Surname: KATSOULARISFirst Name: KOSTAS
Categories : Short Story/ Novel / Translation
Date of Birth: 1968
Place of Birth: Arta, Greece
Education: · Economics, University of Athens, BA
· Arts, Sorbonne Nouvelle (Paris III)
Extra Activities: · Since 1999, he is writing critics for literature in the weekly edition of “TO VIMA” (published every Sunday) · Providing literary translation seminars at EKEMEL as educator since 2002 · Writing screenplays and working as writer for T.V. shows · Publishing short stories and articles at various literary reviews (Nea Hestia, Dendro, Na ena milo, etc)
Foreign Languages: French, English
E-mail Address: kostas.katsoularis@gmail.com
Web Site Address: http://www.katsoularis.gr
Works:
Novels:
· “The adversary”, novel, Polis Publishers, 2005
· “Summer visitor”, novel, Hestia Editions, 2001
· “The daisy syndrome”, novel, Hestia Editions, 1998
· "Stories from the surface”, Hestia Editions, 1997
Theatre:
· “When the wolf is in the woods”, play, Polis Publishers, 2004
(At “Semio Theatre”, December 2004 – April 2005)
Translations:
Michel Houellebecq, “Atomised”, Hestia Editions
Philippe Sollers, “Passion fixe”, Ekkremes Editions
Tsvetan Todorov, “Memory of the evil, temptation of the good”, Hestia Editions
Francois Taillhadier, “Anielka”, Polis Publishers
Francois Taillhadier, “The Gentile case”, Polis Publishers
Gamal Ghitany, “There, where the sun sets”, Kastaniotis Editions
Dhai Souji, “The Di complexe”, Diigisi Editions,
and others.
The adversary
READ AN EXCERPT: The adversary
Chapter 40
Extra Activities: · Since 1999, he is writing critics for literature in the weekly edition of “TO VIMA” (published every Sunday) · Providing literary translation seminars at EKEMEL as educator since 2002 · Writing screenplays and working as writer for T.V. shows · Publishing short stories and articles at various literary reviews (Nea Hestia, Dendro, Na ena milo, etc)
Foreign Languages: French, English
E-mail Address: kostas.katsoularis@gmail.com
Web Site Address: http://www.katsoularis.gr
Works:
Novels:
· “The adversary”, novel, Polis Publishers, 2005
· “Summer visitor”, novel, Hestia Editions, 2001
· “The daisy syndrome”, novel, Hestia Editions, 1998
· "Stories from the surface”, Hestia Editions, 1997
Theatre:
· “When the wolf is in the woods”, play, Polis Publishers, 2004
(At “Semio Theatre”, December 2004 – April 2005)
Translations:
Michel Houellebecq, “Atomised”, Hestia Editions
Philippe Sollers, “Passion fixe”, Ekkremes Editions
Tsvetan Todorov, “Memory of the evil, temptation of the good”, Hestia Editions
Francois Taillhadier, “Anielka”, Polis Publishers
Francois Taillhadier, “The Gentile case”, Polis Publishers
Gamal Ghitany, “There, where the sun sets”, Kastaniotis Editions
Dhai Souji, “The Di complexe”, Diigisi Editions,
and others.
The adversary
READ AN EXCERPT: The adversary
THERE ARE NO LIMITS. The advertising banner of some telecom company was
flashing before your eyes, as if mocking you. This was your ninth consecutive attempt to
get past the second question, and once again you’d failed. Four whole attempts had been
wasted just to get past the ‘red or black’ stage. You’d applied the classic trick: betting
continuously on the black, convinced that these machines are programmed never to stay
on the same colour for too long. It was only in your fifth attempt that the ball finally came to rest squarely on the black. Moving on, you lost in your attempt to answer the very first question—an unexpectedly difficult one that you’d never come across before—and in your seventh shot you lost the ‘black or red’ bet yet again. Likewise in the eighth. In your ninth attempt, you got past the ‘red or black’ stage, answered the first question (Which is the most abundant element in our sun? B. Hydrogen), but stumbled on the second (Which capital city lies closest to the North Pole?) since the damn machine insisted on one of the wrong answers (D. Oslo, instead of A. Reykjavik). It was clear that not only was the Game not favouring you tonight, but that nothing was going right. The strange thing was that you’d not yet encountered a single question you yourself had written or edited.
You were just about to quit when a pop up—completely unrelated to the Game—
appeared on the screen with the following announcement: Do you want to continue
anyway? At the same time, the telecom company logo banner was changed,
and in its place appeared the slogan ‘ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE’. It was obviously a trap, yet the thought of leaving the game a loser was unbearable. Besides, you had taken
precautions: the limit on the credit card which you used to ‘play’ had been restricted to a
mere 1500 euro. Whatever happened—even if the machine cheated you—your loss would not exceed that amount.
So you clicked on YES. The screen displaying the Game disappeared; your own picture appeared in its place. It was an old photo from your schooldays, the shoulders of your fellow students to your right and left could still be made out. A few seconds later, the school photo disappeared, the background colour changed, and your wedding photo
appeared. Less than a second later, a photo of Serge as a baby filled the screen, followed
by a more recent one. Almost automatically, your hand sprang out and pressed Escape.
The last photo ‘froze’ on the screen, and moments later the same announcement
reappeared: Do you want to continue anyway?
You clicked on YES. A close-up of you now appeared, taken during your visit to
Gala S.A. – you recognised it from the suit you were wearing. It must have been taken while you were talking with the contact manager. It was followed by another photo (in this one you’re on your knees) taken at the moment you came through the leather-panelled door only to end up flat on the floor of the empty room.
Do you want to continue anyway?
You hesitated momentarily, but two seconds later clicked on YES again. The next
photograph hit you like a hammer. You made out Mia’s face, slightly distorted. The shot
was exceptionally close up and strange; you couldn’t understand her expression, yet your
heart had already begun to pound quickly. And then you noticed something in the
background which made you jump out of your seat. Just behind Mia, barely visible, was a
strange male figure. You placed your face closer to the monitor now to get a better look.
Not necessary. Instantly, a new photograph appeared—one that left no room for doubt:
behind Mia, in a particularly revealing pose, were you. The snapshot had been taken the exact moment of penetration, Mia’s strange expression the result of her face being pressed against the mirror—where, it was now obvious, a camera had been hidden. You remained motionless, mouth wide open like some sort of fool, staring, first at yourself, then at Mia, the star of yet another of those millions of pornographic photos circulating the internet. You felt a mixture of shame and repulsion, and even though the images that followed could have taken no more than 20 seconds, each replacing the next in quick succession, they left a marked impression on your mind—like some dreams which years later one still remembers with such vividness and detail, as if dreamt the night before.
The image began to shake. Now a pastiche of amateurish, or affectedly mateurish,
video clips: in the same pose, the same mirror, the same lift, a man in a black hood begins
to screw Mia from behind, releasing disgusting cries mixed with laughter. A sudden
change in the picture: Mia is on the floor, half naked. Now another man, possibly the same hooded figure—shot from behind, his image remained unclear—kicks Mia mercilessly in the ribs and stomach; she has blood on her face. The scene is accompanied by sound effects from some porn movie, some words in German are spoken and there is ceaseless moaning. Next frame: a man on the floor—you—half naked, unconscious on a dirty mattress. The previous man, still hooded, is holding a gun, which he waves around the room. He aims at the camera, pretending to shoot, chuckles, then turns to where you lie unconscious, aims at you and approaches, nearing the gun to your head, almost pressing it against your temple. The shot changes to a close-up of Mia, the gun up against her cheek; she doesn’t look well, as if she’s taken something; a mixture of hysterical laughter and tears alternate on her face. Indistinguishable sounds are heard, something like dragging, something out of the frame breaks, a loud barking, the filming is suddenly cut, the image returns to that of the Game. An advert for vodka now sits on the top part of the screen.
SOMETHING RED TO BELIEVE IN.
A stifled scream rose from your throat. You hid your face in your hands, your head
collapsed uncontrollably over the keyboard. You don’t know how long you remained that
way—fifteen minutes, thirty, a whole hour? You don’t know. All you know is that after
some time, like some sleepwalker, you got up, put on your clothes and shoes, and left the
house.
You headed down toward the small park. You were certain that you’d find her waiting there, as always, accompanied by Einstein.
You were mistaken.
A few meters nearby, there was a huge gathering at the church of Saint Nicholas.
Through the loudspeakers, the echoes of some liturgy reached your ears, its melody unworldly and soothing, like a lullaby. Was it some kind of holiday? People came and went, a few of them holding well-dressed and groomed children by the hand—it was getting late, but the children looked happy holding their father’s hand.
It was another world within your own.
You got up and walked towards Smolenski street, just a few blocks away. You called her to mind—random pictures, wild images—and felt the member at your groin being roused yet again. First it stirred and, before you knew it, was hard. You needed to seek cover, to take care, to save yourself. But you couldn’t turn back now. Sometimes one’s body is forced to seek out that other body.
You stood in front of her apartment building, number 11, and pressed the unmarked bell. Nothing. You waited a little, then rang again. Again, nothing. You tried once more, pressed some of the other bells as well. Again, nothing.
You decided to wait. The building displayed a multitude of bells—sooner or later,
someone would enter or leave. Barely finishing your thought, you noticed the lift light
turn on. Someone coming down. You waited, but seconds later the light went off again.
Now what could that mean? Someone moving between floors? Someone playing with the
lift door?
(No, someone playing with you.)
You cast your gaze along the footpath—there were broken things all over the place, you quickly found what you were looking for. You picked up a piece of paving stone, went back and stood before the entrance of the building. You looked around.
The glass panel shattered in one go, you never imagined it would make so much noise. You jumped inside and bolted up the stairs. Usually in such instances, peaceful tenants—if there were in fact any tenants to be found in this building—jump out onto the balcony in fear. Yet, sure enough, not a single door opened the whole time you made your way to the fifth floor, not a single light was switched on in the stairwell.
You stood outside the door and pressed the bell. No sound. You were about to bang with your fist, but it became unnecessary. The door was open. You pushed it ever so
gently. The timer light behind you went off, darkness was now almost complete. You
strained to listen. Absolute silence. You switched on the light in the corridor again and
stepped inside the flat. With the help of your lighter, you managed to locate the main
power switch. You lifted it and all at once the entire place was lit up.
You looked around. Not a soul. The dirty mattress was in its place, but everything else was gone. You moved to the end of the hall; the sliding glass-panel door was half open. A heavy animal-like stench reached you from the empty room. You took a closer look—dog excrement littered the room here and there.
You made a quick inspection of the other rooms – there were at least six of them.
Rubbish, beer cans, a few newspapers, two or three torn magazines. You poked at one or
two of these with your foot. They were foreign porn mags. Something like graffiti was
drawn on one of the walls—a strange-looking little devil with a forked tail and erect penis.
In the kitchen, some unwashed plates and forks had been left in the sink. Two or three pizza boxes lay abandoned on the floor. Your gaze rested on a dishwashing liquid whose brand you had never seen at the local market – YES’.
You turned back. You lifted the blind and went out onto the balcony. Here, things were as you had left them. The dirty plastic table. The deck chair. A few pots with dried-up plants. You approached the edge of the balcony, bent over and looked down at the main entrance. There was no sign of police anywhere, nor of people having gathered. The view from up was magnificent. To the left sat the Lycabetus hill. You scanned the apartment buildings in Neapolis, almost unconsciously seeking yours out. It was at a distance so you couldn’t see it clearly – had you a good pair of binoculars though, you were certain you’d be able to see even your balcony door.
You switched off the main power supply and went out. You left the door ajar, just as you had found it, and descended the stairs very slowly. At the main entrance, you
encountered an elderly lady, a tenant you assumed, gathering the last remains of the
shattered glass panel with her dustpan. The police had left, she told you.
You ascended towards your house. Tomorrow was Saturday. It was your day with your son – you’d promised him a meal and a visit to the cinema in the afternoon. Things didn’t get in all of this, you thought. You, the gun, your son, all this insanity. It was just as well you had got up and left. At least you had refused to take on the part of the average man, the family man, the responsible parent. You had better keep away, the further the better – for everyone concerned. Especially for the kid.