Humorous travelblog and website for Peter H. Fogtdal, author, raccoon lover, human being.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Earthquake Anniversary in Nepal - A Country Still Struggling a Year After the Disaster
In December 2012 I was in Kathmandu to give a talk at the Literary Jatra, and I fell in love with Nepal. the Nepalese, and the Tibetan community in Boudha. As most of you will remember, Nepal was hit by a huge earthquake a year ago where 9,000 died, so this is my small homage to the beautiful country in the Himalayas.
Please join me in supporting organizations like Karuna-Shechen by donating money to the reconstruction of Nepal. 100% of the donations go to their projects. The operating costs are paid by a donor, which makes this Buddhist charity founded by Matthieu Ricard, one of the most credible around. Click here if you're able to help.
Copyright, Peter H. Fogtdal, November, December, 2012.
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Monday, April 11, 2016
An English Translation of The First Chapter of The Egyptian Heart (Det egyptiske hjerte)
My thirteenth novel, Det egyptiske hjerte was published in Denmark in late 2015. Here is a translation of the first chapter by Mark Kline that takes place in medieval Venice. (There's a rambling prologue from contemporary Venice before this chapter, but you have to wait for that and the rest of the book until it comes out in your language)
If you're interested in knowing more about The Egyptian Heart, contact foreign rights manager from PeoplesPress, Louise Langhoff Koch (lolk@artpeople.dk) who is at the London Book Fair here in April. Seventeen publishers around the world are considering my strange and entertaining reincarnation novel right now: six from Germany, four from France, two from Sweden, and one from the Czech Republic, Netherlands, Russia, Portugal, and Brazil.
You can read more about the novel on the older entries of my blog.
If you're interested in knowing more about The Egyptian Heart, contact foreign rights manager from PeoplesPress, Louise Langhoff Koch (lolk@artpeople.dk) who is at the London Book Fair here in April. Seventeen publishers around the world are considering my strange and entertaining reincarnation novel right now: six from Germany, four from France, two from Sweden, and one from the Czech Republic, Netherlands, Russia, Portugal, and Brazil.
You can read more about the novel on the older entries of my blog.
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk
Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk
Chapter
1
Pietro
Pietro
Polani, the thirty-sixth Doge of Venice, greets the person he hates
most in the whole world.
The
year is 1144; world history hasn’t reached
the lagoon yet. It’s preoccupied with the
Crusades and the Holy Land and paying no attention to Serenissima,
the Venetian Republic. Actually, the Doge
has invited world history to the lagoon
several times, but world history keeps giving him the cold shoulder.
World history has nothing but contempt for sand banks and merchant
fleets. It demands bloodbaths of epic proportions - it insists on
massacres of women and entire families. In short, world history is a
psychopath, and we’ll never understand it if we don't recognize
that.
Pietro
Polani has been Doge for fourteen years. He has grown into the
position in such a way that he no longer knows where the Doge
begins and Pietro ends. At the tender age of twenty-nine, he was
elected because of his reputation for honesty and intelligence. But
now the most powerful families of Venice are tired of him because of
his honesty and intelligence.
The times haven't been kind to Pietro Polani, who wanted to be a Prince of Peace but instead inherited war. Wars are raging everywhere around the Adriatic Sea. When one fire is put out, another flares up. Hungarians attack the Dalmatian coast; Normans try to contain Venice; Padua and Fano are sassy children who receive well-deserved spankings. The world is aflame as always, but luckily it’s God's flame, so there's nothing we can do about that. After all, who should we complain to? The Devil?
The times haven't been kind to Pietro Polani, who wanted to be a Prince of Peace but instead inherited war. Wars are raging everywhere around the Adriatic Sea. When one fire is put out, another flares up. Hungarians attack the Dalmatian coast; Normans try to contain Venice; Padua and Fano are sassy children who receive well-deserved spankings. The world is aflame as always, but luckily it’s God's flame, so there's nothing we can do about that. After all, who should we complain to? The Devil?
The
Doge receives the Patriarch of Grado in the Great Hall of the Doge
Palace. The Patriarch is the Pope's representative in the lagoon. He
wields more power than a Cardinal and is number two in the Church
hierarchy. A herald bangs his spear on the stone floor and announces
the Patriarch in a high, piercing voice that ricochets off the walls,
tapestries, and trunks like stinging slaps to the face.
Pietro
Polani is surrounded by courteous servants and his loyal eunuch,
Sano, who was castrated at the age of twelve. The eunuch is a short
man with tawny red hair and a wrinkled face who looks like a cross
between an elderly man and an infant. He carries several rolls of
parchment under his arm. His lips are shaped into a permanent sly
smile. The table in the Great Hall is set for a feast, the icy lagoon
air oozes in through the smoke hole, the flames in the fireplace
flicker. Polani has donned a long ermine robe and leather gloves to
keep warm. He's wearing his lemon-yellow Doge skullcap and ear flaps,
and a heavy chain of gold hangs from his neck.
The
thirty-sixth Doge of Venice is a thin man of medium height with
small, friendly gray eyes, a large nose, and lips outraged by his
fellow humans' pettiness. His mouth is small, his cheeks and
intuition sharp, his hair and beard curly are every
bit as dark as the anxiety he bears.
The
Patriarch of Grado sits at a large, heavy oak table, a gift from the
Norman Emperor that had been shipped from Sicily to the lagoon in
1138. The two men are sons of merchants from the San Luca parish
close to the Rialto Bridge. They were childhood friends, though they
show no sign of that now. Their shared past can be sensed only as a
migraine of the soul, but the Doge intends to appeal to the best in
the Patriarch, should there indeed be any best remaining to appeal
to. In other words, the Doge will look his old friend in the eye
before deciding whether or not to crush him.
The
Doge's Palace is not the present-day opulent structure on St. Mark's
Square, a palatial wedding cake featuring Byzantine embellishments.
Back then there was no glazed facade with broad arcade, marble
benches, and Gothic columns. Nor did the Lion of St. Mark's stand on
its pedestal, staring out at the horizon. And it still lacked wings –
they flew in from Persia or Egypt in or around the thirteenth
century. The Doge's Palace was nothing more than a large, clumsy
Middle Age fortress with stout walls, four round castle towers, and a
closed courtyard for knights and their horses.
Only
a small segment of the Middle Age foundation survives today. It rose
out of the mud during excavations in the 1700s. Suddenly the gates
holding back the repressions of the twelfth century opened. Agonies
and memories stood in line to escape; they seeped up from the
underground as murderous threats and unanswered prayers, as frail
voices, each with a story that segued into a cloud and sailed over
the lagoon. Stories never disappear. They bury themselves in the
bodies of cities and shape the geography. Stories engrave themselves
into the minds of humans and alter their perception of reality … or
at least make them aware that realities come and go, for Heaven
knows, there are so many versions.
Pietro
Polani's waiter pours wine into the clay-colored mugs.
The
large hall is dark, the air heavy with smoke and mildew. Inch-thick
sheep rugs cover the cool stone floor, but no matter how the Doge's
men try to keep warm, the freezing wind off the lagoon shows who's
boss. One can’t tyrannize nature; it always gets the last word, no
matter the century.
The
Doge toasts with the Patriarch.
The
Patriarch toasts with the Doge.
Sano
the eunuch closely observes both men. He has been looking forward to
this meeting, because he's convinced that blood will flow.
The
Patriarch of Grado sits erect in his burgundy-colored robe and high
hat. He was born Enrico Dandolo, an uncle to the "real"
Enrico Dandolo, who sixty years later will be honored as having made
Venice a major power. Why? Because he burned to the ground the
greatest city of the Middle Ages, Constantinople, along with its
100,000 citizens. I repeat: the road to immortality is always
paved with greed. Think of idiots like Alexander the Great, Peter the
Great, and Napoleon. What do they all have in common? They could
never get enough. That's why they were great.
The
Doge and the Patriarch study each other over the knots of the oak
table.
The
spiders on the wall creep closer together.
Each
of these powerful men has devised a strategy for this meeting. The
Patriarch has thought through everything down to the tiniest detail,
has considered his arguments and weighed them on Biblical scales,
whereas the Doge's strategy is the exact opposite – he doesn't have
one. The right words will appear when he needs them. Pietro Polani is
nothing more than a ventriloquist who seeks his inspiration from St.
Mark and trusts that inspiration will flow out of his mouth at the
proper time, and should that against all expectations not happen, he
will bequeath his fiasco to God –
that's his strategy.
"I
have requested Your Excellency's presence to have a talk,
man-to-man," the Doge says. The Patriarch nods, but he's already
on his guard. His eyes are glued on Pietro, his one eyebrow raised as
a sign of an unhealthy skepticism, his fingers readying themselves
for drum solos on the table, should they gather the courage.
The
Doge stands up enthusiastically. "Do you remember when we went
fishing in Rio San Luca and found a body drifting down the stream?"
The
Patriarch of Grado stares in surprise at the Doge. "No."
"It
was the first dead man we'd ever seen."
"Aha."
"You
don't remember?"
"No,
unfortunately not," the Patriarch says. He reaches for the
documents he has laid on the table; if there hadn't been any
documents to reach for, he would have reached out for his wine mug,
and if there hadn't been a wine mug, he would have groaned a bit
louder than he permits himself to now.
"You're
the one who emptied his pockets and found the three silver coins."
The
Patriarch remains silent.
"The
dead man worked for your father, didn't he?"
"I
wouldn't know." The irritated glint in the Patriarch's eye seems
to have hardened.
"Three
silver coins was a lot back then. Do you remember what we spent them
on?"
The
Patriarch shakes his head.
"A
knife, Enrico. A very dull knife we bought at the market in San
Salvador. We took turns using it, and once we fought over it."
The
Patriarch looks down at his boots; where else could he look, with the
Doge insisting on blabbering like a stupid hag. The
mood in the Great Hall is dull and listless, more so than at any time
during the occupancies of the past twenty Doges. In fact, there is no
mood; it's fled to the lagoon, for a mood can only take so much.
The
eyes of the Doge and the Patriarch meet for a few short seconds, but
the Patriarch doesn't like eye contact. He wishes only a dialogue
with our Lord, for our Lord is the only peer of the Patriarch, and
even that is debatable.
"With
your permission, Principe." Enrico studies his pudgy hands.
"Surely you haven't invited me here to talk about old times?"
A
nervous tic flashes over The Patriarch's face. Why is it that the
Doge makes him feel so insecure? Enrico is clearly more gifted and
superior to Pietro in every way, yet he feels as if he's tagging
along behind when he is with his childhood friend. Is it because of
the respect associated with the five-hundred-year Doge tradition? No,
that can't be it, the Church has existed longer than Serenissima, and
besides, Jesus Christ is its King.
"So
you don't believe that our personal relationship has any influence on
our present-day disagreements?" the Doge asks.
"I
have no disagreement with you, Principe," The Patriarch says.
"For
the love of God, Enrico." The Doge pounds his fist on the table.
"Can't you get it through your thick skull that I'm speaking to
you as a fellow human being? I'm trying my best to strip away the
formality of our positions, so we stand naked before each other –
don't look so shocked, Enrico, I'm speaking metaphorically here. Come
on now. We were together in The Holy Land in the time of the old
Doge, you even saved my life. Everything we went through together,
doesn’t that mean anything at all to you?”
"There’s
no reason to patronize me," the
Patriarch snaps.
"There's
every
reason to patronize you, Enrico, otherwise we'll never untangle this
knot we're in. And may I remind you that I'm responsible for the
influence you now have as Patriarch."
"Let's
get down to business," Enrico snarls. How can one take this fool in the
Doge's Palace seriously, a man enthusiastic one moment and phlegmatic
the next, more known for his strange behavior than his capabilities?
Pietro Polani is not
a good Doge. For the fourteen years he has sat on the throne, he has
been an unworthy representative for Serenissima. He is popular among
the citizenry, yes, because he has seduced the hearts of the poor,
but fortunately The Great Council clipped his foreign-policy wings
before he could do too much damage.
"With
all due respect, Principe, what I mean is, it would be better to –"
"I'm
not sure you know what's 'better', Enrico, for you or for God. But
let's get down to business, as you so un-poetically call it. For
almost a year now you've attempted to thwart the appointments I've
made, the latest of which is the abbess of San Zaccaria. You swept my
candidate aside and installed your own."
"I
wouldn't use the word 'thwart'."
"Well
I would." Again the Doge slams his
fist down on the table. "Appointments to offices in Serenissima
is a responsibility of my
office, which is why I take it as a personal affront when you
overrule my decision."
"I
act only with regards to the reforms of Pope Gregor, which His
Holiness in Rome wishes to be implemented –"
"And
in that way you oppose me."
"This
is not a personal attack on you, Principe."
"Everything
in this world is personal, Enrico," the Doge yells, "and
I’ve had enough. Last year you intervened by overruling a case
under the authority of the Bishop of Castello, but my appointment of
the new abbess in the San Zaccaria parish will
not be disallowed, Enrico, is that
understood?"
"With
all due respect, the Church overrides the secular world."
"So
now you’re saying that you also
have no respect for the constitution of Serenissima?"
"Of
course I do. I just have greater respect for God."
"Then
let's get everything out in this Light you claim to be serving."
The Doge smiles wanly. "Let's get it all out – your damn
pettiness, your lust for power, your enormous inferiority complexes,
Enrico. Let's look at how your monks break into cloisters and rape
our sisters in the name of God. How they acquire Bishop positions,
not because they're pious but because they're granted property with
their purchase. Our beloved Church is becoming more and more corrupt.
What do you say to that, my fat friend?"
"Do
not call me your fat friend, Pietro."
"But
you’re fat, and you are
my friend," the Doge says triumphantly, "so come down off
your high Bible and talk to me man-to-man before your intrigues drive
me insane. This doesn't have to be so nasty, Enrico. I don't enjoy
being mean, but you're forcing me to be."
The
Patriarch stands up and furiously gathers his documents. When he
finally speaks, his voice is shaking. "Principe, you should know
that a messenger was sent several days ago to His Holiness, to
expedite a solution to our problem –"
"To
which of the popes, my dear Enrico, Peter or Judas? Until recently
there were two of them."
The
Patriarch's voice trembles. "New winds are blowing across our
peninsula, winds that will have great influence on our beloved
Republic, but I see no reason to speak more of this. It's out of my
hands. Is there anything else, Serenissimo Principe? More ridiculous
accusations plucked out of thin air? Or more pointless childhood
memories you wish to bring up?"
Pietro
Polani rises. "No, nothing more, Enrico. But I want you to
remember one thing: we in Serenissima have never bowed down to Sancta
Sedes. We leave that to Pisa, Genoa, and the other cowardly states.
We respect His Holiness, but we’re not his lapdog. Tell that to
your damned messenger."
The
Patriarch bows ironically, but as he and his shocked entourage are
about to depart from the Great Hall, the Doge steps forward and
embraces him. To all appearances it's a loving embrace – perhaps an
apology for the rough words spoken in the heat of battle? Or for the
childish things spoken by the Doge when he was offended? But no, it’s
in fact a show of power. More than ever, the Doge has need of
demonstrating who may be on a first-name basis with him and who may
not, who may embrace the heads of the Church as if they were
oversized stuffed animals and who may not. All this is signified by
the embrace the Patriarch is forced to endure, from which he attempts
to extract himself without pushing the spindly, moody Doge away –
Enrico can’t afford to do that. He mustn't even use his talent for
quick comebacks to put the Doge in his place. All he can do is show
his disgust by peering up at the ceiling or down at the Emperor's oak
table or at Sano, the eunuch, who is trying not to laugh at the
bizarre sight in front of him – the tall, angry Patriarch and the
strange Doge in a long, brotherly embrace.
At last Pietro loosens his
grip and pounds Enrico hard on the back, as if he's an old mutt with
a bone stuck in his throat. Finally the Patriarch can leave the Great
Hall, while the Doge is thinking, what a nice day. Or is it a nice
day? For who can weigh the consequences of our small Pyrrhic
victories? Who can weigh anything while trying to understand
something as delicate as a human life? The consequences of what we do
and don’t do follow us for centuries. Nothing disappears in this
world; all embraces, quarrels, and childish behavior come back to
haunt us when we least expect it. The Doge knows this, and therefore
he should have acted in a dignified manner, but he couldn't, because
he was too wounded.
We
now take leave of the deeply shaken Patriarch of Grado, who steps off
the quay and into his gondola displaying the silver and red colors of
the Dandolo family. He is followed by his scrivener, a Father, and
three demons sitting on his shoulders, screaming for revenge – how
dare the Doge speak to the Church's most important man in the lagoon
as if he were a simple shepherd of souls! The demons will make
certain that the Patriarch is avenged, but more than five years will
pass before it happens.
Enrico
sails down the Rio Barrio and through the labyrinthine canals toward
the clan's courtyard in San Luca parish, while the banner of the
Dandolos snaps in the icy wind. When he arrives at the market at the
Rialto bridge, he is shaking from the cold and from an enormous
rage he’s almost unable to control.
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