PEN International Magazine
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PEN International addresses a global audience and features original work by contemporary writers from around the world.
Founded in 1950, the magazine was originally a compendium of reviews of world literature entitled ‘Bulletin of Selected Books'. Over the years, it was expanded to include articles, stories and poems either contributed directly or reprinted from other publications.
The magazine is read by the 144 PEN Centres in 102 countries, as well as readers all over the world.
In 2007, PEN International was relaunched with the ‘Context:' series, featuring a new design, a dedicated editor and special guest writers. ‘Context:' showcases writing from different regions of the world with the express goal of introducing the work of new and established writers to each other and to readers everywhere. It has so far covered Africa and the Middle East. ‘Context: Latin America' will appear in autumn 2008 and ‘Context: Asia/Pacific' in 2009. A special issue will be published in spring 2008 called ‘The Writer Next Door', and will be dedicated to International PEN's annual literary theme of the same name.
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Volume 59, No. 1, Spring/Summer 2009
The magazine of International PEN
Le magazine de PEN International
La revista de PEN Internacional
Editor’s Note
Welcome to ‘Heaven and Earth’.
The theme of this issue takes its inspiration from International PEN’s second
annual Free the Word! festival of world literature in
We have asked our contributors to respond to this theme in a personal way, and
the results hint at an almost infinite range of cultural perspectives.
Take our special guest writers, both of whom appear at the festival. Each has
taken ‘Earth’ as synonymous with that other possible antonym for ‘Heaven’: fearless
truth-teller Lydia Cacho of Mexico reports on her encounters during a recent trip
to
beings seem all to adept at inflicting on their fellows; Petina Gappah of
imagines the lives of a young family who have made their way from hellish
circumstances to a better place – only to discover that ‘better’ is relative.
It’s not all infernal, of course. Jack Waveney’s narrator flies above
Lines and vividly senses the Great Mystery; there is a numinous quality, too,
in Rebecca O’Connor’s tiny poem rooted in the material world.
Most of the writers in this issue grapple with the realities confronting us
in between Heaven and Earth: Azar Nafisi (also appearing at Free the Word!)
remembers a girl’s striking moment of independent thought under an authoritarian
theocracy; Kachi Ozumba’s hapless Nigerian pastor comes down to Earth from hislofty sense of self at the hands of canny, corrupt policemen; Jason Mooreland takes
a thoughtful look at a troubling trend in education and wonders which way it
will lead us.
For some, the ‘earthier’ elements of our existence take centre-stage: Florian
Zeller (another festival guest) gives us a cynical, desperate traveller who views
sexual encounters strictly in terms of ‘exchange rates’, and Encarna Cabello’s
young North African couple discover the erotic potential of a common garment.
The Earth as a planet harbouring ferocious power features as well, in a poem
by Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih (appearing at Free the Word! as well) that considers
the aftermath of the tsunami of 2004, and in a story by Élise Gruau set on
that Aeolian island in thrall to its volcano.
Heaven and Earth: sooner or later we must each of us come to terms with either
one, or both. We hope the writing in this issue can provide some sustenance for
that journey.
Mitchell Albert, Editor
mitchell.albert@internationalpen.org.uk
Roy Ashwell
The Old One’s Things
From the shed his spade,
From the porch his cap.
I lift the ash-shafted steel
Over the earth
And feel his hard hand over mine.
The cap on rainy evenings
Clasps my head,
Warming the skull beneath.
Rebecca O’Connor
Snow
Recordings of birdsong fill the studio below
where you are painting the bull in snow.
The cuckoo sounds frightened.
The bull stands sentry as the white of day
turns to the violet of night.
Eric Berkowitz
Excerpt from a work in progress
Sex, Law and History (working title)
Sex, Law and History considers the ancient struggle between human sexuality
and the laws that govern societies, ranging from ancient times to the present day.
Virginity’s Price: The Vestal Virgins and the Fate of Rome
The primary goal of Roman sex law was to channel female sexual behaviour, not
forbid it outright. Women were expected to marry and produce legitimate children.
Total abstinence was never part of the plan, with the exception of six priestesses
whose untouched bodies symbolised
1
and whose holy
virginity ensured the safety of the city. It took just a single detour by one of them
to turn stability into chaos. When that happened, there were meticulous rituals
in place to purge the curse and restore hope: failed Vestals were buried alive in an
underground chamber, and it was left to Vesta, the goddess they served, to decide
whether they lived or died.
2
For minor offences, a Vestal risked being scourged in private by
priest, the Pontifex Maximus.
3
But a Vestal’s violation of her vow of chastity was
a public curse. All participated in the expiation. Immediately after her conviction,
the guilty priestess was flogged and then bound in thick cloth to muffle her
lamentations. Churning like a larva, she was put on a litter bed and carried through
the Forum. Thousands watched in tearful silence as she passed. ‘No other spectacle
is more appalling,’ wrote Plutarch of such sights, ‘nor does any other day bring more
gloom to the city than this.’
4
The crowd’s sombre mood came not from the woman’s
imminent death – gory public executions were common enough – but from terror
at what might result from the Vestal’s loss of virginity.
The procession ended near the Colline Gate, just inside one of the city’s walls,
where the burial chamber awaited. The room was supplied with furniture, a lamp
and bits of food, milk and oil. The Vestal was unfastened from her coverings except
for a veil over her face. As her soiled body stood in the wind, an object of grief and
scorn, the Pontifex Maximus stretched his hands toward heaven, muttered some
prayers and then sent her down into the hole. As soon as she was underground,
attendants sealed the room with stones and spread earth around it so that no traces
of it, or her, remained.
Technically, this was not an execution. No one shouldered the responsibility
of killing a Vestal, even a guilty one. The few provisions supplied to the accused
priestess absolved the priests for her death and gave Vesta the opportunity to hand
down the ultimate ruling. If the Vestal was, in fact, found by the goddess to have
broken her chastity vow, Vesta rebalanced the celestial scales by letting her starve
and suffocate. If she was innocent, Vesta could lift her up and restore her. Of theten or so Vestal virgins who endured this process over seven centuries, none was
resurrected. Their guilt was confirmed beyond doubt and
until the next Vestal misbehaved.
Only girls between six and ten years old who were deemed perfect in all
respects were eligible for service in Vesta’s temple. No marks, lisps or other defects
were allowed. Both parents had to be alive and married, with no divorce, scandal or
slave blood clouding their lineage. Selected girls underwent an elaborate initiation
process that put them in service to Vesta and
women belonged to one man or another, but not the Vestals. They alone were free
from male control, because they were the sisters, daughters and wives of the city
itself. They were taken from their homes to Vesta’s temple in the Forum, where
they lived for at least thirty years.
5
Vesta was the goddess of the hearth, and of the
Earth itself.
6 The perpetual flame that burned in the Atrium Vestae was the fulcrum
of Roman life. Just as early
of holy substances and took care of dozens of other ritual duties.
7
For that, the
priestesses received extraordinary privileges. They were allotted prime seats at the
theatre and at gladiatorial games, and rode in ornate carriages with bodyguards to
move people out of their way. Even consuls had to step aside. If, during their travels
around town, they encountered a criminal about to be executed, the man’s life was
spared. (However, anyone with the nerve to pass under a Vestal’s carriage would
be killed.) When Vestals died, they were among the very few inhabitants of
whose burial was permitted within the city’s sacred precincts.
8
Most Vestals kept their bodies and reputations intact. There were precautions
in place to prevent temptation (their temple was closed to all men at night, even
doctors), but it was inevitable that some would fail. When a Vestal had sex, the
crime was incestum – an offence that incorporated incest (all Roman men were
their family) and sexual defilement. Because that loss of virginity was a direct
assault on the state, calamities were often blamed on Vestal incestum. In what
seemed like an instant, they transformed from high priestesses to monstrous
scapegoats.
The very fact of
In 483 BC, the city was at war with the Volsci and the
resources should have permitted it to make short work of these enemies, but
was wasting its advantages on internal struggles. To make matters worse, there
were daily heavenly prodigies showing the gods’ anger and portending disaster.
The city was in a panic. Its priests could not figure out what was causing the
problems, even after consulting animal entrails and bird flight patterns. They thenconcluded that a Vestal was misbehaving. ‘These terrors finally resulted in the
Vestal virgin Oppia being condemned for incestum and executed,’ wrote Livy.
9
In 215 BC, in the alarm over
of
them was buried alive; the other was allowed to commit suicide. A century later,
after the destruction of the army of Marcus Porcius Cato in
were put on trial for conduct more fitting to prostitutes than professional virgins.
‘Three had known men at the same time,’ wrote Cassius Dio. ‘Of these, Marcia had
acted by herself, granting favours to one single knight … Aemilia and Licina, on theother hand, had a multitude of lovers and carried on their wanton behaviour with
each other’s help.’
10
If that was not bad enough, the fire in Vesta’s temple began to sputter out on
its own – a sure sign of Vestal misconduct – and a bolt of lightning killed a noble
girl on her horse, leaving her dress hiked up above her waist.
11
At first, only the Vestal
Marcia was found guilty, but the public’s thirst for a clear remedy for all this trouble
was too strong for a single verdict to stand. A second trial was convened, and the
other two Vestals convicted. All three were buried alive.
Vestals were sometimes prosecuted in the absence of a calamity. Emperor
Domitian’s moral reforms were punctuated by trials against Vestals for incestum.
12
The chief Vestal, Cornelia, was buried alive in 83 AD, but did not go down quietly:
‘Is it possible?’ she demanded of Domitian as he watched her being led to the
hole. ‘Does Caesar think that I have been unchaste, when he has conquered and
triumphed while I have been performing the rites?’
13
In other words, how dare
Domitian accuse her when he has enjoyed good fortune? But he did anyway.
Some Vestals were able to acquit themselves at trial with impressive feats of
magic. The priestess Tuccia was charged, in 230 BC, with giving away her virginity
based on one man’s accusation. Calling Vesta to her aid, she led a crowd to the
amazement, the water did not drain out of the holes. She took it back to the Forum,
where she dumped the river water onto the feet of her judges. Her life was spared,
and her accuser was never heard from again.
14
Another time, after the sacred fire
went out on the Vestal Aemilia’s watch, the priests enquired as to whether she had
been entertaining men. In the presence of everyone, she cried out:
O Vesta, guardian of the Romans’ city, if, during the space of nearly thirty years,
I have performed the sacred offices in a holy and proper manner, keeping a pure
mind and a chaste body, manifest yourself in my defence and assist me and do
not suffer your priestess to die the most miserable of all deaths; but if I have
been guilty of any impious deed, let my punishment expiate the guilt of the city.
She then threw a piece of her clothing on the cold altar where the fire had burned.
Instantly, a flame burst through the linen. With that, the city was safe again, and
Aemilia cleared.
15
The Vestal college lasted for about a millennium, until the fire was put out
forever and the order disbanded in the fourth century AD by the Christian emperor
Theodosius. Judging by
well by keeping the sacred fire lit and men out of their beds. In a sex-soaked culture
in which aristocratic women tried to register as prostitutes, the Vestals’ untouched
genitals were a guarantee of
(Unpublished, 2009)
1 Holt Parker, ‘Why Were the Vestals Virgins?’, American Journal of Philology,
vol. 124, no. 4 (2004), p. 568.
2 Sarah B. Pomeroy, Goddess, Whores, Wives, and Slaves: Women in Classical
Antiquity (
(Loeb Classical Lib. 1936, Frank Cole Babbit, tr.), ch. 96.
3 Plutarch, Life of Numa Pompilius (Loeb Classical Lib. 1914, Bernadotte Perrin, tr.),
ch. 10.
4 Ibid., see also Dionysus of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities (Loeb Classical Lib.
1937, Earnest
5 Plutarch, Life of Numa Pompilius, ch. 10. It seems that many Vestals stayed
longer than the required three decades, however, as they had bad luck with
their marriages after laying down their sacred offices.
6 Robin Lorsch Wildfang,
Priestesses in the Late Republic and Early Empire (Routledge 2006), pp. 6–60;
see also Dionysus of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, Book II, ch. 66: ‘And they
regard the fire as consecrated to Vesta because that goddess, being the Earth
and occupying the central place in the universe, kindles the celestial fires from
herself.’
7 Wildfang, pp. 16–17. The Vestals were involved in other practices that seem
incompatible with virginity, e.g. agricultural and fertility rituals such as
the Fordicidia rites, in which a Vestal burned a fetus torn from an unfortunate
pregnant cow; see also Pomeroy, p. 211, and Mary Beard, ‘The Sexual Status of
Vestal Virgins’, Journal of Roman Studies, vol. 70, p. 13 (1980). The Vestals’
chastity throughout their fertile years gave them ‘stored up, potential
procreative power’ (Beard, p. 15).
8 Parker, p. 568; O. F. Robinson, Ancient
(Routledge 1994), p. 124.
9 Livy, History of
10 Cassius Dio, Roman History (Loeb Classical Lib. 1925, Earnest Cary, tr.) ch. 26.87.
11 Wildfang, pp. 93–4.
12 Cassius Dio, Roman History, ch. 67.3; The Letters of the Younger Pliny (Penguin
1963, Betty Radice, tr.), pp. 118–19; Brian W. Jones, The Emperor Domitian
(Routledge 1992), pp. 101–2.
13 Pliny, Letters, 43.
14 Dionysus of
15 Ibid., ch. 68.
Natalia Smirnova
Gas
look, we intend to croak. but we will just
live on. and on and on and on
and on, wrinkle-free, in a tiny flat
where there is no heating, only gas
where coffee grows old and grows cold
within two minutes. not like in
of course – we’ve got some gas – but heating,
there’s neither heating nor even water
that could flood the place, flood it, no,
if only we could have our flood, or blood
but there’s no flood, no wrinkles, no poison
with which to croak and no home to live at
or leave. but there’s gas, at least.
god bless
Translated from the Russian by the author
Kachi A. Ozumba
THE POLICE IS YOUR FRIEND
Nduka was determined not to leave the Ikeja police station without his police
report. He waited at the counter, his gaze fixed on a poster on the opposite wall.
Although he had seen the poster many times before, it never failed to arrest his
attention. It depicted a policeman smiling broadly and benignly; radiating beneath
it was the caption: THE POLICE IS YOUR FRIEND.
A policeman emerged from the door behind the counter. His black uniform bore
the two red stripes of a corporal. Leaning on the grimy wooden counter, he asked:
‘Good morning, sir, can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m Pastor Nduka Obi, and I’ll like to see Sergeant Bello.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, the sergeant is not around at the moment. Is there anyway I can
be of help?’
For a mere corporal, the policeman’s English was flawless, Nduka thought: his
tone was polite, his manners polished. Although this was his third time at the
station that week, Nduka could not help being reminded that the corporal before
him was not a semi-illiterate, as was so often the case in years past. A government
policy a few years back had pegged the minimum qualification for recruitment
into the police force at a National Diploma. This was to help stem corruption and
make the force friendlier.
‘Yes. He’s the one handling my case. I lost my passport two weeks ago, and I
need a police report to obtain a new one, which I will need for my trip to the
a month’s time. The report has already been written since my first visit. All that has
been holding it is the Divisional Police Officer’s stamp. I need it to apply for my visa,
and I’m already running late.’
‘You say the report has been written since your first visit; how come you have
not collected it since then?’
‘On the first visit, I was told the DPO was not around; on the second, I was told
he needed time to study the document; on the third, I was told the document had
been signed and only the stamping by the DPO remained, and they were looking
for both the DPO and the stamp. Please, corporal, I hope I won’t leave here today
without it.’
The corporal smiled, but it was a tight-lipped smile, and the pastor felt there
was something incongruous about it. He could not tell whether it was born of
sympathy or mockery.
‘I really apologise for the delay so far. But you know how life is: nothing is
predictable. Anything can crop up at any time to cause a delay. But if you’re
determined, then your determination will move mountains – and you’ll get your
report today.’ The corporal smiled again, glad to show the pastor that he knewsomething of the Bible.
‘Of course I’m determined to get it today,’ the pastor answered, irritation
seeping into his voice. ‘I’ve been determined to get it since the first day.’
‘Okay, I’ll see the DPO about it right away. Won’t you like to send your regards?’
‘I don’t even know him,’ Nduka said. ‘Well, tell him a law-abiding citizen sends
his regards.’
The corporal hesitated, staring for some time at Nduka, then turned and
disappeared through the door. Moments later he reappeared, shaking his head.
‘The DPO has yet to reach your file. He has so many files to attend to, those of
people who came before you. We operate on a first-come, first-served basis, so
please exercise some patience.’
A red curtain fell over the pastor’s eyes, making them bloodshot. His voice rose
an octave: ‘What … what nonsense is this? Do I have to pass through the eye of a
needle just to collect a common police report? You people are –’ He caught himself
back from swearing. Be angry but do not sin, he cautioned himself, quoting the
Bible.
The corporal must have taken pity on him. ‘But, sir, why are you making things
so difficult for yourself? Have you not got the message? All that stands between
you and your report is just an express-service mobilisation fee of a mere two
hundred naira!’
Nduka’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘What exactly are you saying?’ he asked.
‘Are you suggesting that I give a bribe in order to collect my police report?’
He pointed to a poster on the wall to his right. ‘I’m sure you can read this!’ The poster bore the bold caption:
DO NOT GIVE BRIBE
IT IS ILLEGAL
‘Of course I can,’ replied the policeman. He gestured at another poster behind the
pastor. ‘I hope you have also read that one.’ It had an even bolder caption:
HELP THE POLICE TO
HELP YOU
‘I’m not asking for a bribe,’ the policeman said, ‘but that you help us to help you.’
‘I want to see your DPO right away,’ Nduka said. His anger had given way to a
zealous determination to fight corruption.
‘Sir, I’ll advise you to stick with me. Just pay the two hundred-naira mobilisation
fee and you’ll get your report. The higher you go, the higher the amount that will
be demanded of you.’
‘Will you take me to your DPO right now, or do you want me to find my way
there?’
‘Well, if that’s your wish …’
The corporal led Nduka into a dim hallway with several doors. He tapped on the
last door, on which a sign was affixed that read: DIVISIONAL POLICE OFFICER (DPO);
then he ushered Nduka in.
It was a small cluttered office. The DPO sat behind an enormous desk strewnwith files and papers. A miniature national flag sat between two plaques on the
table. On one of the plaques was engraved the name ‘Owonikoko J. A., B.Sc. M.Sc.’.
On the other was perhaps the man’s personal motto: Heaven helps those who
know how to help themselves.
The DPO lifted his face, frowning with irritation.
‘Good day DPO Owonikoko,’ Nduka began. ‘I have a problem.’
‘You have your problems, I have my problems, everyone has his problems,’
the DPO replied. He returned his gaze to the files before him.
This not-so-subtle message was not lost on Nduka: How can you persuade
me to abandon my problems and help you with yours? Blood raced through
the pastor’s veins, and his lips trembled. He nearly screamed his reply: ‘Well, my
problem now is that if I do not walk out of this station today with my police report,
the evils of this station shall be all over tomorrow’s papers!’
The DPO looked up sharply. He ran an appraising eye over this new-generation
pastor before him, taking in his Piaget wristwatch and Gucci shoes, the expensive
cut of his suit. A huge smile replaced his frown. Once again, Nduka felt odd about
the smile. It was indulgent – as though the man could see through his bluff. But
there was still something else hidden in its wide expanse, something the pastor
could not place his finger on.
The DPO waved Nduka to a seat and said: ‘Please calm down, and sit down.’
The corporal eased himself out of the office as Nduka sat, shutting the door quietly
behind him. ‘You are?’
‘Pastor Nduka Obi of the Mighty Faith Ministries.’
‘Oh, that’s the one located along the Lagos–Ibadan expressway, isn’t it?’
The pastor nodded.
‘Hmm! So you people are the ones building that gigantic church, eh? Great.
How can I help you?’
Nduka took a deep breath. ‘For over two weeks now,’ he said, ‘I’ve been trying
to collect a simple police report with which I may apply for the replacement of my
missing passport. You see, I have to be in the
the report urgently so that I can obtain a new passport and apply for a visa.
Now your corporal is telling me I have to give a bribe before I can collect it.’
The DPO sprang from his seat and went over to the door, quickly. ‘Corporal!’
he bellowed. ‘Corporal!’
The corporal appeared promptly.
‘Did you ask this righteous gentleman for a bribe?’
‘Bribe?’ the corporal said, shocked. ‘No, sir. I only asked him for the usual express-
service mobilisation fee of two hundred naira, sir.’
‘Two hundred naira?’ the DPO barked. ‘Since when did the mobilisation fee
become two hundred naira? It’s five hundred! Something must be wrong with you.
Are you sure you were not planning to pocket the money?’
‘No, sir. I would have placed it into the coffers of the station and had it duly
receipted.’
‘Okay, you can go now. I’ll see you about it later.’
Nduka’s heart sank as he watched the whole exchange.
‘You see,’ began the DPO as he came round to his seat, now smiling benignly.
‘We have to collect such fees when someone wants us to jump the usual process and give him what amounts to an express service. It’s our policy, and you will find the same everywhere, even in the presidency. Such fees help us in running
the station. You know as well as I do that in this country one cannot rely entirely
on the government.’
‘My report has already been delayed for over a week, and you’re still talking of
express service!’ The pastor’s voice was losing something of its crusader’s fervour.
‘You would appreciate the express nature of the service if you knew the
enormous number of reports and complaints we receive daily. Some have waited
months, indeed years, to collect a common police report. We try our best, but we
can only do so much …’ The DPO broke off, spreading his hands in a gesture of
helplessness.
‘And you’re asking for what you call a “mobilisation fee”, which you know as
well as I do is only a euphemism for a bribe.’
‘Bribe? No!’ The DPO shook his head, apparently hurt. ‘How can you say that?
Even the good Lord demands some mobilisation fee for the work He does for us.
Please correct me if I’m wrong, but my pastor says it is written in the Scriptures
that the Lord demands one-tenth of our earnings – what the Scriptures call tithes,
and what you collect, un-taxed, as offertory in your churches.’
The pastor opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
‘It’s really no different here,’ said the DPO.
Nduka suddenly felt tired. He glanced at his watch. He felt like running out
of the station. The atmosphere was beginning to choke him.
‘You have to understand that we cannot be partial in the way we apply our
policy here,’ the DPO began again. ‘So, just release the funds and I’ll personally
see to it that you get your report immediately.’
Slowly, Nduka reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a five-hundred
naira note.
Lord, please forgive me if I’m committing a sin, he prayed silently.
But you’re only giving to Caesar what is Caesar’s, another voice whispered.
Nduka was about to banish it as the voice of Satan, but hesitated. He filed it away
in his mind. He would examine the idea later; there might be some truth in it.
He handed the money to the officer across the table.
I think You want to read more:
http://www.internationalpen.org.uk/go/pen-international-magazine/pen-international-magazine
posted by Albert Ashok from the source International PEN magazine
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