There is a creature in the corner — not human, not animal, not like anything I have seen before. He is as dark gray as storm clouds, as tall as a tower, as elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp. He has a long, black pony- tail, though he has dyed a clump of it white and let it hang across his face. A diamond the size of a hazelnut glitters on one ear. His face is small, his goatee is tiny, but his fiery eyes appear enormous behind his metal-rimmed spectacles. One second he stretches up, his head reaching the ceiling; the next he widens, spreading from one end of the room to the other. Like thick cigar smoke he drifts in the air. In his hand he carries a beautiful cane and on his head is a silk top hat.
I immediately recognize him as one of the djinn my maternal grandmother warned me against in my childhood. I don't know anything about their sexual orientation, but this one seems gay to me.
"Who are you?" I ask fretfully.
"Ah, but don't you recognize me?" he says, chivalrous and poised, as if he were a brave knight and I, a damsel in distress.
"No, what do you want?"
"Please, cheri," he says snippily. "Have you never heard of the djinni who haunts new mothers?"
I give a sobbing breath and my face gets hot. "My grandma says there is a djinni named Alkarisi, known to molest women who have recently given birth."
He cracks a laugh. "The times are changing fast, cheri. Alkarisi is so old-school. She retired long ago, that minx. Today nobody knows about her anymore. She wouldn't make it to the top ten."
I am surprised to hear the djinn have a top ten list, but instead of asking about this, I remark, "I didn't know you guys could age."
Taking a napkin from his pocket, he begins to wipe his glasses. "Of course we do age, though we haven't lost our minds over Botox creams, like your kind. At least not yet—"
I look at him more closely, only now suspecting that he might not be as young as he looks.
Putting his glasses back on, he continues: "Of course, we don't age as quickly as you poor sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. Your ten years are approximately" — he makes some calculations in his head— "equal to 112 years in djinn time. So a hundred-year-old djinni is just a kid where we come from. As for Alkarisi, how should I put it? Her name is synonymous with nostalgia."
"Do djinn have nostalgia?"
"Not us, you guys do! Don't you ever watch Disney movies? They use us as decor. I mean, what is that thing about the djinni in a lamp? We are living in the twenty-first century, hello! No one hangs out in lamps anymore!"
"Do djinn find Disney movies politically incorrect?" I ask, mesmerized.
"You, too, would feel the same way if your kind were portrayed as pudgy-bellied, five-chinned, blue ogres with baggy trousers and fezzes on their heads," he flares. "Don't you see we've all adjusted to the times? I go to the gym four days a week and I don't have an extra ounce of fat on my body."
"Who are you, for God's sake?!"
Like a good gentleman he tips his hat and bows to me with a roguish smile. "My sincere apologies if I forgot to introduce myself. I am your obedient servant, the Djinni of Postpartum Depression. Otherwise known as Lord Poton."
I feel a chill go down my spine. "What do you want?" I ask, although I am not sure I want to hear the answer.
"What do I want?" he prompts. "It is a good question because, as it happens, my wish is your command."
"Hmm, shouldn't it be the other way round?"
"As I said, forget those clichés. Let's get to know each other better."
Lord Poton is such a shifty being that I don't immediately realize how creepy he can be. For the first couple of days I watch him more out of curiosity than worry. Little do I realize that he is settling in during that time, making himself at home. Then one day, he produces a lockbox.
"What is that?"
"It's my gift to you," he says, grinning. "Don't you always complain about how your finger-women tire you out with their endless quarrels?"
"Yes, but—" I say tentatively.
"Good, I will lock them all away so that they won't bother you anymore."
"Wait a minute," I object. "I want no such thing."
But he doesn't listen to me. "My wish is your command, remember," he whispers, as if to himself. Then he stretches out his manicured nails and pulls the members of the Choir of Discordant Voices out of me, one by one.
The first to get caught is Milady Ambitious Chekhovian.
"What do you think you are doing, mister?" she admonishes him as he holds her by the nape of her neck and forces her into the box. "I have important things to do! Let go of me!"
Next comes Little Miss Practical. I would have expected her to follow the course of least resistance and surrender, but apparently she finds swearing more practical. Smoldering with anger, she yells, "Yo, who do you think you are? You moron! Get your hands off me!"
"Please don't bother, I will go where I need to go," says Dame Dervish as she walks with dignity into the box.
"Poton, darling, why the rush? Why don't we talk first tete-a-tete? Just the two of us. May I call you Potie?" says Blue Belle Bovary, pouting her lips, tilting her head to one side, trying to use her feminine wiles to get herself off the hook. Despite her best efforts, she, too, is sent into the box.
"But I have lentil soup on the stove, you cannot arrest me now," begs Mama Rice Pudding.
Finally comes Miss Highbrowed Cynic. "You call yourself 'Lord' and you think you represent the black sun of melancholy. But you seem to have forgotten that that sun is not solely a destructive force. As Julia Kristeva said, 'melancholy is amorous passion's somber lining.'"
"Ughh?" asks Lord Poton, sounding seriously confused, but he tucks her into the box anyhow.
So it is that all six members of the Choir of Discordant Voices find themselves trapped in a lockbox. The silence in the house is disconcerting.
"At last we are rid of the Thumbelinas!" says Lord Poton, the sweetness in his tone contradicting the sharpness of his glance. "They are all gone."
"Yeah, they are," I say.
"From now on there will be no one around to yammer at you. You will hear only my voice. Isn't that great?"
I try to join his laughter, but it just doesn't pass through my throat.
Quickly I assess the new situation: centralization of authority under a dictator, the suppression of alternate voices via violence, systematic usage of propaganda, absolute obedience to the leader. . All the signs are here. Political scientists have widely analyzed the connection between fascism and economic depression. In my case, there is a connection between fascism and psychological depression.
Now I know that after oligarchy and martial law, after monarchy and anarchy, the days of fascism have arrived.
Womanhood as an Incomplete Narrative
Today Lou Andreas Salome is less remembered as an author and intellectual in her own right than as the colorful and controversial woman behind several powerful men of letters. She is portrayed as the mysterious muse who inspired Rilke, Nietzsche and Freud to look more closely at womanhood and feminine creativity. Such descriptions, though no doubt intriguing, do not do justice to Salome's vision or versatility. In her time she was a famous author, which makes it hard to understand why her novels have been so widely forgotten today. In addition to fiction and plays, she wrote contemplative essays on a wide spectrum of topics such as Russian art, religious philosophy, theater and eroticism.
Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Salome grew up with five brothers and was much loved and pampered by her father. As a child she had a special gift for telling stories, though she found it difficult to abandon her imaginary characters afterward. She felt guilty for leaving them. This tendency to blame herself for things for which she was not responsible would continue to haunt her throughout her entire life.