A Self Effacing Man

by Sara Alexi

  Cosmo tries to take a swig of ouzo, still lying down, and it runs over both his cheeks and into his hair. ‘It was all about you, Mama. It has always been all about you, to keep you pacified.’

  But how her affection faded when his baba died; how quickly that supposed love turned to anger, and how suddenly his job – and it was his job – changed from consoling her to pacifying her temper, just for a quiet life, not realising that the more indispensable he made himself to her, the less likely he was to ever have a life of his own.

  ‘She is mourning the loss of her soulmate.’ Poppy pulled him to one side, on the way back to the house, after the forty-day memorial service for his baba. He and his mama had argued the night before, shouted at each other so loudly that Poppy was not the only neighbour to hear.

  ‘She has nothing but thirty or forty years of loneliness to look forward to. She has lost her role as wife and now you take away her role of mama. Can she take no strength from her son?’ Poppy looked stern but her eyes watered too, and he knew she was only trying to help.

  ‘Ah, poor woman,’ he overheard someone say later that day, as he was passing Marina’s shop and, to his shame, he loitered unseen, purposefully eavesdropping. ‘At least she has a son to lean on.’

  ‘If she can lean on him,’ another replied, and he felt offended that whoever it was saw him as undependable, so he made up his mind to be his mama’s support until she got over the shock. After that, he held his tongue and minded his manners and tried to ease and smooth her life every hour he was awake, and now he is in his fifties with no life of his own.

  ‘No more!’ he shouts at the ceiling. ‘Now it is my time. Me! You hear? Me!’ And he rolls onto his belly and from there onto all fours, and from his knees, using the wall for support, to standing.

  He will use Thanasis’s method. He will write her a letter. He will tell Maria of his own love, stop thinking about other people for a while, and express his own needs. Yes! He should have done this years ago, before he knew it was Thanasis.

  The wall proves to be a good support all the way to the kitchen, where he takes his pen from his satchel and is somewhat surprised to find his notebook is not there. In his mind’s eye, he can see it sitting on the table at the police station, open at the page with the registration numbers.

  ‘Gamoto!’ he curses, and he drops the pen, then bends to pick it up, loses his balance, grabs at a chair to hold himself upright. Gripping hard and moving slowly, he retrieves his ballpoint and manages to sit.

  Pen in hand, he looks at his paper and then remembers for a second time his notepad is gone, curses again and examines the paper Thanasis wrote the buyer’s phone number on. The back is blank, that will do. He will explain. Explain how he feels, how he has felt for years, why he and Maria would be good together, the care he will lavish on her, how he has been readied to be attentive to the emotional needs of a woman. Yes, that’s good! When he has finished he will post it. No, wait – he will slip it under her door, and she will see it sooner that way.

  My love for you … He writes slowly, savouring this putting into words of the feelings he has kept silent for so many years.

  ‘For too man-y years I have stay-ed si-lent …’ He reads aloud as he writes, his head bowed in concentration. Finally, a letter of his own, speaking the things in his heart. He seems to have so much to say, so much to express …

  He writes and writes, and his heart feels such release. He did not know he had so much to say, and he keeps writing until he runs out of paper. Folding it carefully, the next step is to put it under her door – if he can manage to stand, of course!

  Chapter 21

  It sounds as if someone is pouring concrete onto a metal sheet outside. Cosmo opens his eyes but does not recognise the ceiling. His bed has grown very hard. He rolls his head, the room sways and spins, he might be sick. The room he is in is completely empty. It is his mama’s best sitting room, and there is nothing in it. Has he been robbed? Small pieces of the previous evening return – memories of gouging a piece out of the back door frame with the leg of the sofa as he took her furniture and left it in the street. The village will think he has gone mad!

  ‘Ohh!’ He closes his eyes and rubs at his forehead. The softness of the light tells him it is early. Who would be pouring concrete at such an hour, and why on metal? He will tell them to stop, just for an hour or two until he feels a little better. He rolls onto his knees and crawls to the window, lifts the white, embroidered curtain and looks out. The brightness of the sun makes him squint.

  He groans at the world and then peeps through one half-open eye. His mama’s furniture is arranged around Poppy’s front door just as it was in the house, with the glass table in the middle, the plastic flowers, still in the bag he wrapped them in, taking centre stage, and the chairs arranged as if to welcome guests. It is the oddest sight in the world and he has to stop looking because he does not want these confusing thoughts.

  Left and right, up and down the street, there is no sign of a cement mixer, and as he listens hard to work out which direction the noise is coming from, he realises it is inside his head.

  ‘Panayia mou.’ He rubs at his temple. ‘Never again.’

  For a moment he thinks of standing, going to the kitchen and brewing up a strong coffee, but with the first small attempt it is clear his legs will not take his weight, not with the floor wallowing around as it is doing. Work is obviously going to be out of the question today, and the way he is feeling he cannot even find the inclination to care.

  How long it takes him to get to the kitchen he is not sure, but with every change in direction he is sure he will be sick or that he might do permanent damage to his brain, which has taken to knocking on his skull with each movement. The idea of sitting at the kitchen table has become very appealing – he has always felt fine sitting at the table. But actually getting onto a chair proves to be a challenge. If he takes it slowly, inch by inch, eases himself around, holding the table edge …

  There! He smiles, impressed with his accomplishment. He is sitting.

  His pen is in the middle of the table. Why is that there? He always puts it away, one of his personal rules. How many pens he lost when he first started the job, leaving them here and there! He always puts it away. But why is it out at all?

  The answer first begins to show itself as a small black dot at the back of his mind, and then, so very slowly, it grows and grows to reveal the truth to him – so slowly that by the time he is fully conscious of having written the letter to Maria he is already looking around the kitchen to remember where he put it when he finished it. It is not on the table. Surely he was not so drunk as to put it in his satchel? That would have been foolish. Someone at the post office might have found it, or, worse still but highly unlikely, he might have posted it by mistake.

  The ridiculousness of this thought makes him snort, but this one slight noise makes it more than apparent that allowing himself to laugh will worsen the painful throbbing in his head that has taken over from the pouring of the concrete. Now someone is in there, relentlessly beating a giant drum, and it is almost more than he can bear. He needs a painkiller. He bought some the morning after the last time he brought a bottle of ouzo home. Where did he put them?

  ‘Oh yes,’ he whispers, and negotiates his way, slowly, to the shelf over the sink, and manages to grab the pill bottle and run himself a glass of water and sit back down again, without mishap – just a great deal of swaying and squinting.

  ‘Never again,’ he whispers, and he takes two painkillers with a large glass of water.

  ‘Right. What was I doing?’ he asks the empty glass. Oh yes, the letter. He can remember how good it felt to write it, but he is curious to read what he wrote. It must be in his satchel after all, which he can reach from his seat. He pulls it from its hook and shakes it out. Nothing! Now he frowns.

  ‘In the bin,’ he says with a wave of relief, and makes his way over to it to check. But the bin is empty except for the cap of the ouzo bottle.<
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  ‘Behind the coffee packet?’ He looks up at the shelf, but it is not there. He checks his pockets. His concern is increasing, but physically he is feeling slightly better, so he runs himself another glass of water and decides to be brave and try to make coffee.

  He puts the little pan of water to boil on the single-burner gas stove and watches as the sugar dissolves. Once the water is clear, he adds a heaped spoon of coffee grounds and waits for the mountain of dry power to be absorbed by the water. Just as the last of the fine brown grounds sink, the realisation comes to him with the force and impact of a donkey’s kick. It is not so much a realisation as a memory, isn’t it? The memory of posting the letter he wrote under Maria’s door.

  The coffee boils over. He snaps the gas off. He cannot have posted it – that must have been a dream! He would not be so rash. Would he?

  How to tell dreams from reality? It was dark, he had held on to the wall for support. That feels like reality. A cat had come, he had talked to the cat, and the cat had answered, hadn’t it? That is a dream. He stumbled at the corner – reality. The church bells rang in his ears, but the church bells would not ring in the middle of the night, so it must have been a dream … When he opened Maria’s gate he caught the sleeve of his new shirt and tore it!

  He inspects his right sleeve and breathes a sigh of relief. So it was a dream. He glances at his left sleeve. Horror! It is torn! No! Please, God, no, let it not be true.

  Did he put it right under the door, or maybe just half under? Could he get it back? How could he get it back? But the realisation of the stupidity of his actions makes rational thinking impossible, and for a moment he curses himself and bangs his head, but very gently, against the shelf’s edge.

  ‘Be practical.’ He forces himself to stop. ‘Think, man. What can you do?’

  He could deliver the mail and, when she opens the door, hopefully find she has not seen it, there on the floor. He can quickly put his foot on it, kick it back outside and pick it up when he leaves. It might work, if he delivers her mail first, before she is fully awake.

  Suddenly he has never felt more sober and alive. His headache has yielded to this new emergency: everything is geared towards that. After a quick swill of his face at the kitchen sink and a quick drag of his comb across his hair, he grabs his satchel and leaves.

  The journey to Saros to pick up the post is slightly hazardous as the road keeps moving and the sun is far too bright. The occasional tree tries to cross the road but somehow he misses them all. In the depot he is greeted by people who are speaking far too loudly, asking why he is so early, but he growls at them and stuffs the letters into his bag, checking for any for Maria. He needs at least one to Maria to make his visit to her credible. But there are none. Now what?

  He will lie. Anything so Maria does not read his drunken ramblings from last night. He will take a letter and say he thought it was for her, a letter addressed to another Maria perhaps. He searches through the mail. There are none. Right, he will take any letter and say he was mistaken. She cannot read the envelope anyway, to know who it is for.

  ‘Of course!’ he says out loud, and the people working in the depot stop and look at him. He gathers up his satchel and leaves hastily. What on earth is he worrying about? She cannot read his ramblings, she cannot read at all! He shakes his head over all the stress he has caused himself.

  ‘That will teach you to try thinking with a fuzzy head!’ He laughs at himself, his dull headache reminding him how right he is. But he must go to Maria’s anyway and retrieve the note, just to be safe.

  The journey back is smoother than the one into Saros. The sea of tarmac has calmed, the trees are no longer suicidal and the sun has been restored to normal. The chill in the January air is refreshing. He will shave and change his torn shirt before he goes to Maria’s.

  Rubbing his hand on his bare chin, he breathes in the smell of the shaving foam, fresh and clean. He pulls down his shirt, sweeps a hand over his neatly combed hair and knocks.

  There is silence, which he finds odd. He has always known Maria to be an early riser. He knocks again, hears a quiet step inside, and then the door opens a crack.

  ‘Kalimera, Maria.’ He tries not to look at the floor inside the door. If the note is there he must be subtle, put his foot on it, bend to do up his laces, something like that.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. You are early.’ She opens the door wide. There is no envelope, and a wave of panic flashes through him. Now what? Maybe he is wrong. Maybe he tore his sleeve on something else and his subconscious noticed it and it came through in a dream. That happens, doesn’t it?

  ‘I’m glad you are here,’ Maria says, but she does not sound happy. She leads him through to the kitchen. There is a small coffee on the table, and a plate of biscuits and – Panayia! – the note.

  ‘I was just having breakfast,’ she says. ‘I have not touched that coffee yet. You have it and I will make another. Sit.’

  Without a word, he does as he is told. He could take the note now whilst her back is turned, and, when she asks after it, feign ignorance. No, that is just stupid, she knows it is there. He wipes his forehead with his hand as she turns back with another coffee. She sits and gives him the fresh coffee, takes the one that has been standing for herself, takes a biscuit, breaks it and gives him half. He loves this gesture of hers, and now, after a single, stupid drunken night of his, when she understands the contents of the note, she will probably never do it again. He has ruined it all.

  ‘Someone put a note under my door last night,’ she says.

  Every muscle in his body tightens, but concentration forces his face to remain passive.

  ‘Really?’ It comes out high-pitched; he clears his throat and takes a sip of coffee, and it leaves grit over his lips. She watches him lick it off, frowns a little.

  She picks up the note and opens it out.

  ‘Perhaps you can read it to me?’

  Cosmo thinks he might be sick.

  ‘Do you think I could have some water?’ he manages.

  She stands, but without haste, and seems to take a long time to get him a glass. It is still not long enough for him to think what to do. He drinks the water eagerly.

  ‘It is here.’ She hands him the note and does not blink.

  ‘Let me see.’ Cosmo tries to act as if everything is normal. He examines the letter, which is definitely in his own hand, and puts it back on the table.

  ‘Oh, a mistake I think. It is nothing.’ He takes a bite of biscuit to complete his charade.

  ‘Maybe you are right.’

  He relaxes.

  ‘But I looked at the name at the bottom, again and again, and I think I recognise it.’

  The blood rushes through his ears; stars dance before his eyes. He cannot get the hand that is holding his coffee cup to do his bidding, and the cup shakes and spills over as he returns it to the saucer.

  ‘That’s a “C”, right?’ She points, leaning over, her face so close. It is no longer the beautiful face of the young girl he first fell in love with. The sun has dried it, time has weathered it and age has wrinkled it, but he knows every aspect of that face, every nuance, every expression. This close he can see very fine, downy hairs on her cheek, so soft.

  ‘And the second an “o”, and then I remember the “s” from school. So far we have “Cos”. Now, how will that name end, I wonder?’

  And she looks at him, still close, her pupils so large and dark, all the pain and loneliness of her life expressed in the arch of her eyebrows, and the smile lines around the corners of her eyes recalling the times they have laughed together.

  ‘Please read it, Cosmo,’ she asks simply, and he feels trapped. But what else can he do? He clears his throat.

  ‘My Dearest Beloved Maria,’ he begins, and his heart screams at the truth of the words. ‘My love for you I have kept hidden for too many years. Maybe I have stayed silent for too long, but my silence and keeping my love hidden has been because I suspected that you would not want my l
ove, nor could you return it. So for you I have stayed silent. But with the passing of my mama’ – he swallows hard, a lump in his throat – ‘I realised we are all here for such a short time, and already so much of my life has passed with me only loving you from afar.’

  He wants to look at her to gauge her reaction, but he doesn’t dare, so he continues.

  ‘I have come to realise that it would not be right for me to never speak of how I feel for you. That would be denying something that is real and intense and persistent. So I tell you now, Maria, that I love you with such a power, with such strength that I sometimes think it will engulf me. I have watched you from when you were a child, growing through all that life has thrown at you until the beauty of your womanhood has begun to fade, as all surface beauty does. But I have to really look to see that new Maria, because through my eyes your beauty is all I see, it glows from your heart, it is in the working of your mind, it is in your resilience, your dignity, your grace. Sometimes I think my ribcage will crack open to let out all I feel for you, and yet despite these feelings being so great and so powerful they only want to be expressed in tenderness – pulling out a chair for you to sit, picking you a flower, opening a gate for you to pass through, fixing that drawer in your kitchen that you need to pull so hard at just to get yourself a teaspoon.

  ‘If I was a brave man, Maria, I would throw caution to the wind, bend down on one knee and give you all I have, if you thought it could be of any value to you.’