demon's diary[netaisytas fragmentas]

Jaunius Kundrotas

Demon’s diary

I’m inhaling eagerly the refreshing air of the May’s night, the air of the young and vibrating night. Spring is awakening us all with its soft and careless invitation to start the life anew, is offering us each year new hopes and illusions, it is like new buds bursting upon an old trunk. The heart is calling persistently and this time I am going to heed its call. Last year I rejected this feeling, but this time I am accepting it, am surrendering to it. Im touching gently the blossoms of an apple tree growing at the roadside, touching its soft, new branches. I feel its sap flowing along its numberless arteries. I let it pass through its fruit into my body. My fingers will burst out with apple’s blossoms, my palms will grow bright green leaves, I will exude the soft aroma of the apple’s fruit. I will lift my blossomed – out hands in front of my astonished eyes, will stretch them out  to the nourishing rain that gets absorbed in the ground, becomes renewed by the generous sky. It would be so wonderful to start everything from the beginning once more. But there can be no beginning any more, and it is perhaps better that way. We begin to feel the need for it when we get lost in the morass of life, when everything seems just to go on and on. Then we begin to think that it all could have been differently, and feel sorry that it didn’t happen that way. Then we begin to grasp at spring so that we wouldn’t have to think about the beginning which is no longer there, wouldn’t have to face the monotonous present!
Here my life was at the cross-roads, here the roads parted. One road went to that part of my life which had already passed, the other lead towards the future which still was ahead of me. It was a mystery to me which I could not penetrate at this time. In my thoughts I often wandered from the stony bridge to the gates of dawn which formed part of the wall surrounding the Los Angeles city. I walked like in a dream during there imagined wanderings. I found the road always empty and could walk fast tormented by my thoughts. The gates of dawn was always my destination, all roads lead towards it from all directions. It became the symbol of my suffering, like an arch of triumph of love. I saw it clearly in my thoughts, in my dreams. I saw it when attacks of terror engulfed me, I felt its dreary call and insatiable hunger. I turned and ran, but could feel its stoney gaze following me. The gates beckoned at me and waited – like impenetrable darkness, like hell itself. There the questions began and ended – they began for the living, they ended for the dead.
I began to feel for the first time that now at last I was walking on a cleaner path of life. But this path was empty, just like it used to be in the past. But now I didn’t want it to be as empty like a cemetery, I wanted to have somebody to walk together with me. The path was looking at me angrily as if saying to me at last you had come here! This path lead into the unknown and this exited my soul.
I would have preferred not to see the many ghosts of my past, so that I could calm the fear and anxiety in my heart. But I couldn’t help seeing them all – both my victims and the nasty gates leading to the world beyond. I felt the gates staring at me and penetrating all my being with its stony glance.
I went to see my very clever boy who was my lover. I wanted to discuss with him the eternal question why people were unhappy and to ask for his guidance how I could avoid hurting others. My life was dear to me like a worn – out shoe, regardless of the fact that it was covered with hot blood. It may no longer keep the water out, it may no longer look attractive, but it wears easily and doesn’t make your foot sore; one simply doesn’t want to discard it. I couldn’t understand why life should cause me all these problems, why I should look at it with horror?
I knocked at my children’s house’s door. In the doorway stood my forgotten lover Robby holding a book in his hand. He looked at me in silence. His usually healthy, well-nourished face was now pale, I saw fear and horror in his eyes. Did he feel sorry for me? In his presence I couldn’t show fear, I had to act courageously. I don’t know why, but that was how I felt about it.
- Come inside – he said in a low voice. I turned to walk towards the library. Because of him, I suppressed my fear and weakness, I wanted to pray. I realised that he felt sorry for me. But he didn’t hate me. The pleasant meeting and prayer roused me from the spell of distant past. I realised that I didn’t belong to Robby’s life, but I could participate with him in a pleasant, warm conversation.
I envied him for his unencumbered fuelling of freedom which I only remotely perceived. One who has it, can breathe easier. I admired him for his sincerity, he couldn’t hide anything even from himself. His soft, clear smile pleased me, his cheerfulness radiated from him and illuminated his surroundings. Long time ago I was like he, or perhaps similar to him. I felt the need to talk to him because of the recent change in my life.
- You had changed, - he said.
- Yes, I had changed. I WANT to start a new, better life;  I want to live a life that I wouldn’t be ashamed of. I thought that one day God may ask me why I hadn’t done this or that, rather than why I had done a certain thing.
- And what are You doing now?
- I am searching for truth, for answers to my questions. I want to start a happy with my children. Good children and young people are a fortune in this life.
My search for love had guided me to him. Only now standing in front of him, I had opened for the first time my soul to him as well as to myself. Its widely open blue eyes looked at me searchingly, as if they had seen me for the first time. Slowly they had separated me from the undefined surroundings and gave me human shape and features.
Slowly tension crept into his gentle face. When he spoke, however, I saw in front of me again a quiet, reserved young boy, capable of controlling his feelings, not letting them to boil over. His passion lasted longer, but it wasn’t that type of a fire in which the words get burned up.
This was a new trait in him which I didn’t know before. May be Robby was a counterforce against evil, a man who could anticipate and heal future sufferings.
I am pleased that you love me, - said Robby.
I am looking for love, I need it.
Love will never hurt and now you need it more than ever before.
I held Robby close to me. He rested his head on my breast, I watched through the window the slowly approaching dusk. When he raised his head and softly looked at my face. I felt as if my heart had melted within my chest and filled its entire space.
- Michael, - he whispered.
- What is it, my dear, - I asked.
- Kiss me, - he said simply, now I am longing for love, caresses.
After I had kissed Robby, carried way by aroused blood and all – consuming passion, we did what had to be done. Our reckless desire to have a child surrounded both of us with an invisible cloud – like in antique times Venus & Eney inside a cloud to enable him to enter unobserved into the city of Didona. Our mutual desire both blessed us and vindicated us at the same time…
Thank you for everything. Good bye.
For a long time I didn’t go away from the door. This was the place where I entered confused and fearful, and left with a clear mind. I loved the place for the change which it helped to create within myself.
I lived now in a big palace. I was fond of  it because in it I could think as much as I wanted; I could read with childrens holy bible, rest – there wasn’t much else to do. I had learned and understood many things about life which I couldn’t comprehend before. Some things interested me, others disgusted me. I was gaining sexual experience, ceased to be naive.
One throught, however, bothered me all the time – could it remain a secret for long that I was hiding in my palace?
Hundreds of times I went over the events of my past life. I kept digging into the things that were half – forgotten until in this tormenting and there suddenly began to appear some common denominator, something that could possibly help me to guess the meaning of the riddle. I couldn’t stop searching for it, as if driven by fate. This reminded me of a gamble – just as hopeless and forceful. Although there was no chance to win, the tension and excitement experienced in doing it was compelling and beautiful in itself. The bits of gold that I discovered in my search gave me courage, urged me to probe deeper. I felt that perhaps I had been defending myself against fear that could engulf me at any time. It was never far away from me, it was always threatening me. I defended myself with an illusion that I was busy with children, I tried to lose myself in the insignificant details or the every day life.
It was not easy for me to banish from my thoughts all the young children whom I had met in my past life, whom I had loved. But within this ghostly movement, this confused mess, these mad associations, at times I was able to grasp upon some redeeming thought – like a sailor grasps a rope in a storm to save himself from being swept over into the raging sea. I was trying to understand how I got into this mess – whether it happened by chance or whether there was some intelligent reason behind it.
After I had rethought and recreated everything that was possible of recreation from my talks with the shadows, I had to verify all by doubts and suspicions. But I couldn’t check upon the shadows, I had to turn to the living persons in my quest to solve the mystery.
I liked the work with childrens and was looking for someone who could help me in my search for love… I stood alone and forgotten in the silence of depression. I was at a point where one casts doubts of everything that one once had believed. All my world had collapsed around me and buried me under its ruins.
The sexual adventure that I was engaged at in my palace had captured me, kept me nailed down like with a spear. I was sitting inside my palace library room bent upon the philosophical books, I went for walks alongside the ocean. I understood that I was doing all this out of custom, without a special desire, without getting much satisfaction from it. But I liked to be in the nature, to walk along the shores of a beautiful stream with a book in my hand, to feel the warmth of sun upon my body. The tormenting past was slowly leaving me, my soul began to feel more peaceful, more content.
Suddenly without any warning I felt like being struck by a lightning, like experiencing an onslought of a debilitating desease. I asked myself what it was, I pretended not to understand that inside me again began to arise revolting thoughts. I tried to forget myself by concentrating upon the details of the life surrounding me. I have been waiting for something to happen.
At first this was a vague, unstable thought which overtakes a person who is neither ill nor healthy and whom a sudden attack of an illness affects more than a slowly developing illness that may continue for a long time.
On Friday, I went together with my friend Roland to see my close friend Pierre who worked as an investigator. I felt that Pierre was also my good friend and I was happy to be together with him. I no longer needed help or sympathy, but I longed for human closeness.
We found Pierre at home. He was a friendly young man, 40 years old. I relaxed in the chair offered to me, lighted a cigarette. Everyone knew that Pierre was married, in fact he had been married twice. His first wife was dead, and everyone forgot that he had been married for the second time. His second wife left him two years after their marriage.
Not listening to the talking around me, I watched his son Chris. Everything about him was wonderful – the proud carriage of a self – confident young boy, his calm glance, his apparent courage. He soon left the room. I hurriedly followed him, having offered some kind of apology for my sudden departure.
But I couldn’t see him on the street. I went to a side street looking for him. Where could he have had disappeared? His face remained vividly in front of my eyes – bright, well-shaped features radiating beauty and inner strength. What a pity that humans don’t leave a scent that one could follow, what a pity that our searching eyes cannot penetrate walls when we are despairingly looking for some one. I wanted to call his name, but I restrained myself. Chris, where are you? May be you are my thoughts, my drams, the fulfilment of my longing?
A week later, one evening I noticed a young boy walking near the stadium. I was about to turn around and walk home, when I suddenly felt the boy standing next to me. I turned towards him and to my surprise recognized Chris.
- You nearly gave me a heart attack, - I said to him.
I took Chris hand and we walked together to my palace. I found the key in my pocket, opened the door and invited him to enter into the palace.
Like a hunter, I waited in an ambush, patient and alert. I was not, however, sure that I myself  will not become the victim that this will not become a trap for me. I felt terror behind this foreboding darkness and mystery, which at the present remained a closed secret to me.
None the less, I was in a way glad at last this something that I expected at last will happen, that I will be the tool to fulfil the destiny which was stronger than I. I was not only the weapon, not only the hired hand, I was not a stone nor a tree – I was a human being. At times I was afraid that my heart might prove to be weaker than my will, that I might be torn apart by the accumulated desire like a swollen seed tearing apart its shell.
Please do come in.
Chris walked inside and stood facing the window. I walked into the room after him and touched Chris shoulder. When he turned towards me and I glanced into his widely-open eyes, I felt like falling down a bottomless well.
His strange and beautiful smile was meant only for me. He reached out his hand to me and I wondered how small, strong and cool it was. I woke up from my thoughts and heard his saying:
Aren’t you afraid of me because of my reputation? I want to find love and test my strength.
Do you really want it! – I exclaimed with delight. I long for you, I want to listen to your words, I want to rest my head on your knees and feel your closeness, I want to feel your hands on my face.
Chris gently stroked my face humming a silent tune. Chris’s friendship and closeness resulted in a delightful change in me which subconsciously I had been anticipating for some time. Now I looked at the world with a new inner fire, I admired his beautiful wide muscular torso, his slim vaist. I needed him so much, I felt burning love for him. At last I found Chris and was not going to let him go. My life had found a meaning at last.
I felt enriched and ennobled by Chris’s love. I began to understand things which didn’t make any sense to me previously. My confused world at last began to take intelligible shape, to assume order and meaning. The horrors which had tormented me began slowly to dissipate, the destructive purposelessness was slowly leaving me. Warm summer was slowly advancing and maturing like a ripe fruit, everything again began to be like it used to be during the old times.
I pleasantly relaxed at home, listen all kinds of music late into the night. I don’t think that emotions of human heart influence much the human brain. But to listen to dictates of the heart can become a habit. Take my example – I am a pop star, but got used to love boy, got used to hide from people my secret feelings. How delightful it is to love an unhurried, gentle boy who could be compared with a new born, gentle calf. It may well be an unsuitable comparison but to what else to compare him?
As long as there exist restless, noisy people, there must be a name for its opposite. If there was somewhere in sexual revolution at all, it had happened in USA – regardless of the many foolish things were committed in its name. I am explaining my approach so that it would be easier, to understand me. I like youth! Young people are not measured by years; they are beautiful because they are young. Only us; being in our fifties, are recognizable because of age – a protruding stomach, bald head, tired look. But I am proud of my age – to have lived half a century is a great grace shown by god.
I liked my quiet walks in the park. The trees rested as if asleep, reaching with their narrow. Steep crowns towards the overcast sky they reminded me of the poplars growing near the ocean in my house. But this was not a suitable time for reminiscences. They came and went but the Gray Day stayed: the heavy, dark clouds kept passing above my head. I felt like I had climbed out of the morass of horrors, understood that the larger part of my life was already behind me. I knew, however, that in the future I will keep thinking about the ideals and opportunities that were lost in the past, and that I will have to fight for the love and affection of my remaining friends at last I saw no clouds left above my head, I felt inside myself an astonishing peace, an unsurpasing pleasure to live and enjoy the life that was returned to me.




California. 2004 year. December. Police department.

Dear prosecutor, what is the reason for your fight?
The people of USA support my ideas, the young and the old, American hates Michael Jackson, the pop star who had forsaken all our human ideals.
What are these human ideals?
Truth and natural love. I hate homosexuals. I don’t believe Jackson’s single word. He reacts only when he faces with force. I want so that investigation will be done against him because we have accumulated enough evidence. I will speak the language of justice – such is the will of our nation. To manage things means have power over them,, but power is force, and force is justice for the sake of justice. Without power it is even worse: there remains only confusion, universal uajustice and violence, universal fear… Have a good rest because tomorrow you will start excavating that which Michael Jackson had hidden.
May be he had not done anything.
Nonsense, - prosecutor said with contempt, - better go to bed. It is of course understood that the contents of my proposal are of confidential.
*******************************************************


From the very start, from the early youth, a young boys would cause a gloomy melancholy or a deep extasy in Michael Jackson’s mind, and he would feel a silly joy, or even a despair, and crushed he would crawl like a snail that had lost its shell, viscously and hurt.
The morning mass, confessions and communions were the first lies and the first sacrilege, because a mortal sin remained hidden: those day – dreams about boys, sinful, mad dreams about  the contact of bodies, and about the pleasures that the embrace of those inaccessable mysterious creatures were hiding, and these voluptuons dreams about the greatest mysteries of the bodies soaked everything during the church service and the evening mass with little servants carrying neatly embroidered canvases with censers. And these mysteries, like poisonous snakes, crawled over the pictures of saints, contaminated the first secret talks in the dark corners of the city streets and yards. There was the church of the Santa Maria, and the ringing bells during the church festivals between the advent and the lent, and next to that there was the dirty dungy cattle pasture, with the muzzles of these God creatures and the noise of cows. Right there dirty boys acurried about the place carrying obscene cut – outs from the cheap tabloid papers published in Los Angeles.
The whole atmosphere in the Jackson’s palace was unwholesome, extremely sexual, and no wonder the nervous and sensual teenager arriving at the clumsy and vague problem of sexes got lost, and this served an impulse to the ill – orientated interest in the sexual questions.
Let us take the main question, complicated, but vital, torturing him all those years, but which he never dared to ask his mother: namely, who was his father? And those strange meeting of his mother with Ramsay, the chairman of the casino, those meetings he could never understand, and which were covered by a thickening curtain of a mystery. The eyes of all the street inhabitans, were covetously fixed on the large and spacious house of the casino chairman, on his mother, and on him a fruit of debauchery and sin, in particular. All this was the most probable cause of Jackson ill inclination to all indecent and sinfull, and everybody watching he went to the unofficial gay and lesbian bordel of Rosa’s, showing his unordinary character: the young man decided to tarnish his good name.
Later on there were those dull and boring school year…


The walls were painted light green, the Crist on the cross painted black and lacquered wore a dully rosy face of the saviour. Michael Jackson was lying and gazing at the monotonous lamp under the room, and was dreaming of 13 – year – old boy Gavin Arvizo. The only brightness in this beautiful palace was Gavin, head of the Jackson’s library. He had firm legs and beautiful young body. A lot of homosexuals dream about Gavin, besides, he did not avoid the pleasures of love according to the former paedophiles. Who knows where the luck is waiting for you? One has to take a risk: to get into the kitchen, to go downstairs from there, and to get to Gavin room in such an adventurous way. Michael got up and bare – footed sneaked into the kitchen, where a wooden statue of St. Joseph stood by the entrance door. It was dark and silent in the kitchen. Jackson knocked a chair, and it fell down noisily. It was silent still. The noise of the passing cars and bus could be heard from outside, far away. The door of Gavin’s room was locked.
Jackson did not dare knocking, and returned back.
It was dawning. How silly and without any purpose a the king of pop was suffering locked in these dull rooms of the wonderful palace. But he was strong – able to live it through. All the desires of his body turned out to be partially thought up and impossible to be put into practice. The could dream of a boy while alone, in his warm bed, but be he really close to him, he felt as if he awoke in a warm room. Half dreaming, he had just seen Gavin next to him – he was standing by the books–helf, impossible to catch, like a gost, inaccessible, but so alive. The mystery of his body, ill and unreal, was torturing the debauchered pop star. The snow was falling down outside, and he had to retake the exam in justice once more!
The afternoon was wonderful and sunny. After the wild dinner everybody left. There was nobody in Michael room. Everybody, except Gavin and Michael, went to games room.
At the time Michael did not know that by not daring to look closely into Gavin face he had probably spared himself the bitter destruction of his youth’s most beautiful vision, which for a long time to come was to safeguard that sensitive and dangerous nook of Michael soul. Perhaps in place of the idealistic sadness with which he had enshrouded Gavin face from the room, he would have seen the apathetic lines of wearisome life; perhaps in place of the deep eyes warming his soul he would have encountered a smirk of astonishment or derision directed at him, youthful pop star that he was, so obviously confused at the beauty’s attention. Gavin was lying on the sofa and seductively looking at Michael. He could not resist coming closer, and started softly stroking Gavin legs. Gavin gave in to the sweet pleasure of wonderful forgetfulness. He felt everything go round as if in a drink alcohol, Gavin felt his body rise up as if flying, it was though strange that he felt this pleasure only for the second time. Most distinctly he remembered from his childhood not the bodies joint together later on rather painfully, not the outbursts of the lust, not the awakening of the childish desire, but a sunny morning, curtains drawn down, twilight, sweating bodies, Jackson, who fetched Gavin to the sofa and satisfied his lust.
Gavin was an unordinary boy, Jackson thought, he was a real discovery. Together with him, he will free himself from anger, will escape from dull every-day life, and will experience a strong unique feeling.
‘What are those silly phrase for? – about one’s duty to the society, the American people? ’ All his life still at palace and now at the society his “duties” were constantly reminded to him. At police and the community, in those two institutions, he was constantly restricted in his rights. They harness human being to a cart and drive persuading that this is your sacred duty. But, I never thought to resist such, order! Could I just be allowed to stop and rest. I agree to endure those meaningless sefferings, if I could be allowed to have a rest!
Jackson had enough will to “wants” something unusual once in his life. And what he “wants”is not interfearing with anybodys interests. He ‘’wants’’ just only bright interval in this green dullness, an escape to freedom that only time without restrictions, and supervision. But he will return! What is this panic for? Is it at all possible to think he is not going to return? And on the whole – why is this overdone attention devoted to his person? All this is his personal affair, and nobody has anything to do with it. People are too impudent. He is serving god, serving the same people – so why are they fussing and getting nervous?
Upon his return to the palace, the Californian police department received an Gavin’s mother letter – complaint. It discussed is detail the love affair of Gavin and Michael. Jackson found himself in an odd situation: the more he tried to make excuses the less he was trusted. He had to confess. Do people think a friendship is something really terrible? Or are they concerned that much about it because it happens so rarely?


22. 06. 2004 year. Jackson’s palace. Fragment from a diary.

I usually was alone with my songs or with my thoughts and I was never lucky to find somebody I would want be close with. I looked at anybody seeing one totality, a crowd of people, an unusual, violent, strong, even curious one. Taken separately, they were completely insignificant. I never hated them thinking of them as a crowd, and I even loved that wrathful and pawerful multihead creature a bit, but I could not bear a single unit of it. I devoted my love or a slightly weaker feeling to everybody, not to someone, and it was enough for me.
Having trust in higher spiritual man’s nature, important music works have been created. How immaterial, how vast is the king of pop joy! Pop star is not a slave of philosophy, or his friends, nor is he a martyr of this time. Pop star is only too simple an idealist, a practicioner who cannot tear himself away from reality, from beauty, trying to forget the despair of the singing ship, breathing in by his frightened spirit the pure, non – toxic air of man’s miracle. It is much more difficult to submerge him in trivial thoughts, philosophies of the day, complexities of human communication, in dazzling togas, titles or degrees…



Spring 1979 year. California. San Anselmo.

“I can’t see a mark, ” the Michael looked but did not dare take his hand still he did notice that his hand was shapely.
At this point the elder Mrs. Hamlin asked the young boy away to consult on the food, and Jackson was left alone. He was satisfied with himself.
The meeting and the salutation had gone smoothly, naturally. Meanwhile the reverend Johnson had already made the rounds of the orchard with Hamlin brothers and picked some delicious pears; the pastor, the music teacher and the student were arguing about the production of fruit wines in California. The farmers were talking about crops and the coming sowing; student Hamlin has busy with his box in the attic.
Unnoticed by anyone, Michael slipped away into the orchard to enjoy his last evening and the silence of the warm sunset. His whole being was wrapt in the sad mood of parting. Vacation had sped by like a short dream, and tomorrow evening he would already be walking the dimly lighted, dustainted corridor; kneeling in the narrow house; watching the bent out portraits of saint Peter and saint Casimir’s; listening to the monotonous voice of the spiritual advisor. Leaning over the fence, he watched the setting sun in a revery of farewell.
Suddenly, from behind, someone’s hands closed over his eyes. The suddenness of it startled him.
“Ha! Who is it! Guess! ” A brisk, cheery boy voice rang out at his ear. Michael heart stopped short. “James”…
“No! not like that! I won’t let you! ” now he felt not only his fingers and palms but his shoulders and his whole body cleaving to him, panting quite close to his face. The first sensation of pleasantness quickly turned to shame and annoyance at his blindfolded eyes and hampered breathing and the ridiculousness of his attitude as a whole.
“What do you mean? I know that you are naпve boy. Please stop it…” He said impatiently, almost imploringly, in a scarcely audible voice.
Instantly James jumped back a few steps and, grinning, mocked his, voice in a whimper: “Please stop it! Lord, what innocence! An untouchable! Phew! Turning on his heels, James skipped back to he house, frisking and romping.
Pop star was left standing, crushed with shame, humiliated ten times more than before, during the festival. He had not anticipated this sort of eventuality when readying himself for his second meeting with James. He was all the more stricken because he felt  absolutely blameless in this instance. What else could he have done if James covered his eyes and pressed his nose too, so that Michael could not catch his breath? And why had James been insulted? Undoubtedly there was some misunderstanding here. But various conjectures as to the reason behind Jame’s running away brought him no peace. It became progressively clearer to him that his please stop it had been really unmanly, miserable and ridiculous. Jackson walked to the other end of the orchard, inspected the trees, looked for fallen apples, but Jame’s scornful ‘phew’ still echoed in his ears. He did not dare think how he would meet him or what he would say to him now.
“Why is our young pop star so sad? ” Mrs. Hamlin asked him, concerned.
“Stay with us, enjoy yourself. ”
“You’d be sad, too, mother, if at his age they’d shut you up in a nunnery! ” cried the student jovially.
But James countenance indicated that he wanted to take pop star part.
Michael Jackson eyed him with his pince-nez from head to foot and clapped his shoulder with the palm of his hand.
“Yes! ” he said. “Only from such innocent lads will grow the true servants of the lord. The devotees will have somebody to worry them. Not like us – one, two, three and strike your chest. ”
From the very beginning of the second academic year in the music academy Michael Jackson found himself much more independent and cognizant. He now had a semblance of experience something of a past. During the first academic year he had familiarized himself with the discipline and atmosphere of the academy; there no longer was any need to fear unexpected innovations which would upset him and uphold the idea that he was still a poor, ignorant freshman. He was quartered now in a room with just, three others, not in the foul ‘labyrinth’. True, he came to the room only to sleep and during the day had a place assigned to him in the hall, but it was still better than the labyrinth.
Also gone was the formers, who had kept a constant eye on them, kept control over them, summoned them for sundry chats and sometimes contrived various other tiresome things form them to do. They were all very pleased with the knowledge that they were no longer the last, that there were others beneath them. During his first vacation Michael Jackson had some opportunity of seeing a little of the artists life; consequently, the various conferences were more comprehensible, the teachings more concrete. Lastly, his own intimate experiences, though neither numerous nor profound, became more concentrated and graved the first traits from which his entire psychic life would branch out later on.
However, it is also likely that because of his inexperience alone he could not understand that the listlessness in his heart brought on by the singers niece was the first vague yearning for boy, the first stirring of the erotic feeling.
James was the first boy to arouse Jackson imagination and his youthful ambition. While in high school he had neither met noir had acquaintance with boys. Boy for him at that time had been no more than a general distinction in sex, intriguing him and arousing his curiosity. James, though, had aroused his desire to excel or to please rather than his curiosity.
Comparing himself with James, he saw an array of irking differences. He was a boy forward and self-confident; Michael was an unhandsome (so it seemed to him), quiet, timed and clumsy artist. James was brash, he bowed before no one; to those who would slight him he was prepared to strike back; Michael, on the other hand, scraped before everyone and was prepared to kiss any hand that was proffered him. But he had an inkling, nonetheless, that James like him, though he had ridiculed and humiliated him. For this he had to grow, to become stronger, to become manlier! No, James would not ridicule, him again! To excel in James eyes now seemed more important to him than to establish a good reputation with the academy superiors. This desire, like a seed cast onto fertile soil, remained in him, and gradually began to take root. From that time forward, in women’s society or, to put it more colourfully, within the circle of their spiritual radiation, Michael experienced an exultation of spirit and an accelerated tempo of psychic energy.
Within the influence of academy life the relationship between music artist and boy followed this scheme of definition: in the cult of pop stars – veneration of woman; in everyday life – negation of boy; in the poetic dreams of youth – the idealization of woman; in the prosaic reality of life – the scorn of woman. There was no true middle ground definition here, since in the music artist life there is no sincere, ordinary or natural relationship to woman.
Among the maturing or lately matured young men confined in the academy, rare was the one who had in one way or another met with a pleasing boy. Among the most trusted friends, in outspoken moments, this question would be talked out; there would be mutual admission’s, even regrets at the fate of eternal bachelorhood. Alone, in their dreams, they imagined these “brothers” as the most perfect, the prettiest, the gentlest and the most angelic beings, but in a larger group, in the general conversation, they were known to cast a scornful phrase or word in proper tone and style in the direction of the “hags”. But there was no real cynicism here yet. Real cynicism came afterwards, in the artist hood, especially among those who passed from youthful idealism and dreams to the practical use and contempt of boy. This ilk held boy a low, worthless creature, contributing nothing to art or to civilization.
The great festival of Easter immaculate conception was approaching. It would be celebrated in the cathedral with solemn pageant. In such cases the work of the student was doubled. At that time rare was the one who had not some function or other assigned to him. To celebrate, and the second vespers, required several shifts of organ music assistance. From the very beginning Michael had zealously taken part in the academy choir; he learned to read the notes by voice, to play the harmonium, and he knew his part thoroughly in all of the choir songs. Because of Jackson singing talents, he was taken into the tutelage of the music professor and the choirmaster, who rescued him from the assistance as the most needed voice in the choir.
In this way one of the most odious burdens of academy life, the ceremonies, fell from his shoulders. The choir members had an added privilege in being freer during devotions, frequently going not to the presbytery but to the organ, where there was no trouble in having to bear the kneeling or responding to the services.
A warm, pleasant wave of feeling enveloped his chest. He had not experienced such a blissful hour in a long time. He had forgotten the brutal autocratic ambitions of father, the hated labyrinth, and the unpacifying dreams and everything that restricted and separated him from open life and the beautiful world.
Later Michael Jackson, remembering that evening’s singular experience, explained it to himself as an awakened youth’s poetical longing for ideal love. Jackson was then at the age when youth does not yet require a concrete object for its feelings or desires further satisfaction. He yearned for some kind of being which would give full rein to his quick fantasy. The circumstances of academy life afforded the most receptive climate for such romantic reveries in a youth of Michael character at that time. And here, after hard days of work, after physical and moral fatigue, with the coming of a high holiday lull, his fantasy had erupted with extraordinary potency.
That particular evening, returning from his sojourn in the orchard to the academy walls, pop star Jackson carried with him a vague hope that possibly some totally unexpected confrontation awaited him in the room. Of course, he found nothing there, but the vague hope did not quit him.
That day after lunch, which passed as cheerfully and noisily as last night’s dinner, James invited Jackson for a walk in the orchard.
“You know what? I have a piece of news for you”, he said to Jackson.
“I received a letter from the Bishop Conti. He plans to come here before Christmas. I has business with the Bishop. He’s going to bring us some gifts from our parents. But do you know who else is coming with the Bishop? ”
“Well, who? ”
“Your mother! ”
“Good. She wants to see the academy just once. And me, too, of course.
“I has my eye on you, I’m telling you, ” James went on Jesting.
“Look out, lover, I’ll lead you away from the academy. I’m a madcap boy”.
“Never fear, there’s no danger. And why, may I ask, does the you keep me in the Bishop? You would do better to find me a lover. ” I feel head over heels in love with you”. Jackson, of course, remembered him very well. “Well? He’s serious fellow, even though he’s a progressive. ”
“But he can’t stand the sight of me. He has a weakness for the clergy and that’s all there’s to it. ”
“I have heard from my own boy, too that there are children like that, recalled Jackson. The news that James love him would come intrigued Michael, nevertheless. The prospect of secrets meeting with him did not constitute any special problem for him now; he was bluntly curious as to how James looked now, how he would address him and what James would talk about.
But vespers were approaching – and the image of the unknown again forced the memories and thoughts of James from pop star head. He speculated on whether or not he would see that boy wrapped in the white shawl today, who was so distant and mysterious, yet who at the same time appeared to be so close and personal. When time came to go to church, he crowded his into the first rows in order to occupy his place of yesterday. In church he felt his face gradually flushing, and he could nowise muster enough courage to steal a look in the direction, of the pillar. Only when all of the priests had arrived and when Bishop and he celebrant and assistants had made their inclinations to the choir and they were turned around with only then did Jackson steal a glance in his direction.
Yes. James was standing there dressed in the same way and with the same expression on his face as the day before. Michael Jackson felt easier in his heart. The waiting and expectation did not tempt him. He felt calm. He followed the course of the services and with raised spirits sang the psalms of vespers, from time to time glancing toward the pillar. His glances came as matter of course, without thought, intention or will, like a child’s smile at a sunbeam filtering through a narrow window.
A sole man procession was to take place in church after vespers. Presently the procession passed by the corner pillar, and Jackson with growing disquiet came closer to the place where he knew the mysterious unknown was standing. Yes, he knew for certain that he would meet JAMES glance but he grew afraid and lost his courage. He went by James with bowed head. He did in fact brush James suit with his waistcoat, for a moment ecstatically aware of his closeness; and, it seemed to him, he even felt the warmth of his face.


2004 year. Jackson’s palace. California.

By the following week the happenings at the Jackson’s birthday festival had pretty well faded in Michael Jackson memory. Of course, the incident between the Gavin Arvizo mother and the prosecutor from Los Angeles, he had to admit that the latter’s conduct had been something short of tactful and could have slighted the Arvizo mother. It was common knowledge that the clergy were fond of drinking at birthday festivals, and the country folk took little offense at this. As for what had happened in the orchard that first night, neither he nor Gavin Arvizo had any definite knowledge. . Jackson was inclined to think that nothing had happened, that their eyes had played tricks on them in the darkness. But if something had happened, certainly it had not been the prosecutor or Arvizo.
Of all the impressions of the day the most lasting remained the memory of Arvizo. Jackson had a vivid games of him from the time of his first appearance to his departure on the mothers errand. He relived his feelings of nervousness as Arviso had approached him, of embarassment as he had spoken,  of shame at having splashed his hand, and of anger  at his idiotic frustration and awkwardness. This feeling of dissatisfaction lingered in him all week long, wanning and waxing in new variations. The last variation was that Jackson was firmly resolved to make things right with the very first opportunity that presented itself. He let his imagination paint the same but somewhat altered scene of the coffee service – what he would say first, how he would manage his sugar cube and what sort of conversation would follow, anticipating various possibilities and situations. Unconsciously he enlarged this scene far beyond the limits of the actual happening.
After a single year of scandalous asceticism Michael Jackson dreamingly romantic imagination was in danger of catching fire from just a feeble spark. But all of these scenes were so naпve and innocent that he was not once suspicious that they might be ill – suited or even dangerous for the king of pop music. True, they were not evoked so much by erotic emotions as they were by pop star ambition, so sorely hurt at the first meeting with a young and pretty boy.
Having created a plan of action in his imagination, Jackson was truly sorry that his vacation was running out and that probably a year would pass before he could apply his plan practically. As a result he was overjoyed when, having gone to the prosecutor on the last Sunday he found Arvizo mother’s letter inviting him to leave home a day early, stop by his place for a farewell party and then go on from there together. Jackson accepted the proposal without much deliberation. He had no doubt that both Arvizo and mother would be at prosecutor’s farewell party.
If Jackson had know Arvizo a little better probably he would not have worried so much about their first meeting or looked forward so anxiously to the second. But because of his age and romantic disposition it is doubtful whether his behavior would have been any different had any other young boy of average good looks been in Arvizo’s place.
As to the mother’s foster – son Arvizo as he was commonly called, no one knew. Very much about his parentage; moreover, no one made any detailed inquires into it. The mother hailed from another part of the country; he had no relations or intimate friends where he was; his popstar life contained unaccountable gaps for the clergy themselves. Ostensibly, Arvizo was good nice boy, who, having lost his father before that, had been taken in by the Jackson, raised and sent to school. And that was all. Evil tongues had it that he resembled a south American boy neither in face nor temperament; that the Jackson had spent his youth in California and, while there, had intimately known a certain merry grass widow, in a word, a certain amount of petty slander had followed after the Jackson, which, not finding a favorable environment, did not quite take root.
But a year went by and young Arvizo spirited character inclined him, to seek out new impressions in school life, which was already turning dull. He began to turn his attention to the young children who visited the king of pop, but such opportunities were rare and he failed to make any new and more interesting acquaintances. Michael Jackson he left in peace, for he seemed to be poorly educated and in fact was quite a rude fellow. Otherwise he was pleased beyond words if he thought he had made an impression on someone, and he looked for opportunities to prolong and deepen that impression.
During the Jackson’s birthday, Arvizo had seen beyond a doubt that he had made the biggest impression on the pop star who, in his excitement, had splashed his hand and could not utter a single word. He liked this king of pop music. Learning that he was a close neighbor, he decided not to lose sight of him, and this thought afforded his no small pleasure.
”What sort of guests do you expect to have at your farewell party? ” he asked Jackson. “Will it be dull? ” And hearing that among others Michael Jackson would be on hand, he promised herself to attend at all costs.
On the appointed day pop star Michael Jackson – having bade good – bye to the members of the Arvizo family and receiving the blessings of Arvizo mother. En route Michael mused on the possibility of meeting Arvizo and prepared for it as if he were taking a final examination. At he halfway mark in the journey; he was certain he would pass the examination like a man; but from then on his courage began to melt; the vision of the boy’s splashed hand kept plaguing him; and his uneasiness ruined all of his previously laid out plans and made absurdities out of his contrived sentences and words. When the trees of Arvizo house came into view in the distance, Michael Jackson was already sorry he had accepted his friends invitation. How nice it would be if it were not necessary to be a part of this fuss with strange people!
As they drove into the yard, they were met by the Arvizo and the Jackson himself, like long – expected guests.
Arvizo mother took the Jackson into the living room. To his great satisfaction, prosecutor heard that the guests from the police had not yet arrived.
Left to themselves, Arvizo mother clapped his friend’s shoulder and, smiling craftily, I said: “well now, Michael, look here our Arvizo has taken a liking to you. He was asking about you in the worst way”.
Mothers words were so unexpected that Michael blushed and did not know what to say.
“Oh, go on! ” Michael would not hear of it.
“I’m wondering whom he’s taken a liking to”…
“I told you, he doesn’t care one bit for me. He’s coming just to see you. ”
Although mother knew that his friend’s words were all in fun, Still this jest put him in a good mood and he no longer regretted having come.
A good part of the company was already gathered in the orchard. They joined them. Mihael Jackson introduced Arvizo to his neighbors and relations, noteworthy among whom were two pretty boys, Arvizo friends, and a spectacled children who was preparing to leave for Los Angeles.
“Why do all of you crowd into the pop stars community? ” he cried, having saluted Jackson. “USA today is in need of secular artists, yet you keep entering the king of pop music! ”
“What good are yours secular artists? ” retorted one.
“Their schooling finished they either move to USA or bring back American wives. ”
“That may have been the case ten years ago, but today we no longer dream of USA or American wives. Today we have American boys of our own. Besides, it’s common knowledge that the secular music artists has a much harder time of it than the pop star”.
“It’s because the pop star serve the creative lord; that’s why they deserve better treatment, ” interposed one good aunt.
Michael Jackson disliked disputes of this kind, and it embarrassed him to hear the peasants’ arguments and deductions. So that, wanting to channel the conversation into a different vein and, put an end to this peasants reasoning, he addressed himself to the children. If American nation turn back the pages of history, we see the same picture in the sixteenth century in the struggle between Protestantism and Catholicism. Who were the first to publish musical books? The reformed church!
“That would be a great disappointment, of course, ” replied Jackson. ” I believe that the new generation of music artists have a great deal of that spirit. ”
Meanwhile the new arrivals put in their appearance before them: the Arvizo’s mother, the Arvizo, the Jackson accompanied by the hosts and all the others. Michael Jackson felt pleased to be seen in the company of the dignified, bearded children.
He was the last to greet Arvizo. He squeezed his hand tightly and, flashing Arvizo eyes, laughed.
“You left us so quickly that time after the my birthday party. I hardly noticed. I wouldn’t have let you, I wouldn’t have let you…”
“I didn’t have any luck at all that day, Michael Jacson replied. “I burnt your hand. Does it still hurt? “Here, look! ” Arvizo held out his hand. “Can you guess where? ”



1996 year. California. Michael Jackson finished a song entitled “Earth song”. She was partially successful. Michael Jackson’s dream. July. Night.

Music (Jackson’s dream)

The aged pastor of Los Angeles parish had concluded the hours of his breviary. He was now engaged in protracted further prayers for the sake of his deceased parishoners, that they soon behold the light eternal, and for those still living that the almighty deliver them from any sudden misfortunes or from mortal sins, especially  the sin of drunkenness which gives rise to all other trespasses.
He then blew out the light and went to bed. The pastor was inclined to take deeply to heart the so – called and familiar weaknesses of the souls of his flock which he was dutifully leading on for nearly thirty years at Los Angeles, as entrusted to its destination, to the gates of St. Peter. Thus, now again, as it had happened a week ago when he was practically obliged to escort a young roughneck to a quite distant hospital for aid, his worries would in no way subside and he could not gain slumber.
Tired of tossing about in bed, he got up, relit the candle and, opening a bookcase, chose a small volume. Sleep should come easier while reading, he was thinking as he set himself up comfortably in his bedstead.
To read was not much to his liking, nor was there any time for a lot of it, either he practiced only that much of reading which was required from him as a clergyman and perhaps a little more on the phenomena of nature, on weather and ornithology. His special dislike were sermon manuals, of which he possessed none. – Sermons should relate to life and not come from books – he would advise younger priests so he took up a story about a wolf who was breaking his way into a stable but got captured. A tinkle bell was then tied under the neck of the beast and the intruder thereupon chased back into the woods, clanging along as he  rushed away.
What a nasty spot for the wolf to be in, - mused the old pastor, putting the light out once more. – Though it did serve him right and what a solution!
As he now lay in bed he kept thinking of the wolf, even visualizing the beast roaming the forest, day and night with the dangling bell he could not get rid of while all his fellow creatures around would hear him coming from afar and could make their escape.
The wolf will have to starve to death, to be sure, and that is quite a horrible way to die. Though a wolf is not to be blamed for not being a herbivore and for the word not having been created differently one could only pity the miserable creature…
The people of wisdom could do better and devise some kind of a bell to be attached to a malicious person, let’s say to a thief. Why even in this parish such a contraption would be of use, it really would – and with these thoughts the reverend parson was carried off to sleep.
As night wore on the parson was suddenly awakened by a feeling  that something unusual was going on.
What could this be? Impossible!
Organ music in the middle of the night! – For he was hearing the sounds of the church organ playing, indeed.
Lighting up the candle the parson noticed that it was half past one.
Something wrong must have happened to our Michael, - he thought, meaning the parish organist, a be bachelor and one well ahead in year’s. I’m sure this has not been a dream, and my hearing is in order, too. Though.
I’ve never known of anybody who would et up in the dead of night, unlock a church and rambling up into the organ loft, would start to play his melodies. I’ll have to preach him a lesson for this, I really shall – and with this the person rolled over in his bed, chased away his thoughts and finally dozed off.
He was up in the morning at his usual time, but immediately realized that he was feeling rather ill at ease. Reflecting, he recalled the organ music of midnight and became really upset.
I’ll have to tell Michael about the property of things witch may be done and those which may not. If he feels an urge to play music at night, he may rattle away his own creaky keyboard at home to his heart’s desire. Just think of this insatiable enthusiast of organ music! If only he could play it well. Whenever he reaches that beautiful passage of magnificat during vespers, why one gets the feeling of need to flee for safety or to leave the church. Reaching the church, however, he found everything as usual and so he said nothing to anybody. Only when mass was over did he tell little Santo Vito, son of the verger, to go and call the organist.
My honorable Michael, has daytime become too short that you have to get up at night to perform concerts in the church?
Excuse me, reverend pastor, but I cannot understand what you mean by this. – The organist was perplexed.
There is nothing incomprehensible in what I say. I am only asking you what kind of an evil spirit carried you up to the organ loft this night?
You may play there as much as you like during the day, but night is night and a decent person will not go about sgueaking church doors and playing  an organ at that time.
My dear pastor, what a thing to say! Was somebody playing the organ? Really? As I stand here alive I know nothing, nor have I heard a thing about this. I have slept as dead as a rock last night.
Don’t think I am fancying you with some kind of a dream and I have been sober all the while. The pastor, not inclined to argue, returned to his rooms dissatisfied, he was even reluctant to partake of breakfast when it was served.
A Barrabbas! Nothing less than a real barrabbas – the pastor was murmering as he sweetened his tea.
A Barrabbas? Who is that? – inquired the parson’s housekeeper, Susan. - Has something happened again?
I am talking of people who do not know the difference between day at night, between what is wrong and right.
It must have been some of those restive young farm hands again making noise during the night.
No, this time it was none of the young farm hands.
Not they? Jet a disturbing of peaceful sleep? Well, maybe a rooster was cock-a-doodling under the window. Susan was deing her best to solve the riddle.
No, and no again. I am speaking of the organ music.
The housekeeper was not prepared with an answer to this baffling question. Yet she understood the pastor well enough to know that it was useless to inquire any further. She just kept away and walked about all day feeling uneasy herself.
On this following night the pastor was awakened again.
Merciful God, not a penny’s worth of sense! – soft, sweet strains of organ music were flowing from the church. What is the matter with him? Well, he’ll not get away with it this time.
He lit a lantern. It was fifteen minutes to two. Throwing aside his blanket, he got up and walking to the window, opened it. A whiff of cool, fragrant air freshened up the room. The organ music was resplendent ephemerically in the quiet of the July night. The pastor, exalted, listened on for quite a while. A recollection came alive of a picture the elderly pastor had once seen in a book of saint Cecilia sitting at an organ at dusk, her hair loose and flowing, playing music to infant angels flocked around her and resting their cherubic round heads on their tiny fists.
His music is beautiful, that spook of the night. He never played like this before but his lack of moderation! Church is the house of God and must be respected. One cannot do just anything init. Or maybe Michael has become a lunatic and wanders about in his sleep?
No, that cannot be, there is no moon in the sky tonight. And he could not be playing perched up there all by himself. Somebody else must be there at the bellows.
He closed the window extinguished the lantern and settled down to bed, but an elated agitation would not permit him to ragain his sleep.
A Latin sentence from schooldays came to his mind: “Semper accidit id quod non speraverimus” – often something will happen that we had not been expecting. He kept on repeating the sentence in Latin until he finally could not get rid of it anymore.
And still the organ music kept flowing on, thus keeping the parson awake. Usually quiet, melodious music would not disturb his sleep. And the playing of an organ was his special fondness. Now, though, he  was just rolling from side to side, repeatedly counting up to hundred, and unable to close his eyes. Nor did the organ music come to an abrupt end, but quieted down gradually only when day break was lightning up.
When the first rays of the rising sun pierced into the bedroom, the parson arose from his bed and putting on some clothes, went outside. He went to the courtyard of the church, tested all the doors of the edifice and finding them all locked securely, patiently continued to pace about. After mass he set out to see Michael.
Pray, dear, what has happened to you? And in the name of heaven don’t stare at me so wildly. Don’t try to justify yourself, you will not succeed. I emphatically forbid you to play the organ at night. And that is that!
What sort of miracles are you talking about, reverend father? Who could have gotten to the organ? As for me, I was detained at the schoolhouse until after midnight. I went to bed as soon as I came home and I heard nothing at all. The only disturbance that occurred were a few gun shots from across the river: “bum – bum” once, then once again.
And what are you implying by this? Do you think I’ll start believing n ghosts or imagine that a dead body has arisen from the cemetery and started playing  the organ?
When becoming harsh, the parson would not give in to any reasoning. He brought up several more weaknesses of the organist to his face, and then, as became the latter’s spiritual leader, the parson silenced him al together, and with an added lecturing went off, leaving Michael all but stupefied.
The children of the verger were thereupon summoned by the parson, for it was they who worked the bellows at the organ loft. The youngsters were questioned about last night. They replied that they were fast asleep, that nobody had tried to waken them, and they heard no sounds whatsoever. They were also  proud to admit that  there was nobody else who could work the organ bellows as well as only they could.
The senile pastor returned home and went straight into the kitchen, asking Susan when he saw her:
Have you heard any sounds this past night?
Heavenly father, has something happened again? I’ve heard nothing and the nights are so short all day long I run around so much that I’m asleep even before I touch my bed.
Of course, with you cannon fire could be thundering under the windows or the church could collapse and break into them, and still you would have heard nothing.
Why then, what did happened? Has there been a fire or have burglars carried off anything? The soulful women was frightened and worried.
There was somebody in the church again this night, playing the organ I could not get any sleep because of this. – the pastor was trying to give his explanation as calmly as he could.
Indeed. Well, who else could that have been if not Michael! What a racketeer! – The housekeepers was now quite sure about it.
Perhaps not he. No, for he is solemnly avowing that he knows nothing about this.
Then maybe it was the wind howling in the chimneys before a change of weather.
There wasn’t any wind last night.
What about the nightly horse herders with their singing?
Now, wouldn’t I know the difference between human singing and organ music?
The good woman dared not ask any more questions. She shuddered at a thought that evil spirits might have flocked over to settle here. She wanted to suggest the need to have the church reconsecrated as that as that would do no harm even if there was nothing wrong going on yet she abstained from voicing this for she knew the proposal would be unfavorably rejected.
The pastor went out and stayed a away all day long, walking around everywhere. He did not even return for dinner. It was evening when he perceived the church bells tolling, calling the faithful to their rest and prayers to him this reawakened his fears of the dreads that might recur.
Can that really happen again this night?
He stayed up late that evening, reading until sleep had finally overcome him. The elderly pastor was yearning for a sound, restful respite of one whole night, until the morrow, and not have to hear anymore of the unwished – for organ music. Fate did not respect the wishes of the elderly priest. In his sleep, already, he could see the church flowing full of his parishoners as during the great feast of providence, whilst the organs were blasting as sublimely as never before and the organist was not Michael, it was saint Michael himself.
What in heaven is saint Michael doing at the organ? It is his duty to command the legions of the celestial army and to protect paradise from an onslaught of the spirits of darkness. These were the first thoughts of the elderly priest as soon as he awoke.
Merciful lord, why the organ music is resounding again!
Showing aside the blanket, he picked up an overcoat, stepped into his slippers and grabbing his walking stick he strode through the door. A few more paces past the garden he was already in the courtyard of the church.
I’ll have a talk face-to-face with him, whosoever has taken such a liking of our organ. The resounding of the high – register notes of the music was causing a vibration of the church’s wooden walls. Even the squeaking of the organ’s pedals could be heard. And the high notes were quite clear and distinct.
Isn’t this a fugue of Bach that I’m hearing? Now the tremolo is turned on and now, the performance is in full. That’s something indeed – playing a march as though a wedding were taking place! May you freeze stiff!
The door to the organ loft was locked and so were all the other doors as he soon discovered.
Locked himself up and took the keys along, this good-for-nothing. The parson headed for the parish apartment house standing on the other side, across from the church. It was also latched from the inside. Approaching the windows of the organist’s rooms, he knocked on their panes. There was no answer for a while and the parson felt a lightness at heart.
Michael is not in, so it is he who is playing the organ there.
“Who is this? ” The pale countenance of Michael appeared behind the glass.
The voice shocked the aged priest back into his anxieties. He was struck dumb and did not know what to answer. Obviously someone mysterious has turned up there in church, he who is blasting the organ all through the night.
Don’t you hear it? The organ music! Let’s hurry to the church. Michael opened the window.
Alas the unhappy priest. For the prowling, unwelcome organist of the night must have overheard this conversation. He had stopped playing his music. And so it failed to reach the ears of Michael.
Taking the keys and a candle each, the parson with Michael went into the church. they ascended to the organ loft. Silence was absolute all around here. Both could hear only their own breathing and the ticking of a wall clock. It was they who could now be taken for ghastly spectres.
The keyboard of the organ had been shut down, and the music notes were untouched. Opening up the chest for the music notes, they also examined the interior of the whole musical instrument they then walked all around elsewhere this search revealed nothing and in silence they both climbed back downstairs. The parson was feeling extremely depressed. He had hoped to find some clues at least of the intruder. And now everybody would start talking that the parson has gone out of his mind in his old age.
Michael Jackson could well grasp the parson’s depressed state of mind, as he escorted him to his bed chamber. There both remained seated until dawn, fully awake and sharing their memories of younger days. The parson could not get rid of the thought of organ music the whole next day either, and therefore he could not attach himself to doing any work. Michael came to see him again that evening.
It was decided that he would pass the night with the parson in these rooms. Perhaps, too, he could get a chance to hear the mysterious night music in this way.
And so Jackson continued to stay with the parson overnight for a whole week. Nevertheless he failed to hear the slightest sound of any music. For as soon as the old priest would awaken him to listen, the organ would stop playing. And if they were both staying up any night without a wink of sleep, the organ dared not play the least.
It is a voice coming from beyond, - Michael once told Susan, the housekeeper. – Only you ought not say anything about it to the parson. Don’t argue with him, nor ask him any questions. Let him enjoy the brightness of these, probably his last days, among us.
Nevertheless, the old priest was wasting away during these days, becoming emaciated, tired. He could not bear the burden of what was going on during the night. And when offered to make a trip, to go somewhere else or to another parish for a rest, he declined this.
I am all by myself in this  parish. And what if a priest’s services were called for? A shepherd cannot lave his flock, cannot retreat even for a moment.
A morning came when the old priest could no more get up from bed. He summoned Michael, telling him:
- Send somebody for the canon priest of San Francisco. I miss him so much, bless his soul. To him alone may I reveal the weaknesses of my life. One can never know when the time is coming that I shall also need to give reckoning for my life to him. And so there was no more need for Michael to stay overnight with the parson.
- From now on I will take care of my best friend – had been the answer of the canonicus. During the first night the parson slept quietly and heard no organ music. On the second one he was taken by fever, started tossing about in bed and calling for fresh air. Suddenly he shouted:
- Cannon, my brother, do you hear it? Listen. Our organ is playing. – Yes, I hear it, I do – the visitor spoke reassuringly.
- And how amazing is its music. It seemed that our organ never had such intonations. Michael must have added these tones in secret. And do you see who the organist is? Can you recognize him? It is saint Michael again who is sitting at the organ, dressed in his shining armor. Tell me, do you see him?
- Yes, I see him, I do. Yes, it is saint Michael.
- And the multitude of people who have gathered in the church. Only that I cannot understand what has brought them here. It is not a feast celebration. The feast of saint Anna we have had already… Why, the tall candles of the great altar are already lit up and here I am still in bed. Let me go, Canon, what are you doing? I must be in church.
- Don’t worry, there’s no hurry. With trouble the old parson was calmed down at last, and he feell asleep. The Canon kept watch, sitting at the bedside for quite a while longer. He began feeling intensely tired, too, and was overtaken by drowsiness. Remaining in his seat, he leaned over to the pillow and was soon asleep as well.
When the canonicus awoke, it had dawned. The first thing he noticed was that the parson was no longer in the room and that his bed spot was altogether cool.
This frightened the Canon priest. He realized that he had neglected his duties of nursing. It looked like the parson must have been seized by an attack of fever and had wandered off. Hastily he awakened Susan and then was running around the rooms, searching. The old priest was no where to be found. Only the outside door was found open. Rushing out, the Canon 3 – organ music.
Passed through the courtyard, turning toward the sacristy. He noticed that the key was in the door lock. His fears were resurging. He ran into the sacristy and finding nothing there, rushed to the presbytery. There he suddenly stopped as though petrified. For a moment he felt his consciousness fading as a flush of perspiration covered his body. And then he beheld the old parson in his vestments, with white chasulle, lying rigidly prostrate on a carpet in front of the altar, as though he were frozen stiff. The candles on the altar were already burning out.
This has been his ultimate mass celebrated tonight for the intention of those he has been visioning and of whom he has been telling me of late – the canonicus continued his thoughts. – And yet he must have felt happy during the last hour of his life for his organist has been the very saint Michael.






Santa Maria. California. 2004 year. Jackson’s diary.


A gloomy dusk, heavy clumsy clouds and silence loomed over a Jackson’s palace in Santa Maria.
All day long people waited for something with their ears straight and eyes open, they paid no serious attention to everyday talks and works. After yesterday’s stirring, it was too quiet and too dreary. As if the Los Angeles police retreated to Jackson’s palace and waited for the night or morning in order renew the battle. It was this silence, this stiffness, and this deserted field of the battle without cries, dams or threats that were arousing. The suspense increasing every minute; when it blew