Charles Bluh, Count of Varmaldois

The Counts of Vermaldois have noble ancestors dating back more than 1,500 years ago, at the time of the reign of Louis I, son of Charlemagne; a prestigious dynasty, unfortunately, in fact extinct more than a century before the French revolution; yet a Count of Vermaldois still sits in his mansion in Ambrief, in upper France, around 80 miles northeast of Paris.

Charles Bluh, Count of Vermaldois, loves to reside in this hermitage that looks more like a castle than a palace, isolated for most of the year and unknown to the world. Bluh has always avoided any form of advertising; when he moves, he practically always does so in disguise under a false identity, and is extremely generous in silencing journalists and paparazzi when his possible night raids, especially in Paris, New York and LA attract gossip. Bluh is tall, elegant and solid, endowed with a posture that leaves little doubt on its noble origins; His ways are particularly refined, to this day he loves to handwrite his letters to his friends and personally dictate to his secretaries the official correspondence and the letters to his subordinates. Although his isolation is not rare his letters, often simple provisions on how to change and move investments: generally large transactions, with important returns, but long-term, which confirm his talent and his ability to constantly grow the its already considerable capital. In fact, although it is still common today to turn to him, with deference, through his title, there is no doubt that his power no longer has heraldic reasons, but is rooted in the possession of important stock packages, many banks, for a value that is believes it exceeds ten billion euros. His mansion is full of servants who look after him with a devotion typical of distant times and who live almost perennially inside the solid walls of the palace; visiting it therefore means engaging in a kind of spiritual retreat, even if often the activities are anything but monotonous litanies. I had received the invitation for a week of music and art from the Count about a month in advance with a precious gift that he knew well how much I appreciated: a violin attributed to a student of Stradivari of 1782 bought by Sotheby's for over 80,000 pounds. It was certainly not only its value to impress me; its workmanship and its amazing sound could have convinced me to immediately modify my turné even if I had not already known the extreme value of attending his meetings. I was therefore delighted to be able to return to visit this patron accepting the challenge of the hopping trip up to Ambrief brought by his female chauffeur on an old Daimler Double-Six of 1932, a jewel kept perfectly tidy and equipped with all the most advanced comforts including internet connections, minibar with automatic mixer and every other devil, despite the innate reluctance of the Count to personally take advantage of these gadgets.

As always the trip was embellished by a precise coupling wanted by the Count, I found myself together with a model Armena, beautiful and that gave me the impression that the trip was too short to enjoy such a shaky intimacy; while my friend painter Assunta Kota, arrived in the morning, had traveled with the daughter of a Russian oligarch who adored poetry and knew how to declare the most vulgar verses of Catullus with the refinement of a work by Botticelli, as Assunta used to say. The company consisted of half a dozen guests who largely transcended their remarkable aesthetic virtues and boasted a truly unique artistic elegance. In fact, it was my third time at Ambrief and I had renounced to hypothesize the cost of these gatherings: rare wines, elaborate discussions, marvelous companies, scenographies built with abundance of details, unimaginable animations, different for each gathering. I knew that Bluh loved to offer priceless gifts to their guests together with the invitations, perhaps not to risk rubbish, except to ask each one a religious confidentiality about what was happening in the mansion. I also knew that at the arrival was granted a second object, common object to all, which he called the "knick-knack": this time it was a brooch of emeralds made in a bouquet, commissioned by him to Van Cleef. I found the Count between the famous architect Sarah Metz with a set by Crudelia De Mon and Darine, the splendid "poetess" mentioned by Assunta, all three with the knickknack already pinned on their own clothes and Bluh finished the sought-after presentations asked precisely by Darine of appoint the knick-pin as a ritual gesture that formalized my joining the gathering.

The brooch was a marvel and we were invited to bring it throughout the week, of course I would not have known on what occasion I could put it in the future, but in fact I had also held the previous trinkets as priceless memories of these voluptuous artistic experiences. Normally the days spent in the daytime idleness, dedicated to rest and recovery of the forces spent during the wild nights in which passion reigned artistic. They were not dissolute nights in the traditional sense, even if no vice was denied, but those who were elsewhere were vices here considered as salt on the dishes, from rare essences to synthetic drugs with incredible properties; they were employed without emphasis or particular interest; indeed, we generally tried to moderate ourselves just to avoid losing consciousness and memory of such unique moments. In fact, the nights dragged along celebrating at the highest levels poetry, painting, music, philosophy, all declaimed in the elegant and refined setting of the manor of Bluh, which compared to the spartan outer garment, inside boasted rooms of an incomparable wealth. Almost always time passed in the light of candles and scented essences that soaked the air and created the unique atmosphere that allowed guests to give the best of themselves and their creativity. At that gathering, the second night was dedicated to a new game: a night-time hunt, conducted with dark glasses using bluish lenses, based on the Count's opinion on a new and still secret and developing technology. The glasses clearly showed every detail even in the utmost darkness and allowed us to hunt our sparkling targets. We hunted in the park using crossbows and pulling peacocks that through the glasses appeared iridescent and changing, selected for that game and modified with special spray.

Kota refused to play a role in the hunt, and with her was Lucine, the beautiful Armenian model with a particular voice, worthy of a soprano of agility, she too hated to kill and found that exercise a disgusting custom. The dinner we were served based on our prey, with refined alternatives for our vegetarian guests; immediately a heated, but refined, controversy over hunting and food was born. In reality the intense discussion was dominated by the side of the hunters from Tira, another beautiful guest of the Count, with a haughty and indomitable bearing, which, by the way, had won the hunt after a long head-to-head with Simon Mendez, the young poet Uruguagio. The Count claimed after a special toast with his rare liquor to appeal to my abilities and begged me to perform the third Bach sonata to soften the spirits too bright; the thing worked even if I am sure that the dreaming perfumes contributed in addition to the special attentions of the so-called "pets" who took care of us and served drinks and food. They were beautiful models, and even models, often with their faces covered by elegant masks, delegated to please the guests well beyond the duties of a waiter even if the Count did not like the most intimate services to be held in public and avoided giving life to orgies during rallies that were not exclusively "intellectual". Bach's sonata was so complex, and I was so tired, that only the exhilaration due to the liquor gave me the courage and the strength to confront that piece in front of such a chosen audience; the performance ended up satisfying my taste, however, I was interrupted by an unexpected visit on the final: Bluh suddenly stood up and asked to forgive him, quickly moving towards the entrance in a completely unusual way. Christine was outside the mansion, as beautiful as wet, even though it was not actually raining or at least it had not rained during the hunt. The girl looked shocked and it seemed at least strange to take her to the music salon instead of lending her the right care; there were countless troubled questions that sought answers, but Bluh with her sure eloquence asked to desist and let Christine, so he introduced us, the woman was warmed up and fully resume before asking any question.

A heavy red damask covered her as she sat on a sofa topped by two beautiful models belonging to the Count's vast "pet" repertoire. I was immediately struck by how the beauty of the new arrival could tarnish that of the two models, despite its neglected conditions, the crumpled dress and hair soaked. My eyes were all for her, as well as those of Simon and, apparently, the male servant present; in a completely different way, but equally understood, more suspicious and subtly hostile, the looks of the women present in the hall unfolded.

Bluh held her there, in front of everyone, almost as if she wanted to revive the night that had now gone off; the curiosity, the protective instinct, the suspicion, everything made Christine the focal point of that moment and the tiredness could not dilute its intensity; she did not speak, except for some inaudible and occasional whisper in the ear of the Count, when he approached her; in some moments his face seemed shocked by a hallucinatory experience, but in general it seemed mostly unnaturally absent, as if it were tranches. Finally, Bluh begged us again to excuse him and accompanied Christine by asking us to defer any matter to the next day when she had refreshed herself. Two strong pets closed the doors behind the Count and stood before them almost as though guarding. The storm of questions left unanswered immediately gave rise to a lively discussion from which only Sarah, the Australian architect who had abandoned herself to sleep on one of the Louis XV armchairs that adorned the room, was estranged. During our colorful discussion, all of a sudden we heard rapid, popping noises, the whistling of a whip, and a series of muffled moans in the background. In fact, the meetings of the Count did not lack moments of intent, games of seduction, domination, often proposed as a starting point to develop the evening, but as already said these scenes were more typically developed in the private rooms of each guest with support of the complacent "pets". There were also very particular jokes: I still remember when, on a previous visit, a true duel with a saber was organized following a violent quarrel; in the clash the Count amputated a limb of his adversary with a sharp blow that died bloody in a few minutes between terror and general dismay: it was nevertheless a well-orchestrated joke and the guest with his limb made fun of us for the rest of the meeting. At least half of the guests had already participated in the meetings of the Count and then quickly arose the most fanciful theories, to which was added a hysterical crisis of Lucine and an enterprising action by Simon to reach the other room, discouraged by the guardians so courteous how resolute. In the end it was Tira who decided for everyone and called the Count for clarification, after an endless sequence of lashes heard through the heavy doors. The doors opened to show a particular scene, in which Bluh with the sleeves rolled still wore a long whip and Christine was locked to a gimmick that appeared a Gothic cross between an old typographic machine and a trestle of torture, her bare back was furrowed by signs of whip and his mouth, now free, still bore a faint sign of the elaborate gag like the bite placed on the horses that had dampened his moans.

A maid promptly took the whip from the Count's hands, while other pets were freeing Christine. We were astonished before the scene, some still thought it was one of the jokes, while on the face of others it was clear a mixture of excitement and disapproval. "Bring her into her quarters," the Count beckoned us to sit down and told us with brief comments on the story of Christine, a young German manager who had fascinated too much a rich Persian prince in his commercial negotiation; as a result the prince had her kidnapped and turned into his slave, adding it to a nourished harem of beauties from all over the world. Our comments and questions that tried to interrupt him and to understand how much truth there were, were all kindly ignored by Bluh who continued the story with complacent smiles. During prigonia, Christine, like many other unfortunates, had undergone a detailed process of plastic surgery and had recently begun an intense conditioning program that some would probably call brainwashing. This was the treatment the prince imposed on his prisoners. Christine had managed to escape from the clinic where she was, a few miles away, just before she completely lost her ability to react; in the escape it had ended up in the river and only fortunately it had reached the mansion of the Vermaldois. The calm and sobriety of the story, the tone of the Count's voice and his authority made what would otherwise have appeared as a crazy story; at times our eyes turned to Christina and her face felt, while the "pets" led her away. Simon asked with horror, without failing to betray a grimace of excitement on his lip. Bluh replied almost surprised by the question "The Prince is a friend of mine, I had to show good neighborliness" "So he will not call the police_" "It would be indelicate, Christine would not want for sure and moreover probably the policemen in this area are on the Prince's payroll and would immediately report it back to the clinic. He will be my guest, here he is safe " Bluh proposed an inscrutable smile and Tira approached the Count gently kissing his cheek and whispering a sentence in his ear A silence ensued that ended in our transfer to bed, tried by the weary night and almost drugged by that experience as well as by the essences and perfumes. We spent the whole week asking questions about this fact, not failing to storm the Count of questions, all elegantly circumvented in such a way as to generate in everyone the reasonable doubt that it was a kind of collective illusion created ad hoc by our guest for end the never-ending night of the hunt. Assunta quickly completed an oil painting by Christine that Bluh placed in a room next to one of his portraits; it was a particular, but touching representation, I often found myself observing it and often I practiced to repeat that sonata, inspired by that painting, discovering skills that I did not think I possessed and often perceiving at the end of the piece that other guests had reached me too and listen to ecstasy.

 In any case, Christine did not show up and we no longer knew about her until the end of the week, when the Count told us that she had "escaped" the night before and that there was no trace of her. Many asked if it was the prince who kidnapped her, but Bluh assured that it was not so, indeed that Christine had recovered completely and was probably safe now. Of Christine, in addition to the blinding beauty, I vividly remember only those few words, vague and barely comprehensible, that Tira had whispered in the ear of the Count that night "If you think so, you'll have to let her escape before He comes to reclaim his slave" Before leaving, I asked for clarification from Tira, who reacted by kissing me tenderly on the mouth "love, friendship, hospitality and justice are natural forces that only those who possess the Supreme Power can master. And you certainly know how to master the Bach Sonatas, one day maybe I will organize a meeting and I will ask you to renew the interpretation of that piece using this particular passion of yours "

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Italian

English

Charles Bluh, Conte di Varmaldois

I Conti di Vermaldois vantano nobili antenati che risalgono a oltre 1'500 anni or sono, ai tempi del regno di Luigi I figlio di Carlo Magno; una dinastia prestigiosa, sfortunatamente, di fatto estintasi oltre un secolo prima della rivoluzione Francese; eppure un Conte di Vermaldois siede ancora oggi nella sua magione ad Ambrief, nella Francia alta, circa 80 miglia a nord est di Parigi.

Charles Bluh, Conte di Vermaldois, ama risiedere in questo eremo che sembra più un castello che un palazzo, isolatoper la maggior parte dell’anno e sconosciuto al mondo. Bluh rifugge da sempre da ogni forma di pubblicità; quando si sposta, lo fa praticamente sempre in incognito sotto una falsa identità, e risulta estremamente generoso nel mettere a tacere giornalisti e paparazzi quando le sue eventuali scorribande notturne, soprattutto a Parigi, New York e LA attraggono il gossip. Bluh si presenta alto, elegante e solido, dotato di un portamento che lascia pochi dubbi sulle sue origini nobiliari; i suoi modi stessi sono particolarmente raffinati, a tutt'oggi egli ama scrivere a mano le sue lettere agli amici e dettare personalmente, alle sue segretarie, la corrispondenza ufficiale e le missive ai suoi sottoposti. Nonostante il suo isolamento non sono rare le sue lettere, spesso semplici disposizioni su come modificare e spostare gli investimenti: in genere grandi operazioni, con ritorni importanti, ma di lungo periodo, che confermano il suo talento e la sua capacità nel far crescere costantemente il suo già notevole capitale. Infatti, sebbene ancora oggi sia comune rivolgersi a lui, con deferenza, per tramite del suo titolo, è indubbio che il suo potere non ha più ragioni araldiche, ma è radicato nel possesso di importanti pacchetti azionari, molti bancari, per un valore che si ritiene ecceda i dieci miliardi di Euro. La sua magione è piena di servitori che lo accudiscono con una devozione tipica di tempi lontani e che vivono quasi perennemente all'interno delle solide mura del palazzo; visitarlo quindi significa impegnarsi in una specie di ritiro spirituale anche se spesso le attività sono tutt'altro che monotone litanie. Avevo ricevuto l’invito per una settimana di musica e arte dal Conte con circa un mese d’anticipo insieme a un prezioso dono che lui ben sapeva quanto apprezzassi: un violino attribuito ad un allievo di Stradivari del 1782 acquistato da Sotheby's per oltre 80,000 sterline. Non era certo solo il suo valore ad impressionarmi: la sua fattura e il suo suono strabiliante avrebbero potuto convincermi a modificare immediatamente la mia turné anche se non avessi già conosciuto come impagabili i suoi raduni. Fui quindi felice di poter tornare a visitare questo mecenate accollandomi il viaggio saltellante fino ad Ambrief portato dalla sua autista su una vecchia Daimler Double-Six del 1932, un gioiello tenuto perfettamente in ordine e dotato di tutti i comfort più avanzati comprese connessioni ad internet, minibar con miscelatore automatico e ogni altra diavoleria, nonostante l'innata ritrosia del Conte ad usufruire personalmente di questi gadget.

Come sempre il viaggio era impreziosito da un preciso accoppiamento voluto dal Conte, io mi ritrovai insieme ad una modella Armena, bellissima e che mi diede l’impressione che il viaggio fosse troppo breve per godere di una simile traballante intimità; mentre la mia amica pittrice Assunta Kota, arrivata nella mattina, aveva viaggiato con la figlia di un oligarca russo che adorava la poesia e sapeva declamare i versi più volgari di Catullo con la raffinatezza di un’opera del Botticelli, come usava dire Assunta. La compagnia era composta da una mezza dozzina di ospiti che trascendevano largamente le proprie notevoli virtù estetiche e vantavano un'eleganza artistica davvero unica. In effetti, era la mia terza volta ad Ambrief e avevo rinunciato a ipotizzare il costo di questi raduni: vini rari, discussioni elaborate, compagnie meravigliose, scenografie costruite con dovizia di particolari, animazioni impensabili, diverse per ogni raduno. Sapevo che Bluh amava offrire regali impagabili ai propri ospiti inseme agli inviti, forse per non rischiare in rifiuti, fatto salvo richiedere a ciascuno una religiosa riservatezza su quanto avveniva nella magione. Sapevo anche che all'arrivo veniva concesso un secondo oggetto, comune oggetto a tutti, che lui chiamava il “ninnolo del raduno”: questa volta si trattava di una spilla di smeraldi fatta a bouquet, commissionata da lui a Van Cleef. Trovai il Conte fra la famosa architetta Sarah Metz con una mise da Crudelia De Mon e Darine, la splendida "poetessa" menzionatami da Assunta, tutti e tre con il ninnolo già appuntato sui propri abiti e Bluh finite le ricercate presentazioni chiese proprio a Darine di appuntarmi il ninnolo quale gesto rituale che ufficializzava il mio unirmi al raduno.

La spilla era una meraviglia ed eravamo invitati a portarla durante tutta la settimana, ovviamente non avrei proprio saputo in che altra occasione avrei potuto metterla in futuro, ma in effetti avevo tenuto anche i precedenti i ninnoli come ricordi impagabili di queste voluttuose esperienze artistiche. Di norma le giornate trascorrevano nell’ozio diurno, dedicato al riposo e al recupero delle forze spese durante le scatenate notti nelle quali passione regnava la artistica. Non erano notti dissolute in senso tradizionale, anche se nessun vizio era negato, ma quelli che altrove erano vizi qui erano considerati al pari del sale sulle pietanza, da rare essenze proibite a droghe sintetiche dalle proprietà incredibili; esse erano impiegate senza enfasi o particolare interesse, anzi di norma tutti cercavamo di moderarci proprio per evitare di perdere coscienza e memoria di siffatti momenti unici. Infatti le notti si trascinavano celebrando ai massimi livelli poesia, pittura, musica, filosofia, tutte declamate nell'elegante e raffinata cornice del maniero di Bluh, che rispetto alla spartana veste esterna, al suo interno vantava vani di una ricchezza impareggiabile. Quasi sempre il tempo trascorreva alla luce di candele e con essenze profumate che impregnavano l’aria e creavano quell'atmosfera unica che permetteva agli ospiti di dare il meglio di se e della propria creatività. In quel raduno, la seconda notte fu dedicata ad un nuovo gioco: una caccia notturna, condotta con occhiali scuri che impiegavano lenti bluastre, basate a detta del Conte su una nuova tecnologia ancora segreta ed in fase di sviluppo. Gli occhiali presentavano chiaramente ogni dettaglio anche nella più assoluta oscurità e permettevano di cacciare i nostri sfavillanti bersagli. Cacciammo nel parco usando balestre e tirando a pavoni che attraverso gli occhiali apparivano iridescenti e cangianti, selezionati apposta per quel gioco e modificati con particolari spray.

Kota rifiutò di avere un ruolo nella caccia e con lei in casa rimase Lucine, la bellissima modella armena dalla voce particolare, degna di un soprano d’agilità, anch'essa detestava uccidere e trovava quell'esercizio una disgustosa usanza. La cena che ci fu servita a base delle nostre prede, con raffinate alternative per le nostre ospiti vegetariane; ne nacque subito una accesa, ma raffinata, polemica sulla caccia e sul cibo. In realtà l'intensa discussione fu dominata dal lato dei cacciatori da Tira, un’altra bellissima ospite del Conte, dal portamento altero e indomito e, che tra l'altro, aveva vinto la caccia dopo un lungo testa a testa con Simon Mendez, il giovane poeta Uruguagio. Il Conte pretese dopo uno speciale brindisi con un suo raro liquore di far ricorso alle mie capacità e mi pregò di eseguire la terza sonata in do di Bach per stemperare gli animi troppo accesi; la cosa funzionò anche se sono certo che contribuirono non poco i profumi onirici oltre alle speciali attenzioni dei cosiddetti “famigli” che ci accudiva e servivano bevande e cibi. Si trattava di bellissime modelle, e anche modelli, spesso col viso coperto da eleganti maschere, demandate a compiacere gli ospiti ben oltre i doveri di un cameriere anche se il Conte non gradiva che i servizi più intimi si svolgessero in pubblico e rifuggiva dar vita ad orgie durante i raduni che non fossero esclusivamente "intellettuali". La sonata di Bach era così complessa, ed io ero talmente stanco, che solo l’ebbrezza dovuta al liquore mi diede il coraggio e la forza di confrontarmi con quel pezzo dinnanzi a una così eletta audience; l'esecuzione finì per soddisfare anche il mio gusto, tuttavia, proprio sul finale venni interrotto da una visita inaspettata: Bluh si alzò subitaneamente e chiese di perdonarlo dirigendosi rapidamente verso l’ingresso in modo del tutto inusuale. Christine era fuori della magione, bella quanto fradicia, anche se in realtà non stava piovendo o perlomeno non era piovuto durante la caccia. La ragazza sembrava sconvolta e apparve quantomeno strano portarla nel salone della musica invece di prestarle subito le dovute cure; c’erano infinite domande accorate che cercavano risposte, ma Bluh con la sua sicura eloquenza chiese di desistere e lasciare che Christine, così ci presentò la donna si scaldasse e riprendesse totalmente prima di porre qualsivoglia quesito.

Un pesante damasco rosso la copriva mentre sedeva su un sofà accudita da due bellissime modelle appartenenti al vasto repertorio di "famigli" del Conte. Fui subito colpito da come la bellezza della nuova arrivata riuscisse ad offuscare quella delle due modelle, nonostante le sue condizioni trascurate, l’abito sgualcito e i capelli fradici. I miei occhi erano tutti per lei, così come quelli di Simon e, apparentemente, dei famigli presenti; in modo completamente diverso, ma altrettanto inteso, più sospettoso e sottilmente ostile, si dispiegavano gli sguardi delle donne presenti nella sala.

Bluh la tenne lì, davanti a tutti, quasi a voler ravvivare la notte che oramai si era spenta; la curiosità, l’istinto protettivo, il sospetto, tutto rendeva Christine il punto focale di quel momento e la stanchezza non riusciva a stemperarne l’intensità; lei non parlava, fatto salvo qualche inudibile e occasionale bisbiglio per l’orecchio del Conte, quando lui le si accostava; in alcuni momenti il suo viso sembrava sconvolto da un’esperienza allucinante, ma in generale appariva per lo più innaturalmente assente, quasi fosse tranche . Infine Bluh ci pregò nuovamente di scusarlo ed accompagnò via Christine pregandoci di dilazionare qualsiasi questione al giorno successivo quando essa si fosse rifocillata. Due robusti famigli richiusero le porte dietro al Conte e si misero in piedi dinnanzi ad esse quasi a guardia. La tempesta di domande rimaste prive di risposta diede subito origine ad una animata discussione dalla quale si estraniò solo Sarah, l'architetta australiana ormai abbandonatasi al sonno su una delle poltrone Luigi XV che adornavano la sala. Durante la nostra variopinta discussione, ad un tratto sentimmo dei rapidi e schioccanti rumori, sembrava il sibilare di una frusta e si sentiva in sottofondo una serie di gemiti soffocati. In effetti, i raduni del Conte non mancavano di momenti intesi, di giochi di seduzione, di dominazione, spesso proposti come spunto per sviluppare la serata, ma come già detto queste scene erano più tipicamente sviluppate nel privato delle stanze di ciascun ospite con il supporto dei compiacenti “famigli”. Vi erano anche scherzi molto particolari: ricordo ancora quando in una visita precedente, fu organizzato, a seguito di una violenta lite, un vero duello con la sciabola; nello scontro il Conte amputò con un colpo secco un arto del suo avversario che morì sanguinosamente in pochi minuti tra il terrore e lo sgomento generale: si era tuttavia trattato di uno scherzo ben orchestrato e l’ospite col suo arto si fece beffe di noi per il resto del raduno. Almeno metà degli ospiti aveva già partecipato ai raduni del Conte e quindi sorsero rapidamente le più estrose teorie, alle quali si aggiunse una crisi isterica di Lucine e un'intraprendente azione di Simon per raggiungere l’altra sala, scoraggiata dai guardiani in modo tanto cortese quanto risoluto. Alla fine fu Tira a decidere per tutti e a chiamare il Conte per chiarimenti, dopo un’interminabile sequenza di sferzate udite attraverso le pesanti porte. Le porte si aprirono per mostrare una scena particolare, nella quale Bluh con le maniche arrotolate brandiva ancora una lunga frusta e Christine era bloccata ad un marchingegno che appariva un gotico incrocio tra una vecchia macchina tipografica e un cavalletto da tortura, la sua schiena nuda era solcata da segni di frusta e la sua bocca, ora libera, portava ancora un debole segno dell'elaborato bavaglio simile al morso messo ai cavalli che aveva smorzato i suoi gemiti.

Una ancella prese prontamente la frusta dalle mani del Conte, mentre altri famigli stavano liberando Christine. Noi eravamo attoniti dinnanzi alla scena, alcuni pensavano ancora che si trattasse di uno degli scherzi, mentre sul viso di altri era chiaro un misto di eccitazione e riprovazione. “Portatela nei suoi alloggi”, il Conte ci fece cenno di accomodarci e ci raccontò con brevi commenti la storia di Christine, giovane manager tedesca che aveva affascinato troppo un ricco principe persiano nella sua trattativa commerciale; come risultato il principe l’aveva fatta rapire e trasformata in sua schiava, aggiungendola a un giù nutrito harem di bellezze provenienti da tutto il mondo. I nostri commenti e domande che tentavano di interromperlo e capire quanto di vero vi fosse, erano tutti cortesemente ignorati da Bluh che proseguiva il racconto con sorrisi compiacenti. Durante la prigonia, Christine, come molte altre sventurate, era stata sottoposta ad un minuzioso processo di interventi di chirurgia plastica e aveva da poco iniziato un intenso programma di condizionamento che alcuni definirebbero probabilmente lavaggio del cervello. Questo era il trattamento che il principe imponeva alle sue prigioniere. Christine era riuscita a fuggire dalla clinica dove si trovava, a poche miglia di distanza, proprio prima di perdere completamente la capacità di reagire; nella fuga era finite nel fiume e solo fortunosamente era giunta alla magione degli Vermaldois. La calma e sobrietà del racconto, il tono della voce del Conte e la sua autorevolezza rendevano sensata quella che altrimenti sarebbe apparsa come una storia pazzesca; a tratti i nostri sguardi si volgevano verso Christina e il suo volto provato, mentre le “famiglie” la conducevano via. “Perché frustarla allora?” Chiese Simon con orrore, senza mancare di tradire una smorfia di eccitazione sul labbro. Bluh rispose quasi sorpreso dalla questione “Il Principe è un mio amico, dovevo necessariamente dare prova di buon vicinato” “Quindi non chiamerà la polizia_” “Sarebbe indelicato, Christine non vorrebbe di sicuro ed inoltre probabilmente i poliziotti di questa zona sono sul libro paga del Principe e la riporterebbero immediatamente nella clinica. Sarà mia ospite, qui è al sicuro” Bluh propose un sorriso imperscrutabile e Tira si accostò al Conte baciandogli delicatamente la guancia e sussurrandogli una frase nell'orecchio Ne seguì un silenzio che si spense nel nostro trasferirci a letto provati dalla stancante notte e quasi drogati da quell'esperienza oltre che dalle essenze e dai profumi. Passammo tutta la settimana a porci questioni su questo fatto, non mancando di tempestare il Conte di domande, tutte elegantemente eluse in modo tale da generare in tutti il ragionevole dubbio che si fosse trattato di una specie di illusione collettiva creata ad hoc dal nostro ospite per terminare l'interminabile nottata della caccia. Assunta completò rapidamente un quadro ad olio di Christine che Bluh appose in una stanza a fianco ad un suo ritratto; era una rappresentazione particolare, ma toccante, mi ritrovai spesso ad osservarlo e non di rado mi esercitai a ripetere quella sonata, ispirato da quel dipinto, scoprendo capacità che non credevo di possedere e accorgendomi spesso al termine del pezzo che anche altri ospiti mi avevano raggiunto e ascoltati estasiati.

In ogni caso Christine non si fece più vedere e nulla più sapemmo di lei fino al termine della settimana, quando il Conte ci disse che era “scappata” nella notte precedente e che di lei non vi erano tracce. Molti chiesero se fosse stato il principe a rapirla, ma Bluh assicurò che non era così, anzi che Christine si era completamente ripresa e probabilmente ora era al sicuro. Di Christine, oltre all'accecante bellezza, ricordo intensamente solo quelle poche parole, vaghe e a malapena comprensibili, che Tira aveva sussurrato nell'orecchio del Conte quella notte “Se la pensi così dovrai lasciarla scappare prima che Lui venga a reclamare la sua schiava” Prima di partire chiesi chiarimenti a Tira, che reagì baciandomi teneramente sulla bocca “amore, amicizia, ospitalità e giustizia sono forze naturali che solo chi possiede il Supremo Potere può padroneggiare. E voi sicuramente sapete padroneggiare le Sonate di Bach, un giorno forse anch'io organizzerò un raduno e vi pregherò di rinnovare l'interpretazione di quel pezzo usando questa vostra particolare passione”

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Italian

English

Ghalasso, a Space God

Excerpt from "On Asia, Libya and the mountains of Atlantis", Durateo of Argos, Lib.IX, 270BC

So they looks deprived of walls and ditches in the eyes of visitors, even if they protect what they do with continuous sacred rites: the inhabitants seem excessively dedicated to these propitiatory activities, both to Earth, to Sky and the Sea; however the rites are effective since, despite the absence of defenses and the tiny garrison, they are never attacked. In fact, although their colony is very far from their beautiful Armarark(1) and it is located in a land infested by marauders, beyond Libya, their hospitality is splendid and the settlement is safe. There are only twelve dozen of Armarark citizens in the colony, led by few judges, knights, priests, and sages; the artisans and the smiths are capable of things of inestimable value. All together they live with a huge amount of slaves and domestic animals of the most diverse species, trained to perform precisely miraculous tasks. Animals, slaves and citizens consider themselves one single entity. Within this entity, all are considered sacred and live in the utmost mutual respect. But if I had to say for what reasons the animals are sacred, or the slaves treated as brothers, I should fall back on their ethical and religious questions which I would not talk about. I will only say that they recite rituals on mythological creatures unknown to us, they celebrate in poems wars among deities dating before the dawn of time and they are terrified about the advent of a gigantic ancestral titan, known as Gálaktos(2), called the insatiable, destined to destroy the world and bring back the chaos.

Extract from “Gentis Origo”, Luigi di Varnefredia, 675 AD

Over a thousand leagues away it lays the Civiltade(3) of the reign of Armararus(1), centuries old and skilled in the manipulating nature and growing breeds(4) having inherited lost arts even more refined than those of the ancient Egyptian doctors in treating the human body. In this kingdom the Supreme Judges, the Strong Knights, the Holy Priest and the wise Counselors rule over the skilled Medical Doctors, the Inventive Smiths and all the other corporations. Corporations that are far more numerous than there are among us. Each breed, grown there, has always lived in peace with the others and they allow not only to mix them, but also to change from one to another thanks to special treatments that could seem magical here, while for them they are family and domestic acts. Armararus has no subjects, but citizens; they must, in the course of their prosperous lives, make a long pilgrimage between the different classes and among the many sites(5). Each visitor is a guest and each guest receives gifts and care as a king. Their beliefs are noble and marked by fraternity and honor, the only thing they fear is an apocalypse that they believe would be carried by an death angel called Ghavatasso or Ghalasso (1).

Typewritten copy of an excerpt from Tira Weber's private diary (1963) (6)

Step 3727:
I have always been alone, alone, always alone, in the room. Not my room, theirs. I look at the world outside through impenetrable windows. Opaque glasses, black glasses on which my mind paints images and sensations. Outside a real world, alive, dynamic, full of news and discoveries, full of colors and people, so close, but so far. I almost feel to see it, I perceive it, but I can not touch it. Today like yesterday, I feel it changes, while I change too, but I can not touch it and this never changes!
Step 3812:
I have always been alone, alone since I was rejected for my illness, rejected and passed to Asylum. In other times my illness would never have been diagnostic, perhaps it would not even have been considered a disease, but today from the first moments after birth they know how to recognize it and "cure it".
Step 3820:
Rejection of a nuance means eliminating it from society and putting it in an Asylum where it is raised with every care, educated and nurtured, pleased with virtual worlds able to satisfy every dream from adventure, love, from evasion to speculation. This they say, but they do not know what it feels like here, locked in the room, with nothing real to interact with
Step 3893:
They said me that they identified immediately my mutation and treated me. A genetic variant too deep to be corrected in accordance with the ethical principles of Amarark(1). They say they could not treat me honorably otherwise. They say this, but they have condemned me to eternal solitude. They did not want to cure me, maybe they did not know how to cure me, maybe I was not to be treated. Maybe they were sick.
No 3941:
Their. Their. They do not speak, they send their invisible servants to whisper persuasive words and to talk to me and, in any case, never in person. The servants say they are Them, but I recognize the voices and the distinctions, although perhaps I have not heard a real person speaking, since the next few minutes after my birth. They have synthetic servants who speak. Their servants offer to answer my questions. Their servants make speeches. Their servants suggest to me what to do, when to do it and how. Their servants explain my problem to me. They make meaningless discourses on such refined metagenetic details that none of them could even understand: thank goodness their synthetic intelligence are more prepared in this regard. And these synthetic intelligence keep me company, make other speeches, common sense discourses, they talk of friendship and solidarity, make speeches of sympathy for my unfortunate condition. Speeches that leave me here alone, always, perennially alone, offering me candy while I am hungry to live a real life: outside of the room.

No 3969:
They escape contact with me, my illness is like a plague that may fear even more than Ghalasso(2); they fear it more than anything else. I feel how hesitant they are whenever they probe my surroundings, which penetrate what they call my room. They are also hesitant on using the most remote and impalpable sensors they have. When I speak with their synthetic servants, I almost perceive, in the distance, their frightened eyes. I perceive their hesitation in listening to the relationships about me, as if I could contaminate them even from here, with the mere listening of the story reported by a synthetic intelligence that spoke to me by using the interlink(7). They fear me, as if I were a pest able to consume their world, their civilization or, perhaps, only, to offend their ethical principles. They are cowards who live beyond this prison, the room that they persistently call "my room", but that is, in reality, only my prison. It consoles me to think that maybe it is also their prison, as they are being shut out, just to avoid my contagion.

No 4011:
Immersed in this room, "their" room, full of games, games and toys able to satisfy my every dream, my every wish, from those childish dolls, to those of adolescence and puberty. Games where the illusions created by the room appear to me real, I hear noises, I smell, I enjoy the tastes, I see images and I interact with these ghosts. The room extends, becomes an entire universe, makes me visit worlds, explore oceans, do all kinds of sports. Games beautiful more than reality, but fake. Fake like the synthetic intelligence that populate them, false like their synthetic servants who talk to me using their mellifluous voice that would like to look like "their" voices, and that use those beautiful words that are used by "them": false words, said only to delude myself of living, while I'm here, alone.

No 4068:
My illness; they talk about my illness; they say that I am affected by this disease; they say that I am just my sickness. They say this Asylum is the best thing for me; they secretly observe me, I feel their invisible eyes, I feel that every breath of mine, every vibration of mine, the sweating itself of my skin, is perennially analyzed by thousands of their sensors. Several Synthetic Intelligence monitor my biochemical and physical life, unconscious and rational; they even listen to my dreams, they record them. Out. They are out and I'm inside. Sometimes, I perceive them and it seems to me that they escape immediately scared by my perceptions. It seems to me that they retract as soon as I perceive their presence, even if it is only a vague sensation.

No 4133:
More and more games to entertain me, always new, while I am here prisoner, alone! Logical forums and psychophysical games, psychoactive, sexual and psychedelic games, games created by synthetic intelligence that have probed people mind for centuries and want to give us everything we want. Games able to please my deepest and secret desires, games able to occupy my mind, for thousands of years, and this in effect is what they make, every day, mixing their splendid illusions with my reality inside "their" room. But I'm alone, I'm different, I'm sick and I do not want to be busy, smug, cajoled: at least, not like they want me to be.

No 4269:
They say to treat me, but they leave me here, alone, while they filter the air that I breathe, they listen to my beats, they record my movements, they measure my cortical activity, they invade my dreams, they snatch the images from my eyes. They say they leave me here safe in the Asylum, who study me only to see if they can learn how to cure me in the future. They say that they cure me, but they say it leaving me alone, always alone. Sometimes I think, even, that they are afraid to look inside me; terrified by the fact that I can see them and perceive them, from the fact that I can use this perception as a bridge to get out. What could I ever do wrong, what influence does this disease have? I have no idea. But, if I could go out, if I were out, if I were free, then maybe, maybe then they should really be scared

No 4318:
I do not know what is happening, I just feel it is happening, I feel worry, but I do not know what it is, what generate the fear that I perceive. I do not know anything, maybe a new war on the horizon, maybe a new epidemic, maybe caused by someone like me, maybe a star exploding, maybe the end of the world is near, maybe it's arrived Ghalasso(2). I do not know, maybe it's just the cream of majax(8) on the control panel and they were shocked. But I perceive a strong concern. The voice of their synthetic servants is unchanged, perhaps only even more fake today: they lie, they tell their stories, they flatter me, they reassure me, while I hear them, their masters, shake behind.

No 4322:
He arrived, he arrived. I, I call him Father, Father, Father, but he is Ghalasso. My Father, not a genetic father, not a putative one, not a God who professes to be my father, nor a mentor of mine. No! My father! The One who will destroy them and "their" room. It will also destroy me, obviously, but I will be free, at least free to die, to rest, to decompose myself in the true reality. Praise this essence of space, this nemesis of civilizations, be praised the aseptic and impartial nature of the apocalypse. Ghalasso be praised. I hear his name echo in the distance, they do not speak to me any more, but I hear their voices, I hear his name in terror, I hear the shouts of their synthetic servants, I feel an immense anxiety, like billions of souls in pain. The room trembles, I seem to feel the whole world outside shaking, falling apart.

No 4323:
"My child!" "My daughter!" He calls me. He calls me with this voice, a different voice, different from any other I've ever heard. This god of space, this destroyer of civilization, calls me. It seems you call me to adopt me; it is so far away, but it is the first sincere voice, the first disinterested, that I have ever heard. Around me I feel the fabric of time space is flaking and dissolving, but I feel secure, as if his embrace protected me. He is everywhere. He is Ghalasso. Now I see, I perceive what He sees even if I am limited by my mortal roots. I perceive its nature, superior, immense; his insatiable hunger for energy, his suffering, his loneliness. He alone, forced to roam the universe in search of civilizations that satisfy his appetites. He devouring worlds. A dark anthropomorphic shape, iridescent in the color of dark forests, able to walk like a giant above the ruins of the cities deprived of life, able to grow up to tower on the planets, so big as to obscure the stars. A God of Space, an unstoppable force, a thirst for knowledge and torment. A superior, different mind, a profound and greedy soul; a soul that requires apocalyptic tributes, which need genocide to be nourished, which claims to absorb every single atom of every world that crushes and changes in crumbs. I see his memories, memories of millions of worlds crushed, mutated and absorbed by him, solar systems where space and time has been torn, matter has broken up to the nuclei of atoms, to elementary particles and beyond, where everything have to be absorbed by Him. I see thousands of civilizations and creatures who have tried to face it, crushed like insects by a giant. I see a community of supernatural warriors who are fighting at this very moment against the tentacles protuberances that He uses to dissolve the fabric of space and feed, I see them as they unleash a hell of thermonuclear explosions on a distant world, I see them decimated by his power. But then everything changes, He has heard me, He has seen me, He has called me, He has reached me. He preferred to leave the tiny but succulent community to run to me. Leave that other dimension and come to me at this poor banquet. That world and those giants will never know what saved them, but it was me.
He heard my voice, he heard my invocation. And I see from his eyes. I see my illness, my ability to push myself beyond the physicality of this time space and to perceive the higher metaphysics, what they fear. I see my room from outside, one among many, one isolated in a gigantic city populated by our synthetic servants, a city in a thousand that cover a ghost planet. A land where not a single person like me lives, just synthetic servants. A miserable snack created by the fearful and far-sighted Armarark along with many others to deceive it. I see this simulacrum of the world created to mitigate the hunger of Ghalasso, to coax it, to alert our other worlds. And I love him, I adore him, he Father, he liberator.

No 4324:
They did well to fear me, because I can guide it, drive it from them, not on their puppet worlds, simulacra populated by billions of synthetic servants, not these worlds where some of us unhappy are confined to make the bait even more succulent for Ghalasso. No. Other worlds. Other worlds on which to guide it, real worlds, the worlds of our civilization, of their civilization. I guide him from one to another, I hear the planets breaking, the matter dissolving, the suns exploding when the laws of altered physics can no longer support the mass. I feel the enormous energy that He absorbs from the desperate minds, from the tormented people, from the collapse of our civilization, I feel the lives extinguished, the inaudible cries of their souls, cries lost in the infinite void among the particles while they dissolve and are absorbed . Their weapons shot uselessly against Him, while He agilely flowed among dimensions and extended his tentacles on the new worlds, guided by me . He smiles at me, his anthropomorphic shape, as big as a planet, he smiles. I feel to perceive his memory, his story, a story of loneliness, a story of suffering. The story of a God who saw his own Olympus collapse and remained unique in his lineage. Only, and thus, the only one capable of understanding me, of gathering my screams, of revenging myself, of revenging ourselves. I would like you to always keep me with me, to love me. My father.

No 4325:
I can feel the tenderness and perhaps the love of that God for me. Ghalasso is the closest thing a father has ever had. The father who exterminated all my fellow men, the father I led, planet by planet, to uproot my lineage, the father who satiated with delicacies, proud of my being, of my illness, grateful for the release from my prison . He, my Father. This is my dream, even if I understand that his love for me is similar to that for a puppy of a wild animal that makes him tenderness, I understand that he can not even speak to me explicitly, so far are our abilities and perceptions, our intelligence, our mental hinges, our metaphysics. My illness, only my illness has elevated me to the point of being able to perceive it, to communicate with him, even though primitively, otherwise I would not have even perceived his arrival and I would have been just a not very tasty bait.

No 4326:
Now I understand that he has freed me, he has freed me. The walls of what was my room are still intact even if the planet is in the form of an imperceptible wave of energy devoured by Him. Now they no longer exist, my father has devoured them and I laughed amused.

No 4327:
The room is now my room, my cocoon and he is weaving to give me a future and I sleep, finally free, alone in sleep without spies introno, never alone in my room knowing that He is out there.

No ND002:
I do not know where I am, what planet, galaxy, universe, dimension, year; this world is cold, gravity just weaker, the air a little less rich, but acceptable. My body has changed, not much, but a lot, in fact I have no problem walking or breathing. I do not feel much anymore. I am numbed by my interminable journey and the cold. I think I came here, after a protected sleep of thousands of years, from the cocoon that changed me, but it's just a feeling. My deep perceptions are so drowsy, that I do not see, they are like looking through a dark veil, maybe they'll never come back. I do not know. I'm not sure where I am, but I'm not sure where I was before, but different. The only positive thing is that I am just like them, in his foresight my father had foreseen everything. However I am tired, I have tired right away. I am weak, I am bothered, I am looking for the world with my new eyes reshaped: gelatinous, with a colored iris and a circular pupil.

No ND05
The world is quite primitive and inhabited by primitives. I am weakened that I can not even understand their phonetic language; The perceive communications on other channels, electromagnetic, but also are vague distant echoes, elegant melodies and interminable dark discourses.

No ND013:
I am in prison again, a different prison, less difficult, more violent, dirtier jailers and jailers. I'm already too weak and I've already discovered what they do to the fugitives. After all, I am an old girl and maybe they are not so cold.
he does not abandon me. The walls of what was my room are still intact even if the planet where the city that housed it even neutrons was lying fell in the form of an imperceptible wave of energy devoured by Him. Now they no longer exist, my Father he devoured them and I laughed amused.

No ND405:
My father, my father gives me the strength to resist, he has not abandoned me. I was a stupid unrecognizable person to hold this doubt in my mind for these months. I thought I had been thrown away, thrown on this sordid world, to be a prisoner, a victim of these evil torturers, of these clever inquisitors. I even thought I had dreamed everything and that this diary was just the result of my sick mind, I thought I was crazy. I thought it secretly, but I did not dare to confess it to myself. But today everything has changed. I start again to benefit from my deep perception, slowly, but today I understood something that gave me hope and strength. This horrible world that seems desperate is actually the same planet that Ghalasso spared to rescue me. I do not know how, but I'm sure, I know; it's like a kind of imprint in the fabric of space time, I can not understand how I had not noticed it before. Millions of years have passed and other continents and species have appeared, but it is the same planet. It can not be a coincidence. He was my father: he sent me here, he sent me to this land which is a gift, a gesture of magnanimity. My strength returns slowly, soon I will be free.

Extract of the tentative episode “Armaark” from sci-fi tv series “Raumpatrouille Sirius”, A.H. Larsen (1970) (9)

The Siurius spacecraft, just equipped with Overkill, discovers a ghost planet made of new buildings, but deserts and apparently never used. Investigating on the surface, he finds a small group of alien coordinators of works with bizarre aspects: some with wings, others with scales or with diving suits full of water. These direct an army of androids to complete the construction of multiple cities on the planet. The commander of Sirius thus discovers the people of Armaark, who for millennia have been able to manipulate the genetic code, interact with neural networks of the brain and travel in the cosmos. It turns out that they have recently celebrated the colonization of their five thousandth star system and have not known the war for over a thousand years thanks to the structure in castes of muldimensional races. This civilization also rests on countless groups of service androids, autonomous and capable of a thousand wonders, framed themselves in the structure of society and fully protected by their laws. While the androids are practically thinking organic machines, the Commander discovers that all the different types of aliens encountered, that is the coordinators, are only variants of the same original race, genetically modified to live in the oceans, in the seas, at high altitudes, in the deserts, in forests and even in space; these variants are all perfectly adapted to their planetary environment, able to interact freely and also to visit other worlds and areas thanks to comfortable organic exoskeletons that act as symbionts of each individual and dynamically adapt to the new environment. The crew of Sirius familiar with these coordinators who are very friendly: they consider them essentially harmless, since even the powerful overkill installed on the ship is the alien sensors as a powerful weapon, but very primitive. The Commander discovers that the Armaarks may even require genetic reprogramming when they wish to change the environment for a long time. Their caste system is structured in specialized areas of expertise and hierarchical levels that must be periodically covered by each individual. The passage of caste requires the overcoming of very complex tests, while violations of the ethical principles of the Armaark civilization entail the loss of privileges. Any contention or competition of this civilization is resolved quickly by the Judges fairly, but if this must be brought to a level higher than that required by ethical principles, the Knights intervene promptly to genetically redeem the perpetrators at lower levels. The thing that most strikes the commander of Sirius is to discover that this planet is not intended to be inhabited, but it is a simulacrum, a false target, destined to be populated by androids alone. This world and its cities were built, along with those of many other planets, on the edge of the space controlled by Armaark, to act as an alert and to attract a mysterious space power capable of destroying the planets. This entity, called Ghallaxos(2), has already exterminated other ancient civilizations and seems attracted to the civilized planets. The Armaarks have carried out research and studies, visiting the places of the disasters and even finding some planet that seems to have survived its passage, among them they remember that there is also the land, which they secretly visited about two thousand years ago. and power of the Armaarks they have no enemy and are friendly to everyone, but they fear tremendously this threat, so for centuries they are preparing to face it with weapons that alternate the fabric of time space. The captain would like to negotiate an alliance with Armaar to fight together the Earth's currently alien extraterrestrial forces, but the coordinators declare that their civilization abhors every form of war and could only act as an intermediary in the conflict to achieve peace.
[...]

extract from “Space Archeology”, Jack K.S. Lee, Julfo Academic Press, Chaves, NM (1999)

The genealogy and antiquity of the race that brought to consciousness the entity known as Ghalasso(1) is not well known; some argue that it comes from a race of demigods from the universes that existed before this, others were a metaphysical essence that became conscious during the beginning of the creation of time, or after the Big Bang. Still others think it is an angel of death or an exterminating demon. Commonly the representation of Ghalasso corresponds to that of a gigantic Space God devouring worlds with anthropomorphic features. However little is known about him according to the legends even in the most advanced civilizations of the universe: he devours the worlds on which he arrives; tales of psychics have identified a being with a similar name. From the transcripts it appears that in the past some distant galactic empires tried to constitute defenses against him without being able to stop him; other races modify their own planets to be able to translate into space to escape their insatiable hunger. None of the expeditions charged with acquiring knowledge on this entity ever achieved great success: it was only discovered that he had the ability to extend enormous tentacles capable of abraying an entire planet and absorbing all its energy: gravitational, electromagnetic, strong and weak nuclear. Life was turned upside down, the worlds crumbled and then exploded as the laws of physics lost value because of its intervention. The destruction was so total that the molecules first, then the electrons and finally the nuclei of the atoms dissolved leaving nothing. The transcripts narrate how his passage, even after centuries, leaves a disturbance in the fabric of the space of the systems attached, and therefore it is difficult to visit them, study them and know the details of the event, given that the operation of any instrument or probe is compromised. It is not known what attracts your attention, which worlds you prefer and not even because you limit yourself to eating inhabited planets and not stars. Even on the primitive world called Earth there are references to its existence even if very vague and fragmentary. Some scholars believe that Ghalasso is to be identified with the Space God Lalarut Iluludigir(10) mentioned by the faithful of the secret cult of Riblis(11): they think that Ghalasso has visited this planet about 14.5 million years ago and has faced Riblis in a apocalyptic thermonuclear confrontation at the end of which Ghalasso would have retreated after having eliminated many of Riblis' allied demigods; in fact, traces of radiation and craters dating back to that period would seem to confirm this hypothesis, however vague. According to other Ghalasso it would be to be identified with the mythical entity transmitted to the primordial cultures by alien colonizers aware of this force: "By obscuring the white Milky Way with its changing green shape, He comes from remote space to destroy the places where civilization arises. From heaven destroys their worlds integrally, killing all living beings and erasing their memory"(12); this story would have been transposed into the Bible in reference to the events of Sodom and Gomorrah(13). According to these scholars, Ghalasso would be attracted by the evolved civilizations and for this reason the psychics claim that some alien races would have scattered many worlds with ghost towns destined to attract it, slow it down and eventually act as a last alarm in case it approaches their territories. Some archaeological thinks that Ghalasso is a primordial representation of the deity then known as Cronus and Saturn(14) by the Greeks and Romans. There are also many vague theories among conspiracy theorists, sects and occult scholars who refer to Ghalasso or other similar entities; in these varied theories many claim that the God has visited the Earth in more recent times, but that he then moved away without destroying it; some believe that there has been a negotiation with some secret agency, clashes with other supernatural creatures, and even that the earth is still living its distant descendant. A comic finctional character named Galactus(15) has several common traits with Ghalasso and it is very popular in a wide community.




Notes:

• (1) Armararus, Armarark or Armaark: these are the names of a mythical extraterrestrial civilization that is supposed to have visited our planet several times


• (2) Gálaktos, Ghalasso, Ghavatasso, Ghallaxos, Lalarut Iluludigir: are the many names attributed to a mythological anthropomorphic deity of gigantic size, devouring worlds; for some scholars these would correspond with Saturn or Cronus


• (3) In the original text we use the term Civilitate use to indicate both city and civilization


• (4) According to scholars, "manipulation of races" is an archaic way to refer to the knowledge of Genetics


• (5) In the original text the term used is "Sidus" which means star and is believed to be a way of referring to other solar systems colonized by the civilization of Armarark


• (6) Tira Weber: was hosted from 1962 to 1963 in the colony of Makarenko, a center established by the DDR, near Berlin, to host and educate the orphans and the children of the dissidents of East Germany. Tira is present in the registers of the Institute as a daughter of unknown people and appears to have tried several times to escape without success, until March 14, 1963, when she drowned in the Spree after a daring pursuit. Her body was never found. The typewritten copy is part of a file that has become public knowledge only after the archives of the KGB (State Security Committee) present in Latvia have been declassified. It is a partial passage copied from her diary that seems to have been engraved in tiny characters on small polymeric sheets. The institute kept the diary secretly under control during Tira's stay on the spot and proceeded to recopy the symbols while she was asleep or sedated. Her superintendents believed that the whole thing was a collection of secret and fantastic symbols written to estrange themselves from that situation.
  Unfortunately, the original diary was lost after her last escape. The typed copy was found attached to the girl's personal card; in the notes it appears that the original text was written using an extremely complex coding perhaps based on a polyalphabetic code that only in 1989 could be decrypted. It is not known if there are other fragments of the decryption, neither the FSB (Federal Security Service), nor the GRU (Central Direction of Military Intelligence) have ever confirmed the authenticity of the document


• (7) Interlink: alleged mental communication system of the Armarark civilization


• (8) Majax: some kind of typical Armarark sauce


• (9) This fragment was found in the studies of the ORDF French national television production channel. The document represents the premise to the script of an episode entitled "Armaark" of the series "Raumpatrouille Orion". However, the episode in question was never produced. On the typewritten sheet appears an acronym that is considered attributable to A.H. Larsen, German amateur writer who died in 1970. Larsen occasionally collaborated as a scientific expert on the screenplays of the series Raumpatrouille Sirius and was employed at the DLR (German Space Agency)


• (10) Lalarut Iluludigir, name attributed to the Spatial opponent God of Riblis, literally means the God Phantom Ghost of the Stars


• (11) )Riblis: called the Mutterer, another name used to refer to him is Jinish the rebel, originally known as the Flaming, then became Riblis the Mutterer, according to some minority theories it can be assimilated to Agi, Vedic divinity of Light and fire. The Jinish were creatures generated by magma thanks to the powers of the Chthonic Gods; they are often assimilated to the Jinns of Islamic culture, to the known Western Genes or to the Angels themselves


• (12) Inscription found in a tomb at the foot of Mount Zerhoun and decoded by Dr. L. J. Straczynski in 1966


• (13) Bible, Genesis, 19, 25


• (14) Cronus and Saturn: Names of the God of Greek and Roman pre-Olympic mythology, son of Uranus, devourer of their children; by some scholars, it is assimilated to Ghalasso, the devourer of worlds


• (15) Galactus: is a fictional character created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in 1966 and appearing in American comic books published by Marvel Comics. Formerly he was a mortal named Galan, original from planet Taa, turned into a Space God and addicted to consume planets to sustain his life force

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Italian

English

Ora non sono dell'umore giusto

-John mi blocca da dietro sui fianchi mentre cerco di allontanarmi.
Percepisco l'intensità del suo appetito espressa dalla sua rude forza e dalla sua eccitazione, l'aria è piena della sua fragranza lussuriosa. Sto fingendo di scappare per stuzzicare il suo ruggente desiderio.
Ci siamo incontrati poche ore prima in un seminario all'ambasciata, tuttavia lui era davvero molto carino e seduttore rampante
- Giù Elizabeth! -Il Master è forte come il suo tono. I suoi desideri devono essere soddisfatti, il suo ordine obbedito.
Stavamo scherzando durante il seminario, stavamo flirtando parlando di dominio e sottomissione e io lo stuzzicavo a schiavizzarmi.
Ho accettato di seguirlo qui e di sottomettermi, quindi ora lui mi mostra un collare di pelle con occhi crudeli, non sono necessarie altre parole, mi limito a offrire il mio collo in ginocchio e lui a trasformarmi in schiava mentre ansiosamente aspetto il seguito. Le mie mani sono sul pavimento e devo allargarmmi, accettare e compiacere la sua enorme passione.
Mi tira i capelli mentre, dalla direzione opposta, mi prende senza alcuna considerazione per il mio piacere.
Dono soddisfazione a tutti i suoi desideri, lasciandolo padrone di muoversi dentro di me e di ascoltare le mie lacrime.
John è forte, le sue dita mi torturano il petto, la bocca, i capelli e altro ancora.
Ho intenzione di piangere di dolore e piacere allo stesso tempo, mentre mi sto completamente perdendo nella sua dominazione.
Le attenzioni di John si concentrano solo sui suoi capricci e sulla sua lussuria, così a me restano solo gli avanzi della sua tavola, eppure sono così crudelmente gustosi.-
Questo è il modo giusto per giocare con la mia cagna!
-E 'profondo. Mi fa urlare mentre devo dichiarare quanto sono la sua cagna-
Da ora sarai solo una schiava! Mia schiava!

-Piacere e dolore mi sommergono, mentre mugolo che appartengo a lui. Mi riempie di tutte le cose tipiche della lussuria menzionate nei libri sacri.
Sbatte forte e più forte, colpendo il mio culo: la sua natura sadica gode di vedermi dolorante.
Si prende una pausa, per usare la cintura e mi squarcia la schiena piuttosto forte: presa dal dolore intenso, urlo.
Quasi smarrita nella mia sottomissione, implorando pietà mentre desidero sempre di più; ma John non vuole rompere il suo giocattolo, non colpisce la mia faccia, la sua crudele frustata è moderata da qualcosa; di sicuro, moderata dalla mia bellezza, quantomeno rispetto alle sue comuni amanti, o almeno questo penso io con orgoglio.
La notte procede e ci avvolge, come un velo per coprire i nostri peccati, per nascondere l'arrogante e violento suo maltrattamento della mia carne, mentre lui mi usa e mi apostrofa come una sua schiava.
Il tempo è vago e le ore passano. Alla fine ha preso tutto e si è sdraiato sopra di me, a terra. Mi guarda negli occhi, coperti di sudore e lacrime, mentre respiro a malapena.
Il mio sorriso è ancora intelligente e crudele: sono completamente soddisfatta del momento, ma le mie pupille continuano a vibrare mentre le ultime onde della lussuria lambiscono la mia carne.
Gli occhi di John diventano teneri, lui mi bacia una volta, solo tornare subito a baciarmi molto di più. Piccoli baci gentili, sul mio viso, quasi a leccarmi il sudore e le lacrime dalle guance, come un cucciolo.
Lui cambia, la sua soddisfazione ha rilasciato un'altra parte di sé, mentre sussurra parole adorabili: non ha mai avuto un tale piacere prima, sono la donna più bella della sua vita. In effetti nelle sue fantasie di stupro non ha mai trovato una tale puttana, un tale schiava.-

Io ... tu sei mia, mia ​amata schiava!

-Le parole sono così morbide, così profonde, ma preferisco rispondere sadicamente con un morso vigoroso sul suo labbro inferiore.
È un morso intenso, crudele, doloroso almeno per farlo sanguinare.-

Sei sicuro?

-Lui quasi piange, ma resiste, lui trema, mentre io mordo di nuovo, più forte: John è confuso, ma ancora più eccitato, questo nuovo comportamento sembra intrigante per lui. È quasi incatenato dai miei occhi scuri, totalmente in mio potere, sognando un'inversione di ruolo, qualcosa di nuovo per lui, qualcosa mai provato, qualcosa che probabilmente ha sognato, da decenni, inconsciamente, mentre ora è così vicino. Il sogno è vicino e sogna di provarlo, adesso.-

Il mio nome ora è Thilli.

-Il tempo sembra congelarsi per un po ', gli sorrido crudelmente, mentre prendo il pieno controllo del suo corpo, mentre mi lascio scivolare via dal suo corpo e mi alzo mantenendo il contatto visivo. Lui mi continua a guardare dal pavimento, la sua lingua scivola sensualmente sui morsi dolorosi e lecca il sangue, io ripeto lo stesso movimento-

Dobbiamo sperimentare ancora così tanto e tra non molto.

-Io ridacchio e, con movimenti lisci ed eleganti, rapidamente scivolo dentro i miei vestiti, il mio collare cade. Me ne vado, sbattendo la porta dietro e quasi sentendo le sue emozioni esplodere mentre è ancora sul pavimento, ipnotizzato dalla lussuria.
John resta paralizzato quasi per un altro paio di secondi, ma l'eccitazione è troppo forte; presto si alza e mi segue oltre la porta quasi nudo.
Tuttavia c'è qualcosa di diverso dietro la porta: strana oscurità tutt'intorno, la sua testa gira, cade giù, giù come nella melassa, giù e giù. Mani, mani forti lo tengono, lo bloccano, tirano, spingono e altro.
Cammino per strada, le luci sono così calde e divertenti in questo quartiere, anche se per molti questo posto è piuttosto pericoloso, non lo è per me: gli umani sono così innocui.'

Ora non sono dell'umore giusto.

-Il gioco era divertente, anzi ero dell'umore giusto per giocare alla schiava, e John ha fatto bene la sua parte.
In effetti, lo aveva fatto già diverse volte in passato: solo due giorni fa con una prostituta nello stesso distretto, l'ha pestata e si è limitato ad aggiungere un extra al prezzo di base dei servizi sessuali che già stava pagando.
I suoi pugni erano molto violenti così come le sferzate della sua cintura e non erano mitigati dalla bellezza della ragazza locale contrariamente a quanto è successo a me stanotte: lei era solo una donna del posto, non una preziosa europea affascinante come me.
Ovviamente era solo un gioco per John o, probabilmente, una necessità per soddisfare la sua mente perversa.
Ovviamente tutte le sue prostitute non hanno avuto l'opportunità di scappare, reagire o addirittura denunciarlo: in Cambogia questo tipo di ragazze sono vere schiave del sesso e tu puoi fargli quasi tutto quello che vuoi se sai dove cercare, e John era piuttosto esperto nel trovare questi servizi speciali.
Forse John aveva moderato la sua rabbia con me solo perché non era sicuro delle potenziali conseguenze su un Europea e questo nonostante la mia sottomissione totale alla sua volontà.
In effetti questa seconda ipotesi non suona così bene per la mia auto-considerazione come quella invece basata sulla mia bellezza eccezionale.
Sfortunatamente per lui, io l'ho trovato in questa peccaminosa città della Cambogia. Sfortunatamente per lui, ho deciso di usare le sue capacità per il mio divertimento, di usarlo come un giocattolo, ma stasera non sono dell'umore di dominare un maschio.
In generale non mi piacciono i master che hanno un lato sottomesso, i loro modi infantili diventano patetici se mescolati con i loro desideri interiori da masochisti; di sicuro, presto, mi trasformerò nell'umore giusto per giocare alla Padrona, ma dubito di volerlo fare con John.
Per il momento, ho deciso di mandarlo nei miei sotterranei all'interno del Mondo Gotico Leggendario: lì sperimenterà cose nuove, direttamente dai miei Guardiani, master molto più esperti nell'arte della dominazione di lui. Ovviamente imparerà a sue spese.
Solo per iniziare, passerà alcuni mesi nell'area dei sodomiti come schiavo; un posto dove i miei amici con questa preferenza potranno divertirsi in modo del tutto legittimo; questo sarà utile sicuramente per ripagare l'ego di John per la sua vita perversa e per rinforzare la sua natura sottomessa.
Dopo, sarà assegnato ad un posto di lavoro, ad esempio una fucina, come servo per lavorare senza fine laggiù per mia convenienza.
Questo sembra ancora più divertente, considerando che John possedeva un'azienda tessile in questo paese e che era abituato a impiegare persone quasi come schiavi per la produzione a basso costo.
Non ho ancora deciso, ma dopo questo periodo, se non gli permetterò di morire, forse potrei considerare di incontrarlo di nuovo, solo per dare un'occhiata ai suoi cambiamenti. Tuttavia non ho più alcuna aspettativa per usarlo in modo sessuale.
Peccato per lui.-

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Elisabeth Thilli Borgman è morta l'8 marzo 1791. È stata un'attrice e soprano d'opera nata a Stoccolma il 24 luglio 1754; in base alla leggenda, è morta in un incendio che ha portato alla perdita della versione preliminare della "La Clemenza di Tito", eseguita ad una festa in maschera privata per importanti autorità, aristocratici e artisti in una villa vicino a Vienna. Thilli è nata lo stesso giorno dalla polvere di Elisabeth come Suprema e oggi Lei governa nel Mondo Gotico Leggendario.

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