Raoef Mamedov · Games on the window-sills
Many, many years ago, on a stifling evening that smelled of dust from the road, there was a remarkable meal. This meal was shrouded in mystery, and as such it is known in Russian as the Secret Supper (and in English as the Last Supper). Immediately after this evening, events developed so quickly that hundreds of years were required to fully comprehend what took place over the course of those few days. Now we think that if something like that holy week had happened today, it would have ended differently – it would not have been so bloody. We’ve become better, wiser. So we think. And now we are deserving of a miracle. We await it, this miracle.
But then some strange people appear, obviously not locals, perhaps clowns or wandering artists, and they play some strange scenes before us, scenes as strange as they themselves. These scenes are somewhat confusing to the virtuous people in the audience. Perhaps they recognize themselves, as if they had looked into a mirror. But they do no want to become angry at these visiting artists. They are clowns – that is who they are. But there is something else… If we look closer, we see in these clowns that famous nighttime meal. Their chief is pretending to be a magician. Don’t even mention Judas.
We await a miracle, we’ve been waiting a long time, and these actors will not, are not able to give us the promised miracle, something as simple as immortality. What are we to do, we who are poor, muddled by vice? Join them in making a joke of all our hopes and aspirations?
No, no, and again no!
So what do we do?
This is what.
Drive them out, these clowns! Isolate them!
And we will continue to wait, to await our miracle. However long we have to.