenly become independentand had decided to walk out on him. It was as if carmine andultramarine blue refused to be brushed onto the white canvas that hestretched across wooden frames with wide-jaw pliers. He had neverintended to restrict the freedom of his beloved: Alma had every rightto do what she wanted with her life. Yet he needed her presence, justas his paintings needed carmine and ultramarine blue to come alive.
He went to the most famous milliner in Vienna, Hermine Moos, who
also crafted rag dolls, and ordered a life-size doll whose features hedesigned himself. She had Alma’s expression and round face; hersensuous lips, curled into a perennial smile; her high, generous bosom;
her large thighs (which she had no reason to be ashamed of). Her long
black hair fell softly to the shoulders, and her skin was warm and soft:
Moos had used the best plush fabric on the market, and its flesh color
had been obtained with a dye created by Kokoschka in person. When46

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the doll-maker finally delivered her, the artist was enthusiastic. He
placed her on the large red armchair in his studio, and gazed at her at
length with loving eyes.
“You’re beautiful! But we can’t have you sitting there all naked likethat. Wait, I’ll go and get you some clothes and underwear. Don’t
move, my love, I’ll be right back!”
Kokoschka had no idea about sizes. The haberdasher on the corner of
Banhofstrasse made some suggestions, and he returned with a pillowcase in which he’d crammed two pairs of underpants (a change would
be useful, he thought); a corset; a pleated skirt, very similar to one
Alma had worn; a lace blouse; and even a large hat with an ostrichfeather. He dressed her, scrutinized her. Everything was fine, except
for the hat.
“We often talked about it, remember? I always said that you’d lookeven prettier in a fashionable hat, but I didn’t want to force you to do
anything against your will.”
He removed the hat and threw it into the fireplace.
“And now, sweet lover of mine, we can resume our strolls on the Ring.”
He picked her up by the waist, dragged her down the stairs and into
the street.
“Look, darling, a motorcar! That’s the third I’ve seen, this month.
They’re manufactured by Herr Ferdinand Porsche, the greatest
engineer ever born in Austria. He’s one of my fans, you know? I’ve
sold him two paintings, and he seems to want a third one. When I get
paid, we’ll buy a bottle of champagne from Felix Strauss and drink it
together.”During their long stroll on the Ring, they came across a couple ofKokoschka’s acquaintances and nodded politely. As usual, people
stared, mesmerized by Alma’s beauty. Not until their elongatedshadows projected themselves onto the trunks of the plane trees did
the two go home. There they ate, then lay on the perennially-unmade
bed until they fell asleep, exhausted.

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In the following days, Kokoschka resumed the life he’d always led, or
perhaps the one he’d always dreamed of, together with his darling
Alma Mahler. He took her with him wherever he went: to the park, tocoffee shops, to the store where he bought paints and brushes. Alma’s
presence gave his strength, inspiration. He went back to painting
every day, which he hadn’t done since she’d entered his life. One month
later, however, he started to feel that something was amiss. Sitting ona stool, in his studio redolent of oil paint, he gazed at his beloved
reclining in the red armchair.
“Why do you sit like that in the shade? You look like a ragbag... Why
won’t you talk to me? Are you feeling depressed? I know how it feels,
I get like that, too: every time I finish a painting, my soul feels drained.
But believe me, you need to use your willpower and overcome this
torpor. When steeped in darkness, the worst thing you can do is curse
the light.”
He observed her silently. Where were her laughter, her smart
comments, her sense of humor? Where was her eagerness? He realizedthat what he loved in Alma Mahler was, in fact, her passion, her
hunger for a fast-paced existence. He would have loved it if she’dsqueezed his hand, or suggested they danced together, in the middleof his studio, without accompanying music, surrounded by easels andwith all his paintings propped up against the walls. He drew nearer,
started to undress her. When she was completely naked, he carried her
to his bed and lay down beside her.
“Why don’t you embrace me? Why don’t you hold me tight? You don’t
seem to like me any more...”The next day he showed up with Alma at the front door of theimposing house of Herr Porsche, in Mozartgasse. The famous
engineer and captain of industry had sent him a note the day before,
and Kokoschka was keen for such a wealthy man to become a collectorof his art. Under his right arm, wrapped in brown paper and tied withstring, he carried the painting that he intended to sell to him. As usual,
his left arm was wrapped around Alma’s waist. He rang the doorbell.
Shortly after, Porsche’s butler appeared.
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Volume 1, Issue 2“I’m Oskar Kokoschka, and this is Alma Mahler. Would you announceus, please? Herr Porsche is waiting for us.”The servant nodded and opened the door wide to let them through. He
showed them into a sitting room furnished in the fashion of theprevious century: satin-covered armchairs; gilded stucco work;
exquisite china on burl-wood furniture. The walls were covered inpaintings, among which Kokoschka recognized the two that Porsche
had bought from him. They hung alongside a couple of works by
Klimt, and a self-portrait by Egon Schiele, a young man he didn’t see
much: Kokoschka considered him extremely talented, but as mad as ahatter. On a table in the center of the room, the master of the house
had placed a glass case containing a model car.
“Were you admiring my model, Herr Kokoschka? It hasn’t been
manufactured yet, but I hope it will be. An inexpensive car thateveryone can afford. When I manage to produce it, I’ll call it‘Volkswagen.’ What do you think of that? But do sit down, please. A
glass of liqueur?”
Porsche wore an elegant double-breasted gray suit. He was wellgroomed, clean-shaven, his moustache seemingly trimmed to size with
precision instruments. As he entered, the air was stirred by a subtle
drift of Cologne. He gazed at the artist with his slanted eyes. For somereason, to Kokoschka they looked like the eyes of an engineer: Herr
Porsche could have had no other occupation, and those eyes–hethought–showed a sort of predestination to excel in mechanics.
“Thank you. I’ve brought the painting. Just like you wanted it: twolovers in the countryside, with a white cat nearby...”Porsche continued to observe Kokoschka’s eyes: restless, andseemingly incapable of focusing steadily on anything.
“But I asked you to bring me the Bride of the Wind, remember? WhenI came to your studio, I was deeply impressed with that painting. The
two lovers, recumbent between crumpled sheets, unexpectedly
morphing into desolate valleys and mountains bathed in nightlight...”“I do remember, Herr Porsche,” interjected Kokoschka, “but I can’t
part with that work. You see, Sir, in that painting I portrayed my49

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darling Alma as she appeared to my intricate soul at the happiest timeof my life. She wasn’t merely beautiful: there was a fire in her, and aperfect candor that turned into voluptuousness, into endless desire;
until, sated and spent, she would drift off in a dream that she alone
could understand. This is what I retain, in the depth of my yearnings.
But now... Look at the state she’s in. You see? She’s so detached,nothing concerns her anymore. It’s as if she were permanently at thewindow, pining for another man. I shower her with attention, but she
ignores me. She doesn’t even move!”
Porsche turned his engineer eyes towards the doll. Having slipped
halfway off the seat of the smooth satin sofa, she was almost kneelingon the floor. Her long skirt had climbed up to reveal hefty thighs, but
this didn’t seem to bother her. Slowly, Porsche returned his gaze tothe painter.
“If I succeeded in making her move, would you give me the Bride of the
Wind?”
Kokoschka stared at him goggle-eyed. His lips parted. If anyone in theworld could accomplish such a feat, it was Porsche.
The whole of the following month, the painter stationed himself in oneof the automobile manufacturer’s workshops, remaining in close
proximity with the mechanical engineers in charge of the operation. He
was anxious, of course. Such complex surgery had never been
attempted before. Porsche himself had designed the skeleton of lightbut sturdy aluminum to be installed in Alma’s body. The bones were
held together by universal joints and moved by string tendons.
Though the muscles couldn’t be recreated, Porsche had invented aningenious system of reinforced balloons: once inflated withcompressed air, they would move her limbs, head, torso, hips.
Naturally, an energy source was needed. The eminent engineer
devised, for Alma Mahler, several small two-stroke engines, gasolinepowered and extremely quiet. There was the problem of how to supply
these systems with fuel. In the end, they decided that the liquid shouldpass through Alma’s mouth. This would enable the couple to enjoy adrink together: champagne for him and, for her, the fuel blend she
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needed for her movements. She was fitted with an artificial esophagus,
and the engines were attached to the corresponding joints. When theskeleton was ready, Alma was sawed in half length-wise. Overcome
with fear of losing her forever, Kokoschka refused to attend in person.
He left the workshop, retreating to the small entrance hall. There, on
the wooden table, someone had left the previous day’s newspaper. The
painter started to leaf through it, hoping for distraction. Tides of war.
Once again, European powers are arming themselves, ready to send
off hundreds of thousands of peasants disguised as soldiers tobattlefields that no-one cares about. History is here and gone and we’re
its witnesses, dragged along by a river of which we don’t know theorigin – or the destination. We should be content with bar chatter;with evenings out at theaters full of bright lights and bejeweled
women; with the love of our sweethearts, their black hair fanning out
on the pillow. There is absolutely no sense in this world, and looking
for it at all costs is the only real sin that human beings can commit.
Over two hours went by before the radiant technicians came to fetch
him and showed him into the workshop. Before Kokoschka’s eyes
appeared Alma Mahler, seated on the counter. There were still woodchips and sawdust all around, testifying that the surgery she had
undergone had been radical. As he entered the room, he saw her get
off the counter and walk towards him on her own, with no-one tosupport her. He burst into tears.
Kokoschka decided to wait a few days before resuming their strolls on
the Ring. He thought his loved one should have a little time to recoverfrom her dreadful operation, though she didn’t appear to be suffering.
Herr Porsche had devised a special mechanism–a wooden tablet withbrass buttons–to control her movements. Depending on the
combination of buttons, Alma got up, sat down, walked forward,
moved her arms, and so on. At first, Kokoschka was a little
disappointed with her movements. They were slow, mechanical. In
order to walk, his darling Alma had to lift a thigh, then bend her leg
forward, push her limb and straighten it until the heel touched theground, and only then advance with her torso. By pressing on the rightkeys, she turned her head: the joint enabled her to rotate it at any
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angle, and even to complete several turns. The painter had to use thesystem carefully, to make sure the result didn’t look unnatural.
Eventually he would get used to the situation, he told himself. Alma
Mahler was like someone who had been in a serious accident: because
he loved her, he would take care of her; he would arrange for her tohave everything she needed, and make sure that her awkward
movements wouldn’t be derided by the gossips of Vienna. Every ten
days, he got her to drink the mineral oil recommended by themechanics. He never left her alone. Every evening he helped her
undress, and every morning to put her clothes back on. Having
realized that the necessary movements were beyond his lover’s
capabilities, he didn’t want this inability to make her feel embarrassed–
different, so to speak. One evening he observed her at length, in thesemi-darkness of his large studio lit by a single incandescent lightbulb. She sat straight, immobile. Of course, until he used the tablet,
she couldn’t move.
Suddenly he felt sad: for her, first and foremost, but also for himself.
Was this the result he’d planned to obtain? As a painter, Kokoschka
was a perfectionist. Despite their apparent instinctiveness, his pictures
always aimed at an objective, at an innermost principle that mustn’t bebetrayed: when he felt that he hadn’t managed to express satisfactorily
what he’d had in mind, Kokoschka would destroy his painting without
mercy. As he observed Alma that night, he realized that she looked
like a botched painting. Her face smiled at him. It smiled all the time:
there was no way to make it not smile. True, she moved, but only when
he made her do so; and even if she did move, there was no trace of thedazzling light and deep shadows that he once perceived in her gaze.
He got to his feet and started to walk up and down his studio, his arms
behind his back and his head bowed. He followed a row of blue tiles,
making sure his steps never touched the white ones. With all his
mechanical skill–he reflected–Porsche would not be able to give his
adored Alma a soul. The engineer had done all he could, but in orderto move forward he needed someone else, an expert in that innerelement that distinguishes us from metal skeletons, plush covers, andtwo-stroke engines.

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Doctor Landauer.
No one else could help him. The artist knew him well: he was anothercollector. He had sold him a self-portrait in which the face was all
patches of green and blue. Landauer had graduated in mechanicalengineering in ’99, only to discover that his true calling was medicine.
As a doctor, he was a pupil of the famous Maximow, who in 1908
announced the discovery of stem cells. Landauer then pursued his own
research on stem cells in a direction that Maximow, and German
medical circles at large, considered less than ethical; he was evenobliged to flee from Berlin, taking refuge in Vienna, where his namewas only ever mentioned in whispers. One evening, while they sat in abar having a beer, Landauer had told him something of the results of
his work: self-replicating organs, tissue that regenerated itself... The
doctor maintained that life could be manipulated, just like anythingelse, though his opinion had come up against the moral prejudices ofthe majority of his colleagues.
Landauer lived in Dunkel Strasse, a side street of Hütteldorfer Strasse
not far from the Schmelz. The painter rented a town carriage, but onhearing their destination the coachman told Kokoschka that he had nointention of taking him and his companion that far: he would leavethem at Hütteldorfer, one block away. When the two got off, the street
was deserted. A thin fog enveloped the buildings, creating mysterious
pools of shadow all around. The wistful sound of a Barbary barrelorgan reached Kokoschka from a distance. The painter and his beloved
slowly covered the short stretch that separated them from a noble but
run-down building that towered massively in a narrow lane, stifling it.
Kokoschka rang the doorbell and stood waiting. It was a while before
an old man with strong features and dark rings under his eyes decided
to unlatch the front door.
“I’m Kokoschka, the painter, and this is Frau Alma Mahler. Pleaseannounce us. I know I wasn’t invited, but it’s a matter of great
importance, and I hope that an enlightened man like Doctor Landauer
will forgive the inconvenience of our unexpected arrival.
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Without saying a word, the servant closed the door on them.
Kokoschka and Alma were obliged to wait several more minutes before
the heavy door opened again, and the old man let them in. They foundthemselves in a hallway. The ceiling had stucco decorations in highrelief and walls painted with zigzag motifs in strongly contrastingcolors. In the middle of the room stood a man of medium height, whoseround spectacles flashed in a sinister manner at the flickering light ofthe candelabra held up by the servant. Landauer was smiling.
“Herr Kokoschka! This is such an honor: your visit pleases me
immensely! Do come in and make yourselves comfortable.
He showed them into a large studio that opened directly onto thehallway, and invited them to sit on a sofa with a diagonal-stripe cover.
Kokoschka, who was tense, sat bolt upright. Alma smiled.
“Tell me, Herr Kokoschka: to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?
While the artist explained the situation, his haunted, watery eyes
couldn’t help but reveal his misery. He described the operation carriedout by the Porsche technicians, and told him all about the engines andpumping mechanism that enabled Frau Mahler to move. Landauer
listened attentively, interrupting occasionally to ask for further
details, and didn’t express an opinion until Kokoschka had finished.
“This is a difficult case. You did well to come to me: I believe that yourunexpected visit will pave the way to an interesting experiment.
Ordinary people believe that we are animated by a vital spirit,something that goes beyond matter: a mysterious res cogitans overwhich man has no power. But we scientists know that this is not thecase. The secret of our soul lies in our nerves, which intertwine along
the limbs and inside the inner cavities of our body to form the brain–
the real seat of thinking. And this is the point: your loved one doesn’t
have a brain.
“Wouldn’t it be possible to get hold of one for her? I beg you, Doctor,
I’d do anything to have her back for real…”“If you’re thinking of implanting a brain–purloined, so to speak, fromanother man (or perhaps I should say from another woman)–I musttell you immediately that this wouldn’t work. First of all, the resulting54

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individual wouldn’t have Alma Mahler’s personality, but that of theperson who originally owned the implanted organ. In any case, basedon current medical knowledge, this sort of operation would neversucceed.
“The brain requires a constant supply of oxygen, which is delivered by
the blood flowing in the arteries. If deprived of oxygen, the brain dies
within minutes. The cardiovascular system and lungs would have tobe recreated... For the moment, science is unable to transfer all thesethings from one living body to another. However, there may be asolution... Let me think this over.”While the doctor was engrossed in cogitation, Kokoschka, on edge, didnothing but stare fixedly at him.
“Yes, I have it! Come with me to my lab,” exclaimed Landauer.
Kokoschka rose abruptly from the sofa, his features drawn, his eyes
haunted. He operated the tablet so that Alma, too, got to her feet, andtogether they followed the doctor up a flight of marble steps. Even thestaircase had been painted with a zig-zag motif. For a moment,
Kokoschka feared that the strange decoration might have a confusing
effect on his beloved and cause her to trip; then he realized that it was
he who risked falling over: Alma was climbing the stairs with slow,
steady steps. While he ascended ahead of them, Landauer glanced
briefly over his shoulder.
“You must be asking yourselves the reason for these geometricalmotifs… This house used to be inhabited by Doctor Caligari... thedirector of the mental hospital, you know? He decided to decorate hishome in a style in keeping with his occupation. At first, the effect is
disconcerting, but one grows used to it. Just think: one day, the famous
film director, Fritz Lang, came to visit me. He would have liked to use
my home as a film setting, but I refused, of course. Anyway, I can’t
afford to redecorate the place.
They reached the landing of the first floor, and the doctor showed
them into a room entirely painted black. The central light barely
illuminated the long shelves, with their array of large glass jars
containing biological specimens: lizards, mice, but also human hands
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and feet, preserved in formalin to prevent decomposition. There wasan enormous wooden table in the middle of the room, clear except fora tray of surgical instruments immersed in a bluish solution.
“This is my lab, Herr Kokoschka. As you can see, it doesn’t look like ahospital; since I expounded my ideas to the hematologists congress inBerlin, I’ve been obliged to operate with great economy of means. I’ve
been attacked all round: they said I wanted to subvert the work of God;
that life and the nature of organisms depend exclusively on the will of
the Lord; and that science shouldn’t meddle with such things. But I’ve
told you before, I think... Getting back to us, my idea is to put stem
cells to work in order to generate the living tissues that Frau Mahler
needs, particularly the nervous system, whose main part is the brain.
Obviously, this is far from easy: as I was saying, the brain needs aconstant supply of oxygen. Ideally, the stem cells should be guided insuch a way that they equip her with lungs, but perhaps these can be
replaced with the bellows that drive air into her muscles. In any case,it won’t be possible to deliver oxygen to her brain cells without using
blood, so we’ll need a heart and a network of blood vessels.”“Are you saying that, with your stem cells, you can reconstruct anentire human body?”“I believe I can. I discovered there are different types of stem cells:
some develop in a manner that can only result in the production ofcertain types of organs, such as the liver or lungs; but others are likechild-cells: they have no schooling in life as yet, so they can evolve inany direction. In all these years, I’ve done nothing but study how tomake them grow, ‘programming’ them, if I may call it that, for the
purpose of producing certain tissues, exactly where they are needed.”“That’s fantastic, Sir. But I still don’t understand: if you grow a brain
inside Alma’s head, how can you be sure to reproduce Alma’s mind,
and not someone else’s?”“That’s the whole point. You see, Herr Kokoschka, I’m convinced that
our cells contain a sort of code: something capable of lending each oneof us our specific individuality. Unfortunately I can’t prove it yet, but
I’ve conducted a number of experiments, and they all seem to support
this assertion. Besides, this is the only explanation for Mendel’s
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observations and for the Laws of Heredity that he set out. In order toreproduce your loved one correctly, I will need tissues that were partof her body. Any fragment that is sure to have come from her person
will do: a flake of skin, a fingernail clipping, even a hair.
An image flashed through the painter’s mind: the bed in his studio that
was always unmade. He had slept in it with Alma Mahler. It waspossible that a hair or two of his beloved had remained on her pillow.
He must run home and check.
“I think I can get you what you need.”
Retrieving a sample of Alma’s hair from her pillow on their bed in his
studio was not a problem for Kokoschka. Her hair was long and black:so different from his own, which was short and blond! Kokoschka
easily recognized one and rushed back to the house in Dunkel Strasse,
where the experiment was started.
In the following days, the doctor and the artist silently observed theevolution of the new Alma Mahler, a miracle of life created by thescience of Man. She lay on the bed prepared by Landauer in the blackpainted lab. The scientist’s scalpel had dissected her along preciselines, uncovering the metal skeleton created by the Porsche engineers,
and the two-stroke engines that enabled her to move. Landauer
illustrated his project to Kokoschka in a whisper, to avoid disrupting
the almost mystical silence of the place.
“You see? These mechanisms transfer the motor-generated
movements to Frau Mahler’s limbs and to the other parts of her body.
As you can see, they’re hydraulically-operated systems; but what weneed is nervous signals, which are of an electrical nature. Fortunately,
Nikola Tesla recently patented a device that’s just right for our
purposes. We’ll arrange for nervous signals to replace thosetransmitted by the tablet.”“With a patent, doesn’t one have to pay to make use of it?”57

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Volume 1, Issue 2“We’ll deal with that later. I’m well-acquainted with Tesla, and I knowthat he puts science before mercenary interests.”
The liquid with the stem cells was placed inside rubber sacs attachedin various points to the metal bones. As the days went by, biologicaltissues started to develop and to grow, forming throbbing rosycolored structures. Landauer was in ecstasy.
“Veins are forming here.” The doctor indicated a point in Alma’s open
torso. “If you look carefully, you can see that blood is alreadycirculating in them. And the glottis is forming here.”
The doctor pointed to Alma’s throat. Kokoschka was filled with both
admiration and concern. On the one hand, he admired the power ofscience, the fantastic quest for knowledge that mankind had embarked
on the previous century, and that was already yielding such incredible
results. God died and was reborn in us, in his creatures. On the other
hand, he was concerned that mankind didn’t really know where theirquest might lead. Would Alma really recover her thinking processes;
and along with those, the ability to love him?
“What can you tell me about her brain?”“We can’t admire that. It’s forming inside her skull, of course.”“At the end of all this, will she really be Alma Mahler? I mean: howwill she remember things, the time we spent together, our walks on
the Ring, our nights full of passion?”“Naturally, she won’t remember anything. Thanks to the life codes
contained in the hair that you brought me, she will be Alma Mahler toall effects, but as if she were reborn, and ready to start a new life.”“Will she still be in love with me?”Landauer smiled.
“That doesn’t depend on what we’re doing here, but if you managed tomake her fall in love once, I reckon you should be able to do so again.”58

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Over the next few weeks, the tissues created by Landauer’s stem cells
continued to grow. One day, the two men noticed that one of Alma’s
arms had started to tremble, as if she were trying–unsuccessfully–tomove it. Hours later, the trembling had reached the other arm, thenher legs, and finally her torso, until her whole body was moving
convulsively. She was arching her back, shaking her head, fisting herplush hands in mid-air, as if trying to grab something, then distending
them in violent spasms. Suddenly she started to emit a prolonged
whimper, like the subdued cry of a wounded animal.
“It’s time to stitch up her body. No point in trying to monitor the cells’
growth any further: we’ll soon find out if the experiment has worked.
I’ll have to tie her to the bed...”With knitted brows, Landauer started to prepare the surgical needles
and dozens of yards of suture needed for the operation. To Kokoschka,
those needles didn’t look so different from those used by the dollmaker,
Hermine Moos, but of course he didn’t know much about surgery.
“Will she survive?”
The doctor glanced at him through his round spectacles and frowned.
“Let’s hope so.”Ten days later, Kokoschka and Alma Mahler left the house in Dunkel
Strasse. Alma was able to walk now, with the aid of a stick. According
to Landauer, exercise would improve her mobility; she should be
encouraged to talk, to move. She shouldn’t be kept at home–he hadrecommended–but taken out and about, to enable her young mind to
make the sort of progress that both men expected. The doctor’s
instructions had been extremely detailed. The biological tissues withwhich Alma was endowed had to be nourished, and gasoline was nolonger enough: Landauer explained to Kokoschka how to prepare thesugar-and-salts solution that she needed. In order to enable Frau
Mahler to assimilate it, she had been fitted with a modestly-sizedstomach and bowel. Kokoschka was to give her the solution once a day,using the tablet’s commands to prevent the liquid from ending up in
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operation still requiring the use of that rudimentary control device.
Kokoschka was delighted that he had thought of Landauer. It was only
because the doctor mastered both engineering and medical skills that
he was able to accomplish such a miracle.
“Let’s take a carriage, my love. True, you need exercise, but I wouldn’t
like you to get worn out.”“Ahhhaaghaaaa,” replied Alma.
“You must learn to control your tone of voice, my darling. There’s noneed to talk so loudly: it’s not done, you know.”“Gheeegaaaahooo.”“Of course, my love, I agree. Let’s go home now, so you can lie down
a little. You won’t have to do anything, I’ll get dinner ready. Would
you like some boiled potatoes? We could dress them with thehorseradish sauce prepared by Frau Shoenberg, our neighbor...”“Ghu.”
Those were days of ecstasy and forgiveness. Kokoschka had to admitthat he had hated Alma when she left him, but as they lay side by sideon the bed in his dimly-lit studio, their old conflicts melted away likeghosts in the light of a new morning. As Doctor Landauer had
predicted, Alma had reawakened to life. She was still the old Alma, andyet she was like a child, eager to learn about the world, and always fullof wonder. On the second day, taking advantage of a moment in which
the artist had gone out to buy milk and eggs, she got hold of a paintbrush and filled a canvas with irregular marks. The picture was still
unfinished and Kokoschka, to begin with, was annoyed. But then helooked at her, and his heart filled with tenderness.
“Pure abstract art. Is this what you aim for now? The value of gesture?
That irregular trail of carmine across the canvas … I see you squeezed
the whole tube out… Never mind: you obviously wanted to lend
substance to your stroke; you needed a tactile structure to strengthen
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Volume 1, Issue 2“Gheeee,” replied Alma, with the eternal smile that not even Landauer
had managed to wipe from her face.
The weeks went by. Kokoschka was happy to have his lover back, yetaware of a budding anxiety which at first he couldn’t explain. He took
her with him to the usual places for their strolls; he had her sit next tohim, holding her large plush hand in his, feeling more and more clearly
that she was restless, as if she were looking for something that she
couldn’t find in her everyday life. That was Alma Mahler: nothing
could be done about it; yet he was afraid of losing her. One day, on the
Ring, they met the painter Egon Schiele, with his wild hair and usual
crazy look in his eyes. Kokoschka greeted him with a nod. After all,their relationship was entirely formal: though both were considered
expressionists, Schiele and Kokoschka interpreted the artistic spirit of
their times in opposite manner. Kokoschka detested the obsession withnudity that emerged from his colleague’s work: he found it lacked
those inner whirlwinds of emotion that inspired him, particularly
when making love at night. He bowed his head respectfully, and in thatmoment registered that Alma had fixed her smiling eyes on Schiele’s
lunatic features. Schiele smiled back, and Kokoschka couldn’t help but
notice something sly in his expression. Were they acquainted? Of
course, they must be! Alma Mahler knew all the intellectuals in
Vienna–many of them intimately. Had she slept with him? She nevermentioned her love affairs, not even the notorious ones that the whole
city gossiped about in outraged whispers. Klimt, Mahler, Gropius...
why not Egon Schiele? He felt a wild rage well up inside. Suddenly,
the reasons for his anxiety were clear to him. Of course: as time wentby, she learned more and more; as her awareness of the world
deepened, she became increasingly independent from him. She wasmore and more herself, Alma Mahler, the one he loved because no man
would ever be able to claim her as his own. This drove him mad.
Perhaps, he told himself, it was the inevitable price to pay for giving
her arms and legs, engines to make her move, nerves and muscles, so
he could make love to her on the bed in his studio. He gave Schiele acurt parting nod, grasped his beloved by the waist, and literally pushed
her away and along the crowded street.
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Reclining on the bed, he observed the light that the lamp post in thestreet projected, forming patterns on the ceiling. She slept alongsidehim, immobile. What is it, inside us, that makes us constantly
unhappy? What are we looking for, in this moment of awareness that
we call life? Why can’t we give ourselves over to simple everyday
pleasures? He thought about the light dinner he’d had; about her face,
as she delicately sipped gasoline from a ceramic mug. He thought
about Egon Schiele, and the mere idea that she might be attracted tohim rekindled the fury that he’d felt that afternoon. His eyes roamed
restlessly, pausing occasionally on the shadow of an object. An ashtray.
The vase in which he kept his paintbrushes: in the half-light, it evoked
the silhouette of Egon Schiele’s head, his coarse hair standing up on
end. The easel in the middle of his studio looked like a giant warrior
with a triangular head. In the grip of anxiety, he couldn’t sleep. The
thought that his beloved could fancy another man while being at hisside nagged him relentlessly: he stared obsessively at his vase ofpaintbrushes, that grotesque head of Schiele which had somehow madeits way into his existence and now lurked in the shadows. In the end
he fell asleep; when he awoke, his studio was awash with the grayish
light of dawn. Alma was up. Seated on one of the rush chairs, she wasstaring fixedly at the street, as if that house were too cramped tocontain her spirit, and he a stranger who had chanced to end up in her
bed. Or was she thinking of a way to meet his rival? He got out of bed
quietly. She didn’t even nod a greeting. He dressed quickly, trying not
to look at her. Enabling her to have thoughts had been a mistake.
Before, at least, she had depended on him entirely and couldn’t have
tried to get away.
That evening, he took her out to dinner at Lambert’s, an inn run by aFrenchman in Pfullstrasse. The food was good, the patrons few, andthey wouldn’t be disturbed. A light rain veiled the night along the graystreets of Vienna. He held his umbrella over her so she wouldn’t get
wet. Lambert showed them into a small, private dining room.
“What shall I bring you? I have oysters, fresh from Trieste...”62

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Volume 1, Issue 2“Oysters will be fine, Monsieur Lambert.”“And the same for Madam?”“No, thanks. Only some gasoline for her, thank you.”
There was a long silence, while he concentrated on what he should say
to her. Alma stared straight ahead.
“Are you happy?” he asked her. For a moment, he thought he perceived
something strange in her gaze, like a soundless cry that her permanent
smile rendered even more harrowing.
“So you’re not happy? Why not? Talk to me, my love. Please explain.
I’d do anything to keep you satisfied.”“Ghaauuuu.”“So that’s how it is! I knew it. Can’t you be content with what we have:the moments when we hold each other tight, when we dream
together?”“Ahguuooohhhh.”“But why? What is it you miss? I bet you don’t even know. Go on,
admit it. That’s the way you are. That’s why I love you madly, andthat’s why you run away from me. You drive me out of my mind!
You’re looking for something without knowing what it is–somethingthat doesn’t exist. And now you’re thinking of Egon Schiele, aren’tyou?”“Guahhhooo.”“That’s not true. It’s my business too. I won’t let you go anywhere nearthat man. Did you know that he raped a young girl, when he was in
Neulengbach? He was sent to jail, then somehow managed to get
acquitted. He’s an evil creature...”“Ahggahaaa.”“Don’t interrupt. I know him. He’d make you unhappy.”“Ghu.”
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Kokoschka bowed his head. For a long moment he observed the deadoyster shells. Again, a wild rage was welling up inside him,
uncontainable, like the flurries that stirred the sheets in the Bride of theWind.
“So you want to leave me again? I won’t let you...”From the adjacent room came the indistinct drone of patrons intent inconversation. Someone, somewhere, was playing the piano: the notes
arrived muffled, as if absent-mindedly caressing their ears. Kokoschka
lifted the sharp knife that Monsieur Lambert had left on the table, andwith frenzied thrusts started to stab her. When he saw her immobile,
he grasped her by the waist and dragged her outside, in the inn’s
garden. He lay her on the damp grass, then stood and stared at her.
“You don’t deserve me. You never did deserve my love. You had
something special and you threw it away. Adieu. Forever.”From what I’ve heard, it was Monsieur Lambert himself who called
the police. He reported what he had seen, as well as what he had
imagined, and pointed out that Kokoschka hadn’t paid the bill. One ofthe policemen bent over what remained of Alma Mahler. There werelarge splashes of red on her chest.
“What are these stains, Fritz?”“I don’t know. Red wine, I imagine.”

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La bambola
Piero Schiavo-Campo
Il 9 marzo 1902 Alma Schindler sposò il musicista Gustav Mahler, eda quel momento divenne nota come Alma Mahler. Che cosa sappiamo
di lei? Tutto e niente. La storia ci racconta dei suoi infiniti amori,passioni e tradimenti che ne fecero la donna più interessante e
chiacchierata del ventesimo secolo, mettendone in ombra la
produzione artistica. Figlia di un pittore, fin da piccola frequentò
l’ambiente intellettuale di Vienna ed entrò in contatto con i suoi
massimi rappresentanti. Ancora giovanissima conobbe e amò il pittore
Gustav Klimt, e forse qualcun altro (Max Burckhard? Alexander von
Zemlinsky?), ma a ventitré anni decise di mettere la testa a posto
sposandosi con il famoso direttore d’orchestra, di vent’anni più grande
di lei. Alma amava la musica. Scrisse dei lieder, ne fece sentire uno al
marito cantando lei stessa, mentre si accompagnava con il pianoforte.
Mahler rimase ad ascoltarla attento, poi, senza dire una parola, si alzòdal divano e si ritirò nel suo studio. Quello che li allontanò davvero,
però, non fu l’indifferenza di Mahler nei confronti dell’attività artisticadella moglie, ma la morte della loro prima figlia Maria Anna, colpita
dalla difterite a cinque anni di età. Alma rimase sconvolta, e fu allora
che intuì quale sarebbe stato il suo destino: amare alla follia, e perdere
gli uomini amati insieme al frutto di quegli amori.
Cominciò innamorandosi di Walter Gropius, il futuro fondatore delBauhaus, la scuola che ebbe tra i suoi insegnanti Paul Klee e Wassily
Kandinsky. Alma non poteva vivere nulla se non con tutta se stessa;
avrebbe preferito morire, piuttosto che esistere nella mediocrità, e unrapporto clandestino le sarebbe apparso squallido; fu così che Mahler
venne a sapere dalla moglie stessa quello che le stava succedendo, tutto
tranne i dettagli intimi. Il Maestro cercò di ricucire il rapporto, andòperfino a parlare con Sigmund Freud nella speranza che il grandepsicologo gli desse qualche suggerimento, ma si rifiutò di divorziare
dalla moglie. Del resto, non gli restava molto da vivere: era a New
York quando si ammalò, nel 1911; fece ritorno a Vienna, ma morì nello
stesso anno. Nel 1915 Alma sposò Gropius; nel 1920 i due si65Sunspot rivista letteraria

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separarono perché lei era rimasta incinta del poeta Franz Werfel, con
cui si sposò qualche anno più tardi.
Tra la morte di Mahler e il matrimonio con Gropius, Alma Mahler
ebbe una relazione difficile e contrastata con un genio sregolato, il
pittore espressionista Oskar Kokoschka. Fu Klimt, uno dei suoi
insegnanti, che presentò Kokoschka al grande pubblico nel 1908, ma
l’arte del giovane pittore non piacque a tutti. Era dura, forte, sgraziata,
piena di contrasti. Sembrava quasi che Kokoschka volesse a tutti i costi
rappresentare la sua anima inquieta, anziché la realtà, o forse che larealtà stessa non fosse altro che una libera creazione della mente di
Kokoschka e quindi della sua follia. Alma Mahler se ne innamorò, ma
si rese conto che un rapporto stabile con lui sarebbe stato impossibile.
Era possessivo in modo insopportabile, pretendeva di vederla a tutte
le ore, di passare tutto il suo tempo con lei. La circondava di premure,si profondeva in lodi infinite nei confronti dei quadri dipinti da Alma,la quale però si rendeva conto che in quel rapporto lei stessa non aveva
altro ruolo se non essere un pezzo dell’anima di Kokoschka. Dopo dueanni di passione e di liti, Alma Mahler decise di lasciare il suo amante.
Kokoschka rimase sconvolto da quella decisione. Alma era dentro dilui. Kokoschka non le aveva dato il suo cuore, come avrebbe fatto unqualsiasi borghese. No, Alma era una parte del suo stesso spirito che
improvvisamente acquistava autonomia e decideva di andarsene. Era
come se il carminio o il blu oltremare si rifiutassero di farsi pennellare
sulle tele che lui tendeva, bianche, tirandole intorno ai telai di legno
con una pinza dalle ganasce larghe. Non che lui volesse limitare lalibera volontà della sua amata: Alma aveva tutto il diritto di scegliereche cosa fare della sua vita. Soltanto, lui aveva bisogno della sua
presenza come del carminio e del blu oltremare che prendevano vita
nei suoi quadri. Andò da Hermine Moos, che era la più famosa modista
di Vienna e fabbricava anche bambole di pezza, e le ordinò una bambola
in grandezza naturale, di cui lui stesso disegnò le fattezze. Aveva lo
sguardo di Alma, il viso rotondo come lei, le labbra sensuali atteggiatea un perenne sorriso, i seni alti, prorompenti, le cosce grosse (lei se nevergognava, ma non ne aveva motivo). I lunghi capelli neri lescendevano morbidi sulle spalle, e la sua pelle era calda e soffice: laMoos l’aveva realizzata con la migliore stoffa per peluche esistente sul
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mercato, intingendola poi in una vernice color carne preparata da
Kokoschka in persona. Quando finalmente la bambolaia gliela
consegnò, il pittore ne fu entusiasta. La appoggiò sulla grande poltronarossa nel suo studio, e rimase a fissarla con uno sguardo innamorato.
– Sei bellissima! Ma non puoi restare così, nuda. Aspettami, ti vado acomprare della biancheria e dei vestiti. Non ti muovere, amore mio,
torno subito!
Kokoschka non aveva idea delle misure. La merciaia all’angolo di
Banhofstrasse gli diede qualche suggerimento, e quando tornò aveva
con sé una federa in cui aveva stipato due paia di mutandine (un cambio
sarebbe stato necessario, pensava) un busto, una gonna a pieghe molto
simile a quella che le aveva visto addosso tante volte, una camicetta dipizzo e perfino un grande cappello con una piuma di struzzo. La vestì,la osservò. Andava tutto bene, tranne il cappello.
– Ne abbiamo discusso tante volte, ricordi? Ti ho sempre detto che uncappellino alla moda ti avrebbe resa ancora più graziosa, ma non voglio
obbligarti a fare nulla che non ti piaccia.
Prese il cappello e lo gettò nel camino.
– Adesso, mia dolcissima amante, possiamo tornare a passeggiare
insieme sul Ring, come abbiamo fatto tante volte.
La afferrò per la vita e la trascinò lungo le scale, poi nella strada.
– Guarda, mia adorata, un’automobile! È la terza che vedo in giro,
questo mese. Le fabbrica herr Ferdinand Porsche, il più grande
ingegnere che sia mai nato in Austria. Sai che è un mio ammiratore?
Gli ho venduto due quadri, e sembra che ne voglia un terzo. Quando
mi pagherà, compreremo una bottiglia di champagne da Felix Strausse ce la berremo insieme.
Fecero una lunga passeggiata lungo il Ring e incontrarono un paio diconoscenti di Kokoschka, a cui fecero dei cortesi cenni col capo. Ancheloro li osservarono, stupiti come sempre dalla bellezza di Alma.
Tornarono indietro solo quando le loro ombre furono così lunghe daproiettarsi sui tronchi dei platani. Allora mangiarono, poi si stesero su
quel letto che nessuno mai rifaceva, finché si addormentarono esausti.
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Nei giorni successivi Kokoschka riprese a fare la vita che aveva sempre
fatto, o forse sempre desiderato, insieme alla sua adorata Alma Mahler.
Dovunque andasse la portava con sé: ai giardini, nei caffè, nel negozio
in cui comprava pennelli e colori. La presenza di Alma gli dava forza,
lo ispirava. Tornò a dipingere tutti i giorni, cosa che non aveva più
fatto da quando lei era entrata nella sua vita. Dopo un mese, tuttavia,
cominciò ad avvertire che nella sua esistenza mancava qualcosa.
Seduto su una seggiola, nello studio che profumava di colori a olio,fissò la sua amata appoggiata sulla poltrona rossa.
– Perché te ne stai immobile nell’ombra? Vista così sembri un mucchio
di stracci... Perché non mi parli? Sei depressa? Ti capisco, capita anchea me: ogni volta che finisco un quadro la mia anima si svuota. Però,credimi, devi scuoterti, uscire dal torpore con un atto di volontà.
Quando ti ritrovi immersa nella tenebra, la cosa più sciocca che puoi
fare è maledire la luce.
La osservò in silenzio. Dov’erano le sue risate, i suoi commenti acuti,la sua ironia? Dov’era finita la sua voglia di esserci? Si rendeva conto
che quello che amava in Alma Mahler era proprio la passione, ilbisogno di vivere la vita senza un attimo di tregua. Avrebbe voluto che
fosse lei a stringergli la mano, o magari a proporgli di ballare insiemesenza che ci fosse nessuna musica ad accompagnarli, in mezzo allo
studio, tra cavalletti e quadri accatastati alle pareti. Le si fece vicino.
Cominciò a spogliarla poi, quando fu completamente nuda, la portò sul
letto e si stese accanto a lei.
– Perché non mi abbracci? Perché non mi stringi a te? Sembra quasi
che io non ti piaccia più...
Il giorno dopo si presentò insieme ad Alma al portone della grandecasa di Mozartgasse dove abitava herr Porsche. Il famoso ingegnere ecapitano d’industria gli aveva fatto avere un biglietto, proprio il giorno
prima, e Kokoschka teneva molto all’idea che quell’uomo ricchissimo
diventasse suo collezionista. Sotto il braccio destro aveva il quadro che
intendeva vendergli, avvolto in carta da pacchi e legato con uno spago.
Il braccio sinistro gli serviva, come sempre, per reggere Alma intorno
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N. 2/2019alla vita. Suonò la campanella, e dopo pochi istanti sulla soglia apparveil maggiordomo di Porsche.
– Sono Oskar Kokoschka, e questa è la signora Alma Mahler. Voglia
annunciarci, per favore: l’ingegnere ci aspetta.
Il servitore fece un cenno col capo, poi spalancò la porta in modo dafarli passare. Li fece accomodare in un salotto arredato secondo lamoda del secolo precedente: poltrone foderate di raso, stucchi dorati,
porcellane di grande valore appoggiate su mobili di radica. Le pareti
erano piene di quadri, tra cui Kokoschka riconobbe i due che aveva già
venduto a Porsche. Erano accanto a un paio di lavori di Klimt, e a un
autoritratto di Egon Schiele, un giovane che lui frequentava poco:
aveva molto talento, non c’era dubbio, ma a giudizio di Kokoschka era
matto come un cavallo. Al centro della stanza c’era un tavolo di legno
su cui il padrone di casa aveva messo un modellino di automobile,
chiuso in una teca di vetro.
– Sta ammirando il mio modello, herr Kokoschka? Non è ancora stato
realizzato, ma spero che lo sarà. Una macchina che costa poco, quindi
alla portata di tutti. La chiamerò Volkswagen, quando riuscirò acostruirla. Che cosa ne pensa? Ma sedetevi, vi prego, non restate inpiedi. Posso offrirvi un liquore?
Porsche indossava un elegante doppio petto grigio. Era perfettamente
sbarbato, e i suoi baffi sembravano tagliati a misura, con strumenti diprecisione. Quando entrò si sparse nell’aria un sottile profumo di acquadi Colonia. Fissava il pittore con i suoi occhi obliqui. Per qualcheragione, Kokoschka pensava che fossero occhi da ingegnere, che herr
Porsche non potesse fare altro che il mestiere che faceva, e che nei suoi
occhi ci fosse una sorta di predestinazione verso l’eccellenza nella
meccanica.
– La ringrazio. Le ho portato il quadro. Proprio come lei lo voleva.
Rappresenta due amanti, nella campagna, e accanto a loro c’è un gatto
bianco...
Porsche continuava a guardare Kokoschka senza distogliere losguardo dai suoi occhi inquieti, che sembravano incapaci di posarsi
stabilmente su qualcosa.
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N. 2/2019– Io però le avevo chiesto di portarmi la Sposa del vento. Se lo ricorda?
Quando ho visitato il suo studio sono rimasto impressionato da quel
quadro. I due amanti abbandonati tra le coltri disfatte che
inaspettatamente si trasformano in valli e montagne desolate,illuminate da una luce notturna...
– Me lo ricordo, herr Porsche – lo interruppe Kokoschka – ma nonposso separarmi da quell’opera. Vede, ingegnere... in quel dipinto io horitratto la mia amata Alma, così come appariva alla mia anima
aggrovigliata nell’epoca più felice della mia vita. Non era solo bella:
c’era una fiamma in lei, un candore perfetto che si faceva voluttà,desiderio infinito, finché, appagata, si abbandonava esanime sognando
qualcosa che solo lei poteva comprendere. È così che la porto con me,
nel profondo dei miei desideri. Solo che adesso... Guardi come si è
ridotta. La vede? È lì immobile, nulla più la riguarda. È come se se nestesse continuamente alla finestra, sospirando per un altro uomo. Io lariempio di attenzioni, ma lei m’ignora. Non si muove neppure!
Porsche girò gli occhi da ingegnere verso la bambola. I divani di raso
erano lisci, e lei era scivolata per metà dalla seduta. Sembrava che si
fosse messa in ginocchio per terra. La lunga gonna si era sollevata
abbastanza da mostrare le gambe grosse, ma lei non sembrava
preoccuparsene. Lentamente lo sguardo di Porsche tornò verso ilpittore.
– Se riuscissi a fare in modo che si muova, mi darebbe la Sposa del vento?
Gli occhi di Kokoschka si fecero rotondi, le sue labbra si schiusero. Se
c’era qualcuno al mondo in grado di compiere quel miracolo, erasenz’altro Porsche.
Per tutto il mese successivo il pittore stazionò in una delle officine dellacasa automobilistica Porsche, a stretto contatto con i meccanici che
dovevano eseguire l’intervento. Era in ansia, naturalmente. Nessuno
aveva mai tentato un’operazione così difficile. Lo stesso Porsche aveva
disegnato lo scheletro d’alluminio, robusto ma leggero, che doveva
essere installato nel corpo di Alma. Giunti cardanici tenevano insiemele ossa mosse da tendini di corda. I muscoli non potevano essere
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ricreati, ma Porsche aveva inventato un sistema ingegnoso di palloni
rinforzati che, gonfiandosi di aria compressa, avrebbero permesso ilmovimento degli arti, della testa, del tronco, dei fianchi. Occorreva,
naturalmente, una sorgente di energia. Il grande ingegnere aveva
previsto di dotare Alma Mahler di diversi piccoli motori a due tempi,
alimentati a benzina. Erano apparati silenziosissimi, ma c’era il
problema di come rifornirli di carburante. Alla fine decisero di far
passare il liquido dalla bocca. Questo avrebbe permesso alla coppia dimangiare e bere insieme, lui lo champagne e lei la miscela che le serviva
per muoversi. Le venne fatto un esofago artificiale, e i motori venneromontati in corrispondenza delle giunture. Quando lo scheletro fu
pronto, Alma venne segata in due in senso longitudinale. Kokoschka
non volle assistere di persona: temeva troppo di perderla per sempre.
Uscì dall’officina e si rintanò nel piccolo vestibolo. Sul tavolo di legno
qualcuno aveva dimenticato il giornale del giorno prima e il pittore si
mise a sfogliarlo, sperando di distrarsi. Venti di guerra. Le potenze
europee ancora una volta si armano, pronte a spedire centinaia dimigliaia di contadini travestiti da soldati su campi di battaglia che anessuno interessano. La storia passa e se ne va; noi ne siamo testimoni,trascinati da un fiume che non si sa da dove venga e dove vada; eppure
dovrebbero bastarci le chiacchiere al caffè, le serate a teatro piene diluci e di donne ingioiellate, l’amore delle nostre amanti con i capelli
neri sparsi sul cuscino. Il mondo è privo di senso, e cercarne uno a tutti
i costi è il solo vero peccato che gli esseri umani possano commettere.
Trascorsero più di due ore prima che i tecnici raggianti si facesserovedere e lo guidassero in officina. Agli occhi di Kokoschka apparve
Alma Mahler, seduta su un banco da lavoro. Tutto intorno c’eranoancora i trucioli e la segatura che testimoniavano della radicalitàdell’intervento che aveva dovuto subire. Al suo ingresso la vide
scendere dal banco e camminare verso di lui da sola, senza bisogno che
qualcuno la sorreggesse. Scoppiò in lacrime.
Kokoschka preferì aspettare qualche giorno, prima di tornare apasseggiare con lei sul Ring. Pensava che la sua amata dovesse
rimettersi almeno un poco dalla tremenda operazione a cui era statasottoposta, anche se a vederla non sembrava provata. L’ingegner71Sunspot rivista letteraria

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Porsche aveva studiato uno speciale meccanismo per farla muovere,
una tavoletta di legno con dei pulsanti di ottone. A seconda dellacombinazione che s’impostava sulla tavoletta Alma si alzava, si sedeva,
camminava in avanti, muoveva le braccia e così via. All’inizio
Kokoschka rimase un po’ deluso da quei movimenti. Erano lenti,
meccanici. Per camminare la sua adorata Alma doveva sollevare una
coscia, poi flettere in avanti la gamba, spingere l’arto che si raddrizzava
finché toccava terra con il tallone, e solo alla fine avanzava il busto.
Premendo sui tasti giusti girava la testa; il giunto le permetteva diruotarla di un angolo qualsiasi, e perfino di farle fare diversi giri, e ilpittore era costretto a controllare con attenzione il meccanismo,
affinché il risultato non sembrasse innaturale. Pensò che col tempo si
sarebbe abituato a quello stato di cose. Alma Mahler era come una
persona che avesse subito un grave incidente; siccome lui l’amava
sarebbe stata sua cura badare a lei, fare in modo che non le mancasse
nulla, e che i suoi goffi movimenti non fossero motivo di riso per gli
abitanti di una città pettegola come Vienna. Ogni dieci giorni le dava
da bere l’olio minerale di cui i meccanici gli avevano raccomandato
l’uso. Non la lasciava mai sola, tutte le sere l’aiutava a spogliarsi, e almattino a rivestirsi. Si era reso conto che i movimenti necessari nonerano alla portata della sua amante, e tuttavia non voleva che questa
incapacità la facesse sentire a disagio, per così dire diversa. Una sera
rimase a lungo a osservarla, nella penombra del grande studioilluminato da un’unica lampadina a incandescenza. Se ne stava seduta
composta, immobile. Certo: finché lui non agiva sulla tavoletta, lei non
poteva muoversi. Improvvisamente si sentì triste. Per lei, innanzi
tutto, ma anche per se stesso. Era quello il risultato che voleva
ottenere? Come pittore, Kokoschka era un perfezionista. Malgrado
l’apparente istintività dei suoi quadri, in essi c’era sempre un obiettivo
che doveva essere raggiunto, un’idea profonda che non poteva essere
tradita: quando riteneva di non aver espresso tutto quello che voleva
esprimere, Kokoschka distruggeva il quadro senza pietà. Osservando
Alma, quella sera, si rese conto che assomigliava a un dipinto sbagliato.
Il suo volto gli sorrideva. Sorrideva sempre, non c’era modo di non
farlo sorridere. Si muoveva, questo è vero, ma solo quando lui la faceva
muovere; anche se si muoveva, non c’era traccia in lei delle luci
abbaglianti e delle ombre profonde che un tempo coglieva nel suo
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sguardo. Si alzò, e si mise a passeggiare su e giù per lo studio con lebraccia dietro la schiena e la testa china. Seguiva una fila di piastrelle
blu, facendo in modo che i suoi passi non toccassero mai quelle bianche.
Rifletteva. Con tutta la sua perizia meccanica, Porsche non sarebbe
stato in grado di dare un’anima alla sua adorata Alma. L’ingegnere
aveva fatto tutto quello che poteva, ma per andare avanti occorreva
qualcun altro, un esperto di ciò che c’è dentro di noi e che ci rende
diversi dagli scheletri di metallo, dalle coperture di peluche e dai
motori a due tempi.
Martin Landauer.
Nessun altro avrebbe potuto aiutarlo. Kokoschka lo conosceva bene:
anche lui era un suo collezionista, gli aveva venduto un autoritratto
con il viso a chiazze verdi e blu. Landauer si era laureato in ingegneria
meccanica nel ’99, per poi scoprire che la sua vera vocazione era la
medicina. Come medico, era un allievo del famoso Maximow, che nel
1908 aveva annunciato la scoperta delle cellule staminali. Landauer
aveva spinto le sue ricerche sulle staminali in una direzione considerata
poco etica da Maximow e da tutto l’ambiente medico tedesco; era stato
addirittura costretto a fuggire da Berlino e si era rifugiato a Vienna,
dove si parlava di lui soltanto a bassa voce. Una sera, mentre erano
seduti al caffè di Escherplatz davanti a due bottiglie di birra, Landauer
gli aveva raccontato qualcosa dei risultati del suo lavoro: organi ingrado di riprodursi, tessuti che si rigeneravano... La vita, secondo il
medico, poteva essere manipolata come qualsiasi altra cosa, anche sequell’opinione andava contro i pregiudizi morali della maggior partedei suoi colleghi.
Landauer abitava in Dunkel Strasse, una traversa di Hütteldorfer
Strasse non lontano dallo Schmelz. Il pittore affittò una carrozza dicittà, ma quando diede l’indirizzo al vetturino si sentì rispondere chel’uomo non aveva nessuna intenzione di portare fin lì lui e la sua
compagna: li avrebbe lasciati sulla Hütteldorfer, a un isolato didistanza. Quando scesero, la strada era deserta. Una leggera nebbia
circondava gli edifici, creando misteriose chiazze d’ombra tutto
intorno. Da lontano sentiva provenire il suono malinconico di un73

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N. 2/2019organetto di Barberia. Il pittore e la sua amata percorsero lentamente
il breve tratto che li separava da un edificio nobile ma fatiscente, che si
ergeva in un vicolo stretto soffocandolo con la sua mole. Kokoschkasuonò la campanella e rimase in attesa. Passò più di un minuto, prima
che un vecchio dai tratti marcati, con due pesanti occhiaie nere, si
decidesse a schiudere il portone.
– Sono il pittore Kokoschka, e questa è la signora Alma Mahler. La
prego di annunciarmi. So di non essere stato invitato, ma si tratta di
una faccenda di grande importanza, e spero che un uomo illuminato
come il dottor Landauer saprà perdonare la sconvenienza della nostra
apparizione.
Senza dire una parola, il servitore richiuse l’uscio. Kokoschka e Alma
furono costretti ad aspettare ancora diversi minuti, prima che lapesante porta si aprisse di nuovo e l’uomo li facesse passare. Si
ritrovarono in un vestibolo con il soffitto decorato con stucchi inaltorilievo. Le pareti erano state dipinte con figure geometrichezigzaganti, usando colori dai forti contrasti. Al centro della stanza
c’era un uomo di media statura, con gli occhiali rotondi che mandavano
bagliori sinistri al guizzare della luce del candelabro che il servitore
reggeva con la mano. Landauer sorrideva.
– Herr Kokoschka! Quale onore! La sua visita è per me un piacere
ineffabile! Vi prego, accomodatevi, non rimanete qui in piedi.
Li fece entrare in un grande studio che si apriva direttamente sul
vestibolo, e li fece sedere su un divano coperto di una stoffa a linee
oblique. Kokoschka era teso, e se ne stava seduto con la schiena diritta.
Alma sorrideva.
– Mi dica, herr Kokoschka: a che cosa devo il piacere della sua visita?
Il pittore gli espose la situazione. Nel parlare non poteva fare a meno
di palesare la sua angoscia: i suoi occhi erano lucidi, spiritati. Gli
raccontò dell’intervento dei tecnici di Porsche, dei dettagli del motore
e del meccanismo di pompaggio che permetteva alla signora dimuoversi. Landauer lo ascoltò con attenzione, interrompendolo
qualche volta per avere maggiori dettagli. Solo quando Kokoschka
ebbe finito, si decise a esprimere la sua opinione.
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N. 2/2019– È un caso difficile. Ha fatto bene a venire da me, credo che la sua
visita inattesa schiuda le porte a un esperimento interessante. La gente
comune ritiene che ci sia uno spirito vitale che ci anima, qualcosa che
va oltre la materia, una res cogitans del tutto misteriosa su cui gli uomini
non hanno nessun potere. Noi scienziati, tuttavia, sappiamo che le cose
non stanno così. Il segreto dell’anima è nei nostri nervi, che si
aggrovigliano lungo gli arti e le cavità del nostro corpo fino a formare
il cervello, la vera sede del pensiero. È questo il punto: la sua amata
non ha un cervello.
– E non sarebbe possibile procurargliene uno? La prego, dottore, sono
disposto a fare qualsiasi cosa per riaverla davvero...
– Se sta pensando all’impianto di un cervello sottratto, per così dire, a
un altro uomo (forse sarebbe meglio a un’altra donna), le dico subito
che questo non è possibile. Prima di tutto, l’essere che ne verrebbe fuori
non avrebbe la personalità di Alma Mahler, ma quella della persona
che in origine possedeva l’organo sostituito. In ogni caso, per quelloche può dire la medicina di oggi, un’operazione simile non potrebbe
andare a buon fine. Il cervello ha bisogno di essere continuamente
irrorato di ossigeno, che gli viene trasmesso dal sangue che circola
attraverso le arterie. Un cervello non ossigenato perisce entro pochi
minuti. Occorrerebbe ricreare il sistema circolatorio, i polmoni... La
scienza, almeno per il momento, non è in grado di trasferire tutte
queste cose da un corpo vivente a un altro. Tuttavia, forse c’è una
soluzione... Mi lasci riflettere.
Kokoschka era sulle spine. Non faceva che fissare il dottore, immerso
nelle sue meditazioni.
– Sì, ci sono. Venite con me nel laboratorio.
Kokoschka si alzò di scatto dal divano. Il suo volto era contratto, i suoi
occhi sembravano spiritati. Agì sulla tavoletta, in modo che anche
Alma si alzasse, e insieme seguirono il dottor Landauer su per una
rampa di scale di marmo. Anche le scale erano state dipinte con motivi
a zig zag; per un attimo Kokoschka temette che la sua adorata potesse
inciampare, confusa dalla strana sensazione percettiva generata daquella decorazione, ma poi si rese conto che piuttosto era lui stesso a75

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N. 2/2019rischiare di cadere: Alma camminava sicura, con il suo passo lento.
Mentre saliva innanzi a loro, Landauer girò per un attimo la testa.
– Si starà domandando il perché di queste decorazioni geometriche...
Deve sapere che questa casa era abitata dal dottor Caligari... sa, il
direttore del manicomio? Ha pensato di dipingere la sua abitazione inmodo consono al suo mestiere. L’effetto è sconcertante, all’inizio, ma
poi ci si abitua. Pensi che un giorno è venuto a trovarmi il celebre
regista Friz Lang. Voleva ambientare un film a casa mia, ma io horifiutato, naturalmente. Comunque, non dispongo di denaro sufficiente
per ridipingere gli interni.
Raggiunsero il pianerottolo del secondo piano, e il dottore li fece
entrare in un locale completamente dipinto di nero. La lampada
centrale riusciva a stento a illuminare le lunghe mensole su cui erano
disposti grandi vasi di vetro con reperti organici di tutti i tipi:
lucertole, topi, ma anche mani e piedi umani che la formalinaconservava fuori dalla portata degli agenti della decomposizione. In
mezzo alla stanza c’era un enorme tavolo di legno, completamente
sgombro a parte una vaschetta entro cui si vedevano strumentichirurgici immersi in una soluzione azzurrina.
– Questo è il mio laboratorio, herr Kokoschka. Come vede non
assomiglia a un ospedale; sono costretto a operare con mezzi
ridottissimi, da quando ho esposto le mie idee al congresso degli
ematologi, a Berlino. Mi hanno attaccato da tutte le parti, hanno dettoche volevo sovvertire l’opera di Dio, che la vita e la natura degliorganismi dipendono solo dalla volontà del Signore, e che la scienza
non se ne deve occupare. Ma questo gliel’ho già detto, mi pare...
Veniamo a noi. La mia idea è mettere in azione le cellule staminali, inmodo da generare nella signora i tessuti viventi che le servono, in
particolare quello nervoso di cui il cervello è la parte principale.
Ovviamente la cosa non è semplice: come le dicevo, il cervello habisogno di essere ossigenato con continuità. Occorrerebbe guidare lecellule staminali in modo che le forniscano dei polmoni, ma forse
possiamo sostituirli con i mantici che gonfiano aria nei suoi muscoli.
In ogni caso non sarà possibile trasferire ossigeno alle cellule cerebralisenza usare del sangue, quindi ci servono un cuore e una rete di vasi
sanguigni.
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N. 2/2019– Mi sta dicendo che con le sue cellule staminali sarebbe possibile
ricostruire un intero corpo umano?
– Io ritengo di sì. Ho scoperto che ci sono cellule staminali di diversi
tipi; alcune possono svilupparsi in modo da produrre soltanto
determinati tipi di organi, come il fegato o i polmoni, ma altre sonocome cellule bambine, non ancora intaccate dall’esperienza della vita edunque in grado di evolversi in qualsiasi modo. In questi anni non ho
fatto che studiare come farle crescere indirizzandole, se posso dire così,allo scopo di produrre certi tessuti, esattamente dove servono.
– È fantastico, dottore. Eppure, continuo a non capire. Se farà crescere
un cervello nella testa di Alma, che cosa garantisce che esso produca
proprio la mente di lei, e non un’altra?
– È questo il punto. Vede, herr Kokoschka, sono convinto che nelle
nostre cellule esista una specie di codice, qualcosa che è in grado difornire a ciascuno di noi la sua specifica individualità. Non posso ancora
provarlo, purtroppo, ma ho compiuto numerosi esperimenti, e tutti
sembrano dimostrare quest’asserto. Del resto, solo così si spiegano leosservazioni di Mendel e le leggi dell’ereditarietà da lui enunciate. Per
riprodurre esattamente la sua amata, ho bisogno di tessuti che abbiano
fatto parte del suo corpo. Mi basta un frammento di qualsiasi cosa che
venga per certo da lei: un pezzetto di pelle, un’unghia, perfino un
capello.
In un lampo si formò nella mente del pittore l’immagine di quel letto
nello studio che nessuno mai rifaceva. Lì lui aveva dormito con Alma
Mahler. Era possibile che qualche capello della sua amata fosse rimasto
impigliato nel guanciale. Doveva correre a casa, controllare.
– Credo di poterle procurare quello che mi chiede.
Recuperare un capello di Alma dal cuscino del letto nello studio non fu
un problema per Kokoschka. Lei aveva lunghi capelli neri, così diversi
da quelli corti e biondi del pittore! Riconoscerne uno fu facilissimo.
Kokoschka si precipitò nella casa di Dunkel Strasse, e l’esperimento
ebbe inizio.
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Nei giorni successivi il medico e l’artista osservarono in silenzio
l’evoluzione della nuova Alma Mahler, il miracolo di una vita creata
dalla scienza dell’Uomo. Lei era stesa su un lettino fatto preparate daLandauer nel laboratorio dipinto di nero. Il bisturi dello scienziato
l’aveva sezionata lungo linee precise, fino a scoprirne lo scheletro di
metallo creato dagli ingegneri di Porsche e i motori a due tempi che lepermettevano di muoversi. Landauer aveva illustrato il progetto a
Kokoschka, sussurrando per non turbare il silenzio quasi mistico diquell’ambiente.
– Vede? Questi sono i meccanismi che trasferiscono il movimento
generato dai motori agli arti e alle altre parti del corpo della signora.
Si tratta di apparati idraulici, come può vedere, ma noi abbiamo
bisogno di utilizzare i segnali nervosi, che sono di natura elettrica. Per
fortuna Nikola Tesla ha recentemente brevettato un marchingegno
che fa al caso nostro. Faremo in modo che tali segnali si sostituiscanoa quelli che vengono mandati dalla tavoletta.
– Se si tratta di un brevetto, bisognerà pagare qualcosa per poterlousare?
– Di questo poi ci occuperemo. Del resto, conosco bene Tesla e so che
il progresso della scienza, per lui, viene prima di qualsiasi interesse
venale.
Il liquido con le cellule staminali fu collocato in apposite vesciche digomma, legate in diversi punti alle ossa di metallo. Nel corso dei giorni
i tessuti organici cominciarono a svilupparsi e a crescere, fino a formare
strutture di colore roseo, pulsanti. Landauer era in estasi.
– Qui si stanno formando le vene. – Il medico indicava un punto nel
torace aperto di Alma. – Se guarda bene, potrà già vedere il sangue chescorre al loro interno. Qui, invece, sta nascendo la glottide.
Il dottore puntava il dito verso la gola di Alma. Kokoschka era insiemeammirato e preoccupato. Ammirato dal potere della scienza, da quellacorsa fantastica verso il sapere che la specie umana aveva iniziato già
nel secolo precedente, e che in quel momento mostrava i suoi
incredibili risultati. Dio è morto ed è rinato in noi, nelle sue creature.
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D’altra parte, era preoccupato perché non sapeva se gli uomini
avessero veramente un’idea precisa di dove conduceva quella corsa.
Sarebbe davvero nato il pensiero, in lei, e insieme a esso la capacità diamarlo?
– Che cosa mi dice del cervello?
– Quello non lo possiamo ammirare. Si sta generando all’interno dellacavità cranica, naturalmente.
– Alla fine lei sarà veramente Alma Mahler? Voglio dire: come farà aricordare le cose, il tempo che abbiamo passato insieme, le nostre
passeggiate sul Ring e le notti d’amore?
– Non ricorderà nulla, naturalmente. Grazie ai codici della vita
contenuti nel capello che mi ha portato, lei sarà effettivamente Alma
Mahler ma come se fosse rinata, pronta ad affrontare una nuova vita.
– E sarà ancora innamorata di me?
Landauer sorrise.
– Questo non dipende da quello che stiamo facendo qui. Vorrei notare,però, che se è riuscito a farla innamorare una volta potrebbe senz’altro
riuscirci di nuovo.
Nel corso delle settimane successive i tessuti creati dalle cellule diLandauer continuarono a svilupparsi. Un giorno i due si accorsero che
un braccio di Alma manifestava un tremito, come se tentasse dimuoversi senza ancora riuscirci. Con il passare delle ore il tremito si
estese all’altro braccio, poi alle gambe e infine al torso, fino a diventare
un movimento convulso che la agitava tutta. Inarcava la schiena,
scuoteva la testa, stringeva le mani di peluche come se volesse afferrare
qualcosa nell’aria, per poi distenderle in uno spasmo violento. A un
tratto cominciò a emettere un gemito prolungato, come il grido
sommesso di un animale ferito.
– È venuto il momento di suturare il suo corpo. È inutile tentare dicontrollare ulteriormente lo sviluppo delle cellule: se l’esperimento è79Sunspot rivista letteraria

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andato a buon fine, lo vedremo quando sarà terminato. Dovrò legarla
al lettino...
Con la fronte corrugata, Landauer si mise a preparare gli aghi dachirurgo e le decine di metri di filo che gli servivano per l’operazione.
A Kokoschka quegli aghi non sembravano molto diversi da quelli che
aveva usato la bambolaia Hermine Moos, ma naturalmente lui nons’intendeva di chirurgia.
– Sopravvivrà?
Il medico sollevò lo sguardo e lo fissò corrucciato attraverso gli
occhiali rotondi.
– Speriamo.
Dieci giorni dopo Kokoschka e Alma Mahler uscirono dalla casa di
Dunkel Strasse. Lei aveva bisogno di un bastone per camminare, macomunque era in grado di farlo. Secondo Landauer, l’esercizio avrebbe
potuto migliorare le sue capacità; il dottore si era raccomandato di farlaparlare, muovere, di non tenerla chiusa in casa ma di portarla in giroaffinché la sua giovane mente potesse fare i progressi che entrambi si
aspettavano da lei. Le istruzioni del medico erano state molto
dettagliate. I tessuti organici di cui Alma disponeva avevano bisogno
di essere nutriti, e la benzina non andava bene; Landauer aveva
spiegato a Kokoschka come creare la soluzione di zucchero e sali chele serviva. Perché la signora potesse assimilarla era stato necessario
fornirle uno stomaco e un intestino, anche se ridotti; la soluzione
doveva esserle data una sola volta al giorno, e il pittore avrebbe dovuto
operare sulla tavoletta dei comandi in modo da non mandare il liquido
nel serbatoio del motore di Porsche. Del resto, quella era l’unica
manovra che richiedeva ancora l’uso di quel rozzo strumento dicontrollo. Kokoschka era entusiasta di aver pensato a Landauer. Tra
sé rifletteva sul fatto che solo le competenze di ingegnere, oltre che di
medico, avevano permesso al dottore di compiere quel miracolo.
– Prendiamo una carrozza, amore mio. È vero che devi fare esercizio
fisico, ma non vorrei che ti stancassi troppo.
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N. 2/2019– Ahhhaaghaaaa – gli rispose Alma.
– Devi imparare a controllare il tono della tua voce, mia adorata. Non
hai bisogno di parlare così forte, nessuno lo fa.
– Gheeegaaaahooo.
– Certo, sono d’accordo. Adesso andiamo a casa così ti stendi un attimo.
Non devi fare niente, preparo tutto io. Ti piacciono le patate lesse?
Possiamo metterci un po’ di quella salsa di rafano che prepara la nostra
vicina, la signora Shoenberg...
– Ghu.
Furono giorni di estasi e di perdono. Kokoschka doveva ammettere diavere odiato Alma, quando l’aveva lasciato, ma steso sul letto accantoa lei nella penombra dello studio i contrasti del passato si dileguavano
come fantasmi alla luce di un nuovo mattino. Alma era rinata, comeaveva detto il dottor Landauer. Era ancora quella di una volta, ma nello
stesso tempo era una bambina curiosa di conoscere il mondo, come sene fosse stupefatta. Il secondo giorno aveva approfittato del momentoin cui lui era sceso per procurarsi latte e uova, aveva afferrato un
pennello e aveva riempito una tela di segni irregolari. Era un quadro
non ancora finito, e sul momento Kokoschka era rimasto contrariato,ma poi l’aveva guardata e il suo cuore si era gonfiato di tenerezza.
– Astrattismo puro. È a questo che miri, adesso? Al valore del gesto?
È meraviglioso. Quella scia di carminio che percorre il quadro in modo
irregolare... vedo che hai spremuto tutto il tubetto... ma questo nonimporta. Evidentemente dovevi dare sostanza al segno, avevi bisogno
di un tratto materico per dare forza al tuo pensiero. Brava.
– Gheeee – gli rispose Alma, con quell’eterno sorriso che neppure
Landauer era riuscito a cancellarle dal volto.
Passarono le settimane. Kokoschka era felice per la sua amante
ritrovata, eppure sentiva nascere dentro di sé una certa inquietudine dicui all’inizio non sapeva darsi una spiegazione. La portava in giro, nei
luoghi delle loro abituali passeggiate, la faceva sedere accanto a lui
stringendole la grossa mano di peluche, e avvertiva in modo sempre
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N. 2/2019più chiaro che lei era ancora irrequieta, come se cercasse qualcosa che
non riusciva a trovare nell’esistenza. Così era Alma Mahler, pensava,
non c’era nulla da fare; eppure aveva paura di perderla. Un giorno sul
Ring incontrarono il pittore Egon Schiele, con i capelli arruffati e ilsuo solito sguardo da pazzo. Kokoschka lo salutò con un cenno delcapo. Del resto, i loro rapporti erano del tutto formali; malgrado che
fossero considerati entrambi espressionisti, Schiele e Kokoschka
interpretavano il pensiero artistico della loro epoca in modi opposti.
Kokoschka detestava la ricerca ossessiva della nudità che emergeva dai
quadri del suo collega, la trovava del tutto priva di quei turbini di vento
che egli sentiva dentro di sé, soprattutto nelle sue notti d’amore. Chinò
leggermente la testa, in un gesto ossequioso, e in quel momento vide
che Alma fissava lo sguardo sorridendo sul volto da squilibrato di
Schiele. Anche lui le sorrideva, e Kokoschka non poté fare a meno dinotare che c’era qualcosa di malizioso in quel sorriso. Si conoscevano?
Certo che si conoscevano! Alma Mahler conosceva tutti gli intellettualidi Vienna, molti di loro in modo intimo. Era stata con lui? Lei nonparlava mai dei suoi amori, neppure di quelli così noti che l’intera città
ne bisbigliava scandalizzata. Klimt, Mahler, Gropius... perché nonanche Egon Schiele? Sentì che dentro di lui montava una furia
selvaggia, e improvvisamente capì le ragioni della sua inquietudine.
Certo, con il passare del tempo lei imparava sempre di più, diventava
consapevole del mondo, sempre più indipendente da lui. Era semprepiù Alma Mahler, quella che lui amava perché nessuno mai avrebbe
potuto considerarla come sua proprietà. Quella cosa lo faceva
ammattire. Forse, si disse, era il prezzo inevitabile che doveva pagare
per averle dato braccia e gambe, motori per farla muovere, nervi e
muscoli per poterla amare sul letto dello studio. Fece uno sbrigativo
cenno di commiato a Schiele, afferrò la sua amata per la vita e la spinse
letteralmente via lungo la strada affollata.
Steso sul letto, osservava le chiazze di luce del lampione della strada,che entravano dalla finestra formando ghirigori sul soffitto. Lei
dormiva accanto a lui, immobile. Che cosa c’è dentro di noi che ci rende
perennemente infelici? Che cosa cerchiamo, in quest’attimo diconsapevolezza che chiamiamo vita? Perché non possiamo
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N. 2/2019abbandonarci ai piaceri semplici che l’esistenza ci fornisce? Pensava
alla cena leggera che aveva consumato, al volto di lei, mentre beveva
con garbo il gasolio da una tazza di ceramica. Pensava a Egon Schiele,e la sola idea che lei potesse essere attratta da lui gli faceva tornarequella sensazione di furia che aveva provato nel pomeriggio. Il suo
sguardo correva in giro, ogni tanto si fermava sull’ombra di unoggetto. Un portacenere. Il vaso in cui teneva i pennelli: nella
penombra sembrava la silhouette della testa di Egon Schiele, con i
capelli grossi ritti sul cranio. Il cavalletto in mezzo allo studio, eracome un gigante guerriero dalla testa triangolare. L’inquietudine loagitava, non lo lasciava dormire. Il pensiero che la sua amata potesse
desiderare altro, oltre che stare con lui, non gli dava pace; quel pensierolo portava a fissare ossessivamente il vaso dei pennelli, quella grottesca
testa di Schiele entrata non si sa come nella sua esistenza e acquattata
nell’ombra. Alla fine si assopì, e quando si svegliò la luce dell’alba
illuminava di grigio lo studio. Lei si era alzata. Era seduta su una delleseggiole di paglia e teneva lo sguardo fisso sulla strada, come se la casa
fosse troppo angusta per contenere il suo spirito, e lui fosse un estraneo
capitato per caso nel suo letto. Oppure pensava al modo di incontrare
il suo rivale? Si alzò in silenzio, e lei non gli rivolse neppure un cenno
di saluto. Si vestì in fretta, cercando di non guardarla. Era stato un
errore permetterle di avere dei pensieri. Almeno prima dipendeva
completamente da lui, non avrebbe avuto modo di cercare di sfuggirgli.
Quella sera la portò a cena da Lambert, un francese che gestiva
un’osteria dalle parti di Pfullstrasse. Si mangiava bene, gli avventorierano pochi e loro non sarebbero stati disturbati. Una pioggia leggera
creava veli nella notte, lungo le strade grigie di Vienna. Lui teneva unombrello, in modo che lei non si bagnasse. Lambert li fece accomodare
in una saletta riservata.
– Che cosa vi porto? Ho delle ostriche appena arrivate da Trieste...
– Le ostriche vanno benissimo, monsieur Lambert.
– Anche per la signora?
– No. Per lei solo benzina, grazie.
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Ci fu un silenzio prolungato, mentre lui si concentrava su quello che
doveva dirle. Alma guardava fisso davanti a sé.
– Sei felice? – Le chiese. Per un istante gli sembrò di leggere qualcosa
di strano nel suo sguardo, come un urlo silenzioso che il perenne
sorriso rendeva ancora più straziante.
– Non sei felice? Perché? Parlami, amore mio. Spiegami. Sono dispostoa fare qualsiasi cosa perché tu stia bene.
– Ghaauuuu.
– È così, dunque? Lo sapevo. Non puoi accontentarti delle nostre cose,
dei momenti in cui ci stringiamo, di quelli in cui sogniamo insieme?
– Ahguuooohhhh.
– Ma perché? Che cos’è che ti manca? Non lo sai neppure tu? Ti
conosco, so che è così. È per questo che ti amo alla follia, ed è per questo
che fuggi via da me e mi fai impazzire. Cerchi qualcosa che non sai, che
non esiste. Adesso stai pensando a Egon Schiele, non è vero?
– Guahhhooo– Sono anche fatti miei. Non ti permetterò di avvicinarti a quell’uomo.
Lo sai che ha stuprato una ragazzina, quando era a Neulengbach?
L’hanno messo in prigione, ma poi non si sa come l’hanno prosciolto.
È un essere malvagio...
– Ahggahaaa.
– Non interrompermi. Io lo conosco. Saresti infelice con lui.
– Ghu.
Kokoschka chinò la testa, e per un attimo rimase in silenzio a osservarei gusci morti delle ostriche. La furia selvaggia stava di nuovo
montando dentro di lui, incontenibile come il soffio che agitava le coltridella sposa del vento.
– Dunque vuoi lasciarmi un’altra volta? Non te lo permetterò...
Dalla sala accanto proveniva il brusio confuso degli avventori intenti
nei loro discorsi. Da qualche parte qualcuno stava suonando un
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pianoforte, le note arrivavano attutite come se accarezzassero,
distratte, le loro orecchie. Kokoschka afferrò l’affilato coltello che
monsieur Lambert aveva lasciato sul tavolo, e con gesti convulsi
cominciò a colpirla. Quando la vide immobile la afferrò per la vita e latrascinò fuori, nel giardino del locale. La stese sull’erba umida e rimase
a fissarla.
– Non mi meriti. Non hai mai meritato il mio amore. Avevi un tesoro,
e l’hai gettato via. Addio. Per sempre.
Poi si avviò lungo il vialetto di ghiaia che portava all’uscita, a testa
bassa, incurante della pioggia.

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Contributors
Kit Alloway is a mixed media artist living in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. In
addition to making collages, she quilts, plays the piano, and has publishedthree novels with St. Martin’s Griffin. Her recent collages have appeared in
From Whispers to Roars and in forthcoming editions of 805 and Chaleur
Magazine. Her collages deal with globalism, juxtaposition, and (sometimes)
absurdity. She has always been fascinated with the surreal, and her work is
intended to transport viewers to an unsettling alternate future while raisingquestions about privilege, technology, and perception.
Timothy Boardman is predominantly a fine arts artist and printmaker withsome design sensibilities. He’s currently a student at UNCG in Greensboro,
North Carolina.
Max V. Carp is an award-winning filmmaker, short film festival director, andformer coeditor of an international arts magazine. He resides in Los Angeles,
where he is currently shopping his first novel.
Morrow Dowdle’s most recent publication credits include River and South
Review, Dandelion Review, Poetry South, and NonBinary Review. She was a
Pushcart Prize nominee in 2018. In addition to poetry, she writes graphic
novels, most recently in collaboration with the North Carolina Museum of
Natural Sciences. She previously attended Emerson College’s MFA programin creative writing and currently works as a physician assistant in mental
health.
Valyntina Grenier makes art on the side of life that insists, “Don’t Shoot.”
Her poetry and visual art push the boundaries of representation andabstraction to create a vantage from which to view violence and prejudice.
Her work has appeared in CatheXis, Bat City Review, Tulane Review, The Volta's
Arroyo Chico and Spiral Orb. Find her at valyntinagrenier.com or Insta@valyntinagrenier.
Ben Miller’s prose has appeared in Best American Essays, AGNI, Kenyon
Review, Raritan, Southern Review, Antioch Review, New England Review andelsewhere. Recent work was recently chosen for inclusion in Best American
Experimental Writing 2020 guest edited by Joyelle McSweeney and Carmen
Maria Machado. He is the author of River Bend Chronicle (Lookout Books) andthe recipient of creative writing fellowships from the National Endowment
for the Arts and the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study at Harvard
University.
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Sharmin Mirman is a writer/artist/musician who sings and plays tenor sax.
A confessed outsider, Chicago's J. Ray Paradiso is a recovering academic in
the process of refreshing himself as an EXperiMENTAL writer and street
photographer. His work has appeared in dozens of publications including Big
Pond Rumors, Storgy and Typishly. Equipped with cRaZy quilt graduate
degrees in both business administration and philosophy, he labors to fill
temporal-spatial, psycho-social holes and, on good days, to enjoy the flow. Allof his work is dedicated to his true love, sweet muse and body guard: Suzi
Skoski Wosker Doski.
Christina Robertson has an MA in Clinical Counseling and devoted years to
the professional examination of Nature’s terrible beauty as it exists withinpeople. Now she writes about it. Her work has appeared in The Bellevue
Literary Review, Anastamos, Midwestern Gothic, Ponder Review, and in theanthology Eclectically Heroic (Inklings Publishing), among others.
Piero Schiavo-Campo has a degree in physics. After five years in scientificresearch, he moved on to software. Currently he teaches Theory andTechniques of New Media (the internet and its media-related services) at
Università degli Studi, Milano Bicocca. As a sci-fi writer, he has authoredvarious novels and short stories. Schiavo Campo has won the prestigious
Urania Award twice for L’uomo a un grado kelvin (2013) and Il sigillo delserpente piumato (2017) as well as the Robot Award for short stories with
“Rotta ai margini del tempo” (2017).
Dave Sims was born in Pittsburgh, earned his MFA in Fairbanks, and spentover thirty years teaching writing and literature to thousands of diverse
students in places ranging from the Arctic Slope to the bayous of Louisiana.
Since emerging from the trenches of academe, he now dwells and creates in
the mountains of central Pennsylvania. A multi-genre artist, his words andimages appear on the covers and pages of The Raw Art Review, Talking
Writing, Freezeray, Burningword, The Nashville Review, Nunum and Arkana,with more comics and paintings forthcoming in Silver Needle, RiversEdge, andStonecoast Review. He can be reached at tincansims@gmail.com.
Katherine Todd has a B.A. in English from Kansas State University, where
she hopes to return to get a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She has
only been published a handful of times. Katherine also has a YouTube channel
called “Plots and Whatnots.”
Randall Weber-Levine holds a JD from Columbia Law School, a Certificate
in International Law from SciencesPo and the Sorbonne, and a BA in
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philosophy and economics from Colgate University. He is an aspiring writer
who has been published in the Burningword Literary Journal and theMorningside Monocle.
Born in London to British parents and raised bilingual in Italy, Sarah Jane
Webb grew up in a house full of books and developed a passion for reading
and writing. In 2006, she moved with her partner and cats to a hilltop hamlet
in sunny Liguria. Inspired by her tranquil surroundings, she translates
narrative (mainly speculative fiction) from Italian into English. Her work has
appeared in several Anglophone publications, including The Sunday Times’
Crime Club; Akashic Books’ Fri-SciFi; the webazine Speculative Fiction inTranslation; Trafika Europe; and Words Without Borders.
Zachariah Claypole White is a recent graduate of Oberlin College, where
he majored in creative writing and minored in English literature. He is amember of the North Carolina Writers’ Network and the North Carolina
Poetry Society. His poetry has appeared in the Albion Review, The Plum Creek
Review, Scalawag, and is forthcoming in Thin Air. He will be featured in Be a
Writer Like... (forthcoming from Teaching That Makes Sense). His flash
fiction also appears in Anchala Studios’ recently published anthology, The
Collection: Flash Fiction for Flash Memory and is forthcoming in After the Pause.
Zachariah uses his lifelong struggle with mental illness (obsessivecompulsive disorder, anxiety, and depression) to fuel his writing and hopesthat he can use his art to help others with similar disabilities. He currently
lives in North Carolina and works at Flyleaf Books.

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Writing a New World
Sunspot Literary Journal believes in the power of the written word. Fiction,
nonfiction, poetry and art can speak truth to power with the power inherent
in all human beings. Our mission is to amplify every voice.
Four digital quarterly editions will be produced per year. For the
first year (2019), Sunspot will product one print volume. The content of thisedition will blend selected work from the digital editions with new pieces.
Barring solar flares, the number of print editions will increase in 2020.
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content being created by today’s unique voices.

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Print ads are available for the annual edition. All ads are black andwhite. A full page is $850, a half page is $450, and a quarter page is $295. Buy
two ads of the same size for the same issue or for two sequential issues toreceive a 10% discount. Set up three or more ads and receive a 15% discount.
Sunspot's graphic designer can set up your ad to your specifications.
Flat rate of $325, and the design is yours to use multiple times in Sunspot or
any other magazine.

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