By Mark T. Mustian
To most folks, Emmett Conn is a stressed previous global struggle I veteran, fading out and in of senility. yet in his brain, Emmett is haunted via occasions he'd lengthy forgotten. In his goals, he is a gendarme, a soldier marching Armenians out of Turkey. He commits unspeakable acts. but he feels forced to spare one awesome girl: Araxie, the lady with the piercing eyes-one eco-friendly, one blue.
As the earlier and current bleed jointly in The Gendarme, Emmett Conn units out on one ultimate trip to discover Araxie and beg forgiveness, ahead of it is too overdue. With uncompromising imaginative and prescient and boundless compassion, Mark Mustian has written a transcendent meditation at the energy of memory-and the risks of forgetting who we are and feature been.
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Additional info for The Gendarme
I have been healthy, amazingly so. I cannot explain my physique. I used to swim some, but not anymore. I rode a bike for many years. Even then, people used to comment on my body. ” they would ask. The doctors are always amazed. I quit smoking when I was fifty. I drink only tea. Perhaps this is why I have gone along with this surgery. I have a few aches and false teeth and sometimes I lose my balance, but for the most part I feel fine. “Do not worry,” I say to her. It is I who worry. I cannot tell her that I have enjoyed my freedom since Carol’s death.
They push double carts, mounded with pizzas, with dog food, with packaged goods. I stare at the coffee, the purples and grays on its top. The door opens and closes. Wilfred does not come. In the dream there are colors—so brilliant as to make daylight dull. Sound, too, even smell. I can feel things, feel the cold seep through blankets. Taste? There is halva, sucuk, food seared on a flame. I curl my tongue, lick my lips. I am alive here, anticipating. The last strands of dusk light the sky, coating lean clouds shades of orange and gray.
I find this custom so strange, even for the South. The viewing, the tears. The rustle of clothing, the gentle coughs. There is a funeral home nearby with a drive-through for viewing—a horn’s honk pulls the curtain back. I have driven through once. What is the nursery song I learned with my English? “Life is but a . ” I force a smile from my lips. I remember Carol’s funeral. So similar—many of those present today were there then. I sat with Violet and Lissette but could not look at my daughters.
The Gendarme by Mark T. Mustian