Melodrama

I don’t follow the news, there is a high chance Italy was blown off the surface of the planet Earth, ’cause it seems that all refugees are camping in my house.

The other morning, I went downstairs to find them all in my living room: one was resting on a sofa hiding under a coat, another was sleeping in a right hand side corner of the room, other two spooned closer to the window.

I stepped over a couple of snoring bodies and got closer to my beloved ones Leo and Giorgio, who were leaning over the bar.

  • Ciao! Tell me, are there any more Italians anywhere in this house, for example under the kitchen cupboard?
  • You look unusually happy today… – noticed Giorgio.
  • And incredibly pale… – shared his insights Leo.
  • Whereas there are too many of you, – I lit up a cigarette, – what happened?
  • Queen’s Day.
  • I’m gonna make pancakes, want some?

The minute I said pancakes, Italians began to crawl out from all of the corners. For a second I felt like a character in Night of the Living Dead. They drew near stretching their shaky hands towards me.

  • Victorio! – introduced him-self Victorio.

And others followed his example.

They called me Maaaaaaarrrrry, and I addressed them simply – Italians. Suited all. I was about to settle with the idea of our coexistence, until one night Italians decided to bring home a woman.

I can not stand the presence of another female in the house. Because then Italians lose their heads and circle around as if they were peacocks. Italians love all women apart from me. According to Giorgio, I am family.

I remember the day we talked it through, I felt at ease and went upstairs to get all my weapons. Giorgio stood in bewildered watching me pulling out knifes and scissors from beneath the mattress; rasp out of accessories box, bicycle chain out of suitcase, a saw from the purse and etc.

I took my earplugs out:

  • Maaaaaaaarrrrryyyyy!
  • Is there someone else? – asked Female.
  • Yes, Mary, – informed one of.
  • A woman?
  • Goddess.

Possibly she doesn’t enjoy competition either, – I thought and came downstairs to analyse the peculiarity of peacock mating.

  • Did you call me?
  • You’re not asleep?

Female nodded humbly as if all country was celebrating my birthday.

At the same time all together came rolling the rest of stallions.

Female began to sweat:

  • Oh dear… there is so many of them…
  • … one extra with each day. I’m not lying, – I told the truth.
  • Aha…

Then I heard the bell ring and the reality turned into melodrama.

I poked my head out of the open window.

  • Ce cazzo… – Italians counted the chickens and evidently weren’t expecting anyone else.
  • Oh fuck… admirer! – I wasn’t expecting anyone either.
  • Who? Lemme see… – got nosey Giorgio.
  • How do I look? – I poked him to get his attention.
  • Like someone who just woke up, – he said.
  • Is it good or bad?
  • Come here.
  • Excuse me? – I got protective.
  • Let me fix your hair, – he reassured.
  • Maybe I should pretend that I’m not home?

In a mean time, whiles my stylist and I were discussing which way shall I part my hair, one of the Italians threw out the key from an outside door.

  • Well, thanks a lot, – I thanked him politely.
  • Tranquillo
  • Maybe have some beer? – offered one of.
  • Won’t help…

I stood there frozen doubting: to jump or not to jump out of the window? Female was running around wearing seemingly less clothes. Group of Italians were rolling a spliff. Giorgio for some unknown reason was sharpening kitchen knives, same ones that I hid under the mattress.

I heard the lock click and the sound of opening door.

  • Oh, my God… – I sighed to enhance the tension.
  • God? There is no God… what do you think about God? – addressed the person sitting next to him one of.
  • Oh… I thought I will find you alone, – naively admitted Admirer.
  • I am alone, they are imaginary… – I flirted.
  • So tell your imaginary friends to stop touching me, – asked Female.
  • Admirer, this is slut, slut, this is admirer… – I introduced the guests.
  • Madhouse! – searching for her blouse complained Female.
  • She’s hot…
  • I’m not wearing bra.
  • Come again? – took up Italians.
  • Gentlemen, please continue, the remark was addressed to me, – talking with my breasts noted Admirer.
  • Mary, I hope this will never happen again… – Giorgio got behind my back still holding knifes.
  • Wait a sec, are we a couple?
  • No, but we live together, I have the right to know first when you are and when you’re not wearing a bra.
  • You live together? – woke up Admirer.
  • Mamma mia… – Italians shared their thoughts on the subject.
  • It’s a bit too crowded in here.
  • We are family, – noted Giorgio.
  • Giorgio, shut up, – I asked brotherly.
  • Maybe the timing is not right… – began to doubt Admirer.
  • If you leave, you might as well not come back! – I declared.
  • I was on my way out too, maybe we are heading in the same direction? – buttoning up her blouse wasted no time Female.
  • No, you are heading to the slut house and he is staying.

The female was about to slap me when Giorgio jumped in front without realising that he is still holding two meat knifes. Female went pale and slumped on the floor. Trying to catch her Giorgio accidently caught Admirer’s trousers and bruised his leg. The Admirer got offended, handed me the bottle of red wine and headed towards the door. A bunch of peacocks turned into hawks and began to circle around still warm Female’s body.

  • Get off her… she needs fresh air, – I scared hawks off at the same time trying to stop Admirer, – Admirer, wait!

Admirer stopped by the door hesitating.

  • So I presume you came at five o’clock in the morning just to give me a bottle of wine?
  • What do you mean?
  • It’s obvious you wanted to stay.
  • No, I wanted to see you, that’s all.
  • Why don’t you tell me what is what you want?
  • Maybe I’m not too sure?
  • Stay, we will figure it out.
  • Heeeeeyyyy! – shouted Italians.
  • Women, it’s so hard to understand you, – walking up the stairs sighed Admirer.

Hard to understand us?! Women. Wo-men. Plural, right? So who am I now? I human size vagina?

  • You are right, here is your wine – go home.

The room went deadly quite. I could hear the chirp of waking birds. Italians went still to watch the scene, questioning them-selves: what will follow next?

Admirer’s jaw was slightly open. I did not like him that way. Stillness allowed me to observe all his flaws. Long hair covered his strong boned face, in the corners of his eyes I could see eye pus, bread crumbs were resting in his few days beard, he wore the same black shirt he wore the day we met. His posture testified his indecision. And…

  • I cannot handle this tension! – said one of.
  • Where am I? – recovered Female.
  • In heaven, baby…

 

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Marija

"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS