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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 33 | volume VI | July-August, 2003



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 33July-August, 2003
Prose

An Archival Mosaic

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p. 1
Slavko Janevski

    (Vlad Tepes, Dracula--1431-1476--three times Count of Vlaska. Documents concerning him are housed in the Swiss monastery of St. Galen, in a Leningrad library, and in many other places in Romania. Bloodsucker. Legend. Vampire.)
    Long after the time of Dracula, Vlad, Agarta, and their son Mircha lived in a certain city. The family, with the surname Sigisoara, was among the ten richest in the city, known for its manufacture of mascara, prepared from the eyes of Danube carp. Vlad was 1.6 meters tall. By night he grew, by day he shrank. At home he wore some kind of Turkish or Tartar hat; he had big eyes; a slender, straight nose; jaundiced, he resembled a fifteenth-century portrait that hangs today in the Austrian castle of Ambras near Innsbruck. Agarta had white eyes and white fingernails. On Saturdays she seemed twice as thin as on other days. Mircha teetered on his rickety legs and somehow balanced his Cyclops head on his shoulders. From a lock of his hair he squeezed the sounds of a harp. His father could not tolerate winter. The cold gnawed at him. As a result, he wore one hundred and eight scars, three for each of his years, if indeed he was only thirty-six years old. The mother hated the summer. She had a cape made from a silver fox, in which she resembled a noblewoman. She kept it in a wooden case upon which Transylvanian wolves had been carved by ancient craftsmen. The son had neither scars nor fur cape. He had the ears of a dog and did not like his parents. Vlad observed one faith, Agarta another. With the help of dark forces they married their faiths. A third was born. An unknown one. Vlad and Agarta plastered the newborn faith onto Mircea’s eyes as raw meat is plastered onto a bruise. Their story became muddled as hell.
    (From the testimony of witness A, a housewife, known by the many locusts embroidered on her goatskin):
    Around midnight, between the fifth and sixth of September of that year, she was awakened by terrible screams, as if hell had broken loose above the street on which she lived, near the Sigisoaras. Trembling, but already in bed, she looked out the window in fear. As if on a stage lit by the moon, son Mircha chased the panic-stricken Vlad and Agarta, who were spattered with blood, as if they had been attacked






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