Death Is Either Certain or Unexpected

By Kim Ekemar

Ten short stories with death as the common theme ...

I Will Never Kneel Again; Guatemala, 1951 – 1971
This story is based on a true event that took place in Guatemala in 1971. The execution of the culprits was widely publicised, and most people seemed to welcome their fate. What were the reasons behind their heinous crime? There must be some logical prequel to events that trigger meaningless crimes like this.

Blood Tide; Brasilia, 1982
A Brazilian ghost story in which the protagonist turns out to be the unexpected game. The tide turns against the intruding civilisation by devouring it under primitive rituals. The short sentences have no subordinate clauses, to make the text more forceful.

The Soul Exchange; New York City, the 1980s
Unexpectedly the devil finds a new game to play, arguing that evil is more fun – and besides, it pays better. A strong but wicked character becomes a new challenge for a wasted soul as a down-and-out drug addict shapes up his body and his life.

Virtual Heaven Norway; 1996
A placid man, a jealous wife, and a mother-in-law with a venomous tongue . . . after the countdown of the last hours in Ole Olsen’s life, his accidental death comes to him as virtual relief.

The Moment of Truth; Mexico, 1926 – 1976
Don Rafa is a highly likeable man, yet he can neither live with nor tell the truth. The only truths he recognises are those of male friendship and beauty. Beauty, as he sees it, exists in women and bullfighting. While relationships with the former can be based on lies, the moment of truth lies in the slaying of a bull.

The Thorn Tree Exchange; Nairobi/Paris, 1980 – 1982
A seemingly unimportant incident can many years later suddenly appear in a different light. It might kill you, and it might give your future a new direction.

Dedicated to Survival; The Indian Ocean, circa 1920
This tale is about a man who does not give up despite overwhelming odds in the face of nature. His journal shows him as a resourceful person whose ingenuity lets him stay alive yet another day. Even though the forces of nature threaten his survival, he appreciates its immense beauty while using it to his advantage.

The Embrace; Russia, 1901
With the knowledge that death is close at hand – and with the means to fully appreciate the hours that remain – how can one embrace this very limited resource?

Struck by Luck; Malaysia, 1965
Two peasants challenge each other as a result of their superstition and extreme poverty. The twist of fate distributes the rewards haphazardly, which proves that luck has many faces.

The Escape from a Prison of no Escape; Chongqing, 1962
The Chinese invasion of Tibet was, and is, inexcusable from every aspect. This story shows how will eventually triumphs over brute force, how reason wins over ignorance, and how the most important freedom is that of your mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Ekemar
• Release date: Oct 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463053898

Kim Ekemar

I've been fortunate with opportunities to travel the world, counting Mexico, France, Sweden and Spain as my home at one time or other. In the past, a good part of my life was dedicated to business ventures: an art gallery, an advertising agency and commodity trading, among others. My travels have taken me to faraway places and amazing situations. I arrived in Mongolia just as the revolution for independence from the USSR started. I have been taken up the Sepik river by crocodile hunters in Papua Guinea. I've climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in Kenya, gone horseback riding to where the Río Magdalena in Colombia begins, crossed the Australian desert, hiked the Inka trail the wrong direction in Peru, and much more. However, the experience with the most impact that I've lived through was to be arbitrarily jailed in a centre for torture in Paraguay during the Stroessner dictatorship, under the absurd accusation of being a terrorist. (More about this in my illustrated non-fiction book in Spanish about the dictator, "El Reino del Terror".) During the past two decades, I've been focused on artistic expressions – painting, photography, design and architecture, but mainly on writing. The sources for the things I'm interested in writing about are the passions of people; places and customs that I've experienced around the world; and stories or situations from life that intrigue me.

Book preview

Death is Either Certain

or Unexpected

by

Kim Ekemar

DEATH IS EUTHER CERTAIN OR UNEXPECTED

Copyright © Kim Ekemar 2010

All rights reserved.

Without the express permission in writing from the author,

no part of this work may be reproduced in any form by printing, by photocopying, or by any electronic or mechanical means. This includes information storage or retrieval systems.

Go to www.kimekemar.com

for more information about permission requests.

Edition: 1910-01

Published by

Bradley & Brougham Publishing House

2010

Contents

I Will Never Kneel Again Guatemala, 1951 – 1971

This story is based on a true event that took place in Guatemala in 1971. The execution of the culprits was widely publicised, and most people seemed to welcome their fate. What were the reasons behind their heinous crime? There must be some logical prequel to events that trigger meaningless crimes like this.

Blood Tide Brasilia, 1982

A Brazilian ghost story in which the protagonist turns out to be the unexpected game. The tide turns against the intruding civilisation by devouring it under primitive rituals. The short sentences have no subordinate clauses to make the text more forceful.

The Soul Exchange New York City, the 1980s

Unexpectedly the devil finds a new game to play, arguing that evil is more fun – and besides, it pays better. A strong but wicked character becomes a new challenge for a wasted soul as a down-and-out drug addict shapes up his body and his life.

Virtual Heaven Norway; 1996

A placid man, a jealous wife, and a mother-in-law with a venomous tongue . . . after the countdown of the last hours in Ole Olsen’s life, his accidental death comes to him as virtual relief.

The Moment of Truth Mexico, 1926 – 1976

Don Rafa is a highly likeable man, yet he can neither live with nor tell the truth. The only truths he recognises are those of male friendship and beauty. Beauty, as he sees it, exists in women and bullfighting. While relationships with the former can be based on lies, the moment of truth lies in the slaying of a bull.

The Thorn Tree Exchange Nairobi/Paris, 1980 – 1982

A seemingly unimportant incident can many years later suddenly appear in a different light. It might kill you, and it might give your future a new direction.

Dedicated to Survival The Indian Ocean, circa 1920

This tale is about a man who does not give up despite overwhelming odds in the face of nature. His journal shows him as a resourceful person whose ingenuity lets him stay alive yet another day. Even though the forces of nature threaten his survival, he appreciates its immense beauty while using it to his advantage.

The Embrace Russia, 1901

With the knowledge that death is close at hand – and with the means to fully appreciate the hours that remain – how can one embrace this very limited resource?

Struck by Luck Malaysia, 1965

Two peasants challenge each other as a result of their superstition and extreme poverty. The twist of fate distributes the rewards haphazardly, which proves that luck has many faces.

The Escape from a Prison of no Escape Chongqing, 1962

The Chinese invasion of Tibet was, and is, inexcusable from every aspect. This story shows how will eventually triumphs over brute force, how reason wins over ignorance, and how the most important freedom is that of your mind. By the way, the prison outside Chongqing is today maintained as a museum.

I Will Never Kneel Again

I must of course have memories of my father before I was six years old, but somehow I can't recall any. So, the first thing I remember about him is a huge naked body standing in front of me. His flesh was reddish and wrinkled and swollen. It looked very old. This memory is very strong, it is as if it happened yesterday, and it is difficult to describe. Anyway, when I was six years old, I found my father's body to be very impressive.

I understand now that he was drunk at the time. My mother and my older sisters were away on some errands. I know that I was alone with my father that day, the day of my first memory of any importance. I remember a naked man with his face flushed sitting on a bed screaming at me to get down on my knees. The words he shouted have hounded me through life ever since.

I obeyed. In our home my father was the one who made all the decisions and my mother the one who later quietly changed them to her own way of thinking. My mother was very clever the way she made my father believe his will was observed. I don’t think he ever noticed that she changed his orders when he was not around. Only when he was present did everyone obey my father, because he was a terrifying man.

Of course I obeyed. To follow his instruction meant I had to lower myself to the packed earth that our little adobe house had for a floor and dirty my trousers. For this I knew that my mother would scold me. But my father's authority was much greater, and therefore I obeyed him.

‘On your knees!’ he shouted again. His face was red as it always was when he had been drinking. Later I understood that he got excited when he was drunk – unless he drank too much, that is. He viewed his children as property that he could order around at his pleasure, and to my father this included sexual services from his son and daughters.

His demands to satisfy him in every way continued until I left home. Come to think of it, these were the only occasions I was allowed to open my mouth in his presence. My mother never let on that she knew what my father did with me, but I think she knew. She must have noticed how I always did my best to stay away from him. I was frightened when he was home. I’m certain he also used my sisters, because they avoided him, too. We never spoke about it, but then they were much older than I. How could my mother not have suspected? I know she tried to keep my sisters away from him as much as possible. But if my sisters weren’t available, he called on me. Perhaps she thought that I, being a boy, would be better at resisting him.

My mother was a devout Catholic. Every Sunday she took my sisters and me to the village church to share the rituals of the true faith. She observed everything that the priest preached. What men of the cloth speak, is spoken in the name of God, she explained. My sisters and I had to respect the Holy Bible and behave like we were expected to do. We were told to believe in God and the Church and the priest and the sacred union of the family, and so we did. For us it was part of everyday life, and I never questioned why we went to church. But I remember I once asked her why our father never went. Her face darkened and she didn’t answer me. Instead she told me to pray and worship and always behave myself like the priest taught me. Then she quickly turned away, and I never got the chance to ask her more about my father’s lack of show of faith.

At mass we had to eat thin white cookies and sip sour red wine out of a dented goblet. Afterwards came the moment when you had to confess and be absolved of all your sins. According to our tradition, the youngest member of each family had to enter first and the oldest last. The reasoning, I think, was that the older you are, the longer it took to confess your sins. My sisters entered the wooden box one by one to be alone with the priest. Inside the box, they were hidden behind a black heavy cloth. You could hear the voices but not the words that were spoken. Just like my mother, my sisters were awed by the priest, but I disliked him from the first time I met him. He was a thin man with white, unkempt hair and bushy eyebrows. The strangest thing about him was his eyes. They were large and black and crazy and made the priest look like he accused you. But what I most disliked about him was his strong smell. It was an unpleasant mix of stale sweat and unwashed clothes that had a distinct odour of communion wine. When I tried to ask my mother about it, she hushed me to silence before I could finish the sentence. She didn’t want to hear that anything that had to do with the Church could be bad. Even the smell of the priest was too sacred to be discussed.

When I was nine or maybe ten years old, I went to my first communion. I’m not sure of my exact age, because my parents didn’t have the custom of celebrating our birthdays. Not long afterwards I had done some mischief, and my mother decided that it was time for me to start going to confession. I screamed and raged over my mother's decision and told her I refused to see the foul-smelling priest. My mother's blind belief in all religious matters was infinitely stronger than any argument from a ten-year-old boy, so it didn’t matter how much I protested. Together we went to mass, and when it was over, I was obliged to wait for my turn to make my confession to the priest.

I wasn't too clear about what I should tell him, but I was very nervous when I entered the box. The smell inside was overwhelming. Between the priest and me, there was a wooden wall with a small opening covered by a curtain. I couldn't see him, but the smell confirmed his presence.

‘Well, my son, what do you have to tell me?’ he asked me in a low voice. ‘Confess your sins to the father.’

The unfamiliar situation made me very confused. I don’t remember what answer I stammered to him, but it must have been among the most boring confessions he had ever listened to.

When I was finished the priest said to me: ‘on your knees, son, and pray with me …’ Suddenly I hated him. His awful stench revolted me, as did the hypocrisy in his voice. But I obeyed him, because there was nothing else I could do if I wanted to be saved.

Since I had to go to the priest at least once a week, I got used to him after a while, even if I never got used to his smell. Soon I stopped stammering the confessions like my first one. As I grew older, I learnt about guilt and repentance, but it was always very hard to talk with the priest about everything that was on my mind.

All this time I was aware I left out an important part in my confessions – the things my father obliged me to do. As each Sunday drew closer, I began to worry about what to tell the priest. I couldn’t confess because I knew this sin was a very important one. Yet I knew I had to, unless I wanted to burn in hell forever after. So over the months I mustered all the courage I could. One day, I finally decided I would tell the priest what I did with my father. After every confession, he used to tell me I would be absolved from all guilt if I said my prayers to the Virgin Mary. I knew I would have to pray a lot for this, but I wouldn’t have to burn in the everlasting fire and I would no longer have to do the things my father told me to.

I couldn’t have chosen a worse moment. At the time I was twelve years old and my voice was just beginning to break. I didn't know it then, but later I have realised that the priest could only put up with women and children, and of course I was not a child anymore. He talked about God’s wrath and used strange words in Latin to keep women and children in check, but the men always treated him with contempt. Nobody talked much about it, though, out of respect for the Church. The priest knew this, I think, and that’s probably why he resented any boy who showed signs of becoming a man.

When mass was over, I waited for my turn to go into the confession booth. Inside, I was met with the usual mix of sour wine and clothes that hadn’t been washed for a long time. It was very hard for me to begin and I began to hesitate if it was the right moment.

‘Yes, my son, what is it you have to tell me today?’ the priest asked me. I noticed he had eaten a lot of onion the night before.

‘I’m – I’m not certain …’ my voice sounded like when a frog croaks and I sensed that he didn’t like how my voice had begun to change. But then I couldn't help myself. Once I began to talk, I couldn’t stop. If there was one place and time to tell the truth, it was in that little booth where this stinking tool of God had to order me the number of prayers that I should offer to the Virgin and tell me I had been forgiven. We didn’t like each other, but I nevertheless told him everything. I did it because God had left him in charge of the Holy Church in our village and because my mother had taught me that he was the one I should confess all my sins to.

At first I couldn’t find the right words, the proper ones that you use when you’re going to talk about important things in the church. Then I forgot myself and in my broken voice I told him everything off the top of my head. Maybe I was too blunt. The priest gasped more times during this confession than in all the years I had known him. I didn’t think much about this at the time, though, because I wanted to get it off my chest once and for all. At last I was able to put into words all the wrong things I had done to my father.

For the first time since I had started to go to confession, the priest remained silent when I had finished. His silence made me anxious. From his reaction, I could tell it was the worst sin that he had ever listened to in the confession box. Then I began to understand that I must have gone beyond the limit of what can be confessed and what can’t. With sinking heart, I realised I was condemned to fire and brimstone when I died. God had abandoned me, because my sins were too great.

‘My son,’ the priest finally shouted, ‘you are a disgrace to the morals of the Catholic Church … a … a betrayer of the Christian Faith!’ Until then, I had not been aware that a confession could get me branded as a traitor to my faith. That’s when I understood my case was a hopeless one, and that I belonged to the devil.

‘Down!’ he shouted, loud enough for the people waiting outside to hear him, ‘down on your knees and repent! The temptations of the dark powers reside in you! The devil has taken hold of your soul! Let us pray for the Lord’s mercy!’ He was working himself into a frenzy. ‘On your knees, you wretched boy, and let us pray!’

I broke into a sweat. It had taken me a long time to make the decision to confess my deepest secret to the priest. I had hoped that he would understand and say that God would understand too, and that the demons inside would go away. I hadn’t expected the priest, the only one in our little village who could hear confessions and give absolution for our sins, to react like this.

I fell to my knees and for a long time I mumbled all the prayers the priest demanded. Outside the murmur had become stronger when the priest had shouted and I suppose also because people were curious about why I spent so much time with him. The people whispering about me outside and the confusion I felt inside made it hard for me to concentrate on the prayers.

In the middle of one, the answer struck me. My father had forced me on my knees for his pleasure. He