Persephone

By Michael Buergermeister

Persephone is a c.44,000 word long novella about an academic in search of spiritual enlightenment who travels to the tiny island of Gili Meno. There she expects to meet her estranged sister, Eris, a bonds saleswoman. Instead she encounters an artist, a singer, an actress and a Yoga teacher called Jeff, in whom she immediately falls in love. Eris in the meanwhile is on Bali, where she worries about the consequences of a power play, which has misfired. A close friend has mysteriously disappeared and she fears that her boss is having her followed. She falls ill, which leads her to decide to have a child. She wants to leave something behind when she goes. When the sisters finally meet Eris upbraids Persephone. She tells her to be more optimistic in her thinking. She should stop complaining and take responsibility for her life. At a New Years Party Eris seduces Jeff. She wants to have his child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Buergermeister
• Release date: Sep 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463697078

Michael Buergermeister

Born in Vienna in 1967 Michael Buergermeister was brought up in London. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, the University of Vienna and Max Reinhardt Seminar. A writer, filmmaker and video artist he lives and works in Vienna, Austria.

Book preview

Persephone

by Michael Buergermeister

Copyright 2018 Michael Buergermeister

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Panic set in. Oh God, Persephone thought, there was so much to be done before she flew away. She realized she'd forgotten to take out travel insurance. There was little point insuring her baggage; nothing she had was of any intrinsic value. There was also never any cover for volcanic disruption. Medical stuff, on the other hand, she reflected is not to be messed with. It was too late now; it was three in the morning on the day she was due to depart. It would be impossible to organize anything at this ungodly hour.

As she sat, ate toast and drank tea in her shabby Camden flat she read of how a killer storm was lashing the Philippines. Hopefully it will quieten down by the time I arrive.

It was Frantic Friday and a million motorists were expected to clog up the roads on the last working day before Christmas. Eleven million getaway trips were expected; hers was one of them but it wouldn't be by car.

By a quarter past four she was on a train heading for the airport. She took the Heathrow Express rather than the tube because she couldn't afford to miss her flight. It was the first leg of her journey to a tiny island off Bali.

As she hurtled through the still sleeping city she read of how a fire had broken out at London Zoo. A nine-year-old aardvark, renowned for its digging abilities and gentle nature, had died along with four meerkat brothers: Robbie, Norman, Billy and Nigel.

By half past five she'd passed the tall, silver Christmas tree at Heathrow Airport and was looking up at the departure board, with its flights bound for Dubai, Hong Kong and Cape Town. She quickly found her Philipine Airlines flight to Manila and was told to go to Gate forty.

She tried repeatedly to sleep on the plane but failed miserably to actually do so. In her semi-awake state she recalled the beginning of Parzival: Ist zwivel herzen nachgebur, daz muoz der sele werden. The soul will grow bitter if the heart is indecisive. He who wavers can still be happy; heaven and hell are part of them. He who loses his inner support ends in the darkness of hell. He who preserves inner firmness adheres to the light and color of the sky.

She remembered her own lecture on the subject. The poem, she'd told her students, was about the quest for spirituality. She'd talked of heroic acts of chivalry inspired by true love, and how everything was ultimately fulfilled in marriage.

Would she find the man of her dreams on an island off Bali? Probably not. Being in love was a complicated affair. She yearned for the feeling of needing somebody, physically, yet knew how fickle passion could be. How she envied those who'd found their soul mates. Was she unlucky, too free spirited or simply too selfish? She had no time for an abusive relationship or an abusive man for that matter. If she were to find someone he'd have to be special. Of that much she was sure.

The blinds in the plane were pulled down the whole day, which left Persephone not a little disorientated. The fact that she was on medication didn't help either.

She'd been suffering from acute depression the whole term and had begun seeing a psychiatrist once more. It had become increasingly difficult to get up in the morning. It had been next to impossible to write her research paper on Thomas Bernhard or to give her lectures in Comparative Literature. She'd felt like an animal, trapped in a zoo.

What on earth did Daunty, Gouty and Shopkeeper matter in this day and age? Who cared? Her students certainly didn't seem to do so. All they seemed to be interested in was getting ahead. And their ambition seemed only matched by their ignorance, which was quite simply appalling. Was that the real cause of her depression? Or was it the low quality of the books she was asked to review for the newspapers? Was it the fault of the general public, who seemed to lack taste, the fault of the publishers, who seemed obsessed with profit, or the fault of the authors themselves? Was she simply living in an idiocracy, as some of her colleagues claimed? Or was the West doomed to decadence and a slow but mortal decay? Despite everything she believed taste was linked to truth and truth linked to our very ability to survive. Perhaps she, alongside the society in which she lived, was destined for extinction. It was that simple. This didn't prevent her though from yearning for enlightenment, personal happiness and ultimately: spiritual salvation.

Do we really have something within us she asked herself, that unites us with a higher being? Does such a thing exist? Is there an essential part of our nature – a pure spirit, which is united to something superior to ourselves? Can we be liberated from our material world, a world full of things, as well as our past?

Some scientists, she recalled, argued that consciousness derives from deep-level, fine-scale quantum activities within cells. Quantum processes attributed to the soul work in partnership with observable neurological processes. These in turn produce the experience of human consciousness.

She thought about The Tao of Physics with its discussion of the properties and interactions of subatomic particles and the striking parallels between modern physics and Eastern mysticism. It argued that modern physics leads us to a view of the world which is very similar to those held by mystics.

She thought about Wittgenstein's mysticism, which formed the core of his philosophy. Wittgenstein was referring to his own mystical experiences when he wrote: about that which one cannot speak one should stay silent.

It had always been from the East that Persephone had expected enlightenment but she was skeptical as to whether she'd actually attain it on a tiny island off Bali of all places. Yet, oddly enough, this had been the real, secret, reason she'd accepted her sister's offer of a holiday.

Is this a good idea? We might well end up killing one another. And, even if Eris manages to stay sober, which is extremely unlikely, what can be worse than being stuck on an island with an abusive alcoholic? Why am I doing this to myself? Why didn't I decide to stay in London? I could have gone to stylish parties in Soho like I did last year. Who on earth might be of interest on this remote and god-forsaken island?

Of course, she reflected, it was all linked to her depression. She simply had to get away but couldn't afford to do so. Her sister on the other hand, a bonds saleswoman in the City of London, could easily invite her. The odd thing was: she had had no communication with Eris for quite some time. She hadn't actually spoken to her sister for over a year.

The prepaid flight she'd found in the post one morning had come completely out of the blue. There hadn't been one single accompanying word from her sister. Had it been an error? She'd tried to clarify the issue but Eris had neither returned her calls nor answered her emails. It was as if she'd sent her the invitation by mistake. Perhaps she had. Perhaps her secretary was simply incompetent. It was all something of a mystery, to say the least.

After what seemed like an eternity Persephone was finally able to look out of the window. The sky was a Prussian blue and the city a myriad of lights. The flight was ending just as it had begun: in darkness.

From Manila Persephone took a three and a half hour flight to Bali Denpasar, where she arrived on a wet and windy Christmas morning. When a driver from the hotel picked her up she realized that she had far too many clothes on. Although damp it was warm: twenty-eight degrees. The heat though did her good. In London it had been cold and she'd suffered for weeks on end from appalling health. All the coughing, sneezing, and feeling perpetually miserable! It had been quite awful.

The hotel itself, despite its dancing deities, ornate umbrellas and tacky Christmas trees, was charming and she was delighted when she saw her elegant room, decorated in calm, pastel shades, with a huge bed under a Chinese painting. The room even had a TV, a mirror, a desk, a bathroom and a shower.

She decided to surf for a while. The three thousand meter high Mount Agung volcano had belched a thick plume of grey smoke two thousand meters into the sky. The smoke had blown northeast but the eruption hadn't been bad enough to shut the airport down. She'd been lucky.

When Mount Agung had last erupted thousands had died. Indonesia, she read, sat on the Pacific Ring of Fire. The gods of Ganung Agung were said to be upset about the encroachments upon their sacred space. It was half past five in the morning when she finally tried to get some sleep.

Instead of coming at nine, as was agreed, the wake up call came at seven. She was told that a man from the boat company was waiting. The day before yesterday's make up was still on, she didn't have time to shower or have breakfast but threw on some clothes and raced downstairs. It was better to get off to the island sooner, she thought, rather than later.

The small, white bus took her to a deserted jetty from where her boat set sail. As it tracked the coast up to Padangbai little patches of blue appeared in the sky.

When the boat arrived at Padangbai, vendors in colorful plastic raincoats advertised their wares.

One of the crew put on a Father Christmas costume to welcome the newcomers. As Persephone looked on at the scene the beginning of Tristan came into her head: Gedaethe mans ze guote niht, von dem der werlde guot geschiht, so waere ez allez alse niht, swaz guotes in der werlde geschiht. If one didn't respect those who do good then there wouldn't be anybody doing good in the world. Those who treat what an excellent man does, with the best of intentions, with anything less than benevolence, are in the wrong. Dear is the one who knows how to weigh good and bad, who can judge me and everyone else according to their true value.

Who were these people, she asked herself? She looked at the whey-faced Westerners in their pale, casual clothes and the fascinating faces of the strong and energetic crew, in their vibrant, blue shirts. One looked cheerful, a second serious while a third: tired and disillusioned with life.

Once the boat started again she looked out of the window. The grey view reminded her of the Norfolk Broads. To her surprise she met a girl, an art student, from Chalk Farm of all places, who spent her time in Surfer's Paradise. The world was small indeed. They discussed art. Persephone thought of Tristan. Respect and appreciation promote art, where art is worthy of praise. Where it is glorified with praise, it blooms in manifold ways. Work, which has gained neither recognition nor fame, sinks into indifference. Quality, on the other hand, can never be denied.

Was that strictly true? She'd seen a lot of excellent pieces from good artists who'd attained neither fame nor wealth. Whenever she went to the London Frieze on the other hand she was invariably shocked and appalled at the superabundance of trivial, derivative and vulgar art. At times she couldn't help but think that this was indeed an age of banality, trivia and mediocrity.

Yet, perhaps it had always been so. After all Gottfried von Strassburg had written that there were many who thought that good was bad and bad was good. They didn't help, but rather hindered. And that was in 1210!

After landing at Gili Trawangan she and her luggage were loaded onto a speedboat, which was bobbing in the shallows. The small speedboat then took her across to the smallest of the Gilis, Gili Meno, which was visible just across the water. Once she arrived she had to jump from the speedboat onto a beach. A horse and cart then took her along a bumpy track until she reached her destination.

Chapter 2

Once Persephone arrived, she was shown to a villa, which she was to share with her sister, Eris. To her surprise, it was empty. Eris, she learned, had gone to another island and would be back shortly.

Hibiscus and jasmine flowers were strewn upon a beige double bed that was flanked by two tables, upon which were bottles, glasses and cups. Above the bed was a bright, green, abstract painting on a brown wall. In one corner was a cupboard with towels and a water dispenser and next to the latter was a door