Gregory

by Panos Ioannides

  She pulled herself together. It was the stranger with a look of guilt, of defeat. With words and gestures he tried to explain.

  “I didn’t help, I couldn’t…” he apologised. “I’m unarmed, wounded. Outside is… my brother, killed…”

  “Go,” she told him.

  “I don’t want you to think that… I have never felt so humiliated, that I couldn’t…”

  The daughter heard cupboards and drawers opening and closing in her father’s room. Cases, clothes, papers and boxes were being dragged or thrown on the floor. This went on for a few minutes. Then the door opened. The old man took two steps into the hall carrying two outfits: one a soldier’s uniform, khaki, with belt, pistol and cap, the other black, the clothes of an old Turkish woman: stockings, veil, headscarf, heavy shoes. Abruptly, without even looking the Greek soldier in the face, he thrust the uniform into his hands.

  “You brought Karim’s uniform?” the daughter asked him.

  He threw the second outfit to her.

  “When night comes, go to your aunt, through the orchards. Put your mother’s clothes on. I’ll wait for the dog.”

  And he shut himself in his room again.

  The young people, transfixed, with the clothes in their hands, looked at each other without any hatred, without her trying to hide her nakedness from his gaze; without him violating her body with his eyes. They looked in at each other’s eyes and were silent.

  From the small room, came the sound of the father’s heavy breathing and the bed creaking under his battered limbs.

  “Whose uniform is it? Your brother’s?”

  “Only way you escape.”

  “Before…”

  “Take it. Burn yours in the stable.”

  “I don’t know how I… I would like to ask… Your name… mine…”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Don’t want. Won’t see again… If you manage escape this uniform of Karim save you, this uniform of Karim separate us…”

  “Arkadaş*,” the daughter whispered tonelessly in the empty hall. Then, more faintly, “Arkadaş” she asked herself.

  She undressed slowly and wrapped her shapely, unloved body in the clothes of her dead mother, her deprived, unhappy mother, who died ten years ago at Mansoura, who died of suffocation, of asthma, of grief for her son whom they brought to her as bundle wrapped in a red flag, the one on the wall…

  Over her shapely legs, which had heard thousands of exclamations and whistles and sighs, as no other limb of her body, she pulled the thick, knitted mourning stockings and put on her mother’s heavy shoes. One, the left, was worn out. The old lady had dragged the leg for years, crippled by arthritis.

  She lifted the creased veil, burying hair and eyes behind it…

  As she set off for her aunt’s at nightfall, in panic and grief she felt that her left leg was limping, against her will, that asthma was choking her chest…

  The wounded soldier, who had also been waiting for night to fall, hidden in the stable, feverish and shivering, dressed in the uniform they had given him, crawled out to take the path to Buffavento. As soon as he saw her coming out of the house he called out “Annem, Mother,” mechanically, without knowing what it meant, why he said it…

  She paused, looked at him speechless, caught her breath and limped up to him. “Karim, son…,” two little words which filled him with courage and love and hope, without him, once again, knowing what she had said to him…

  From the collection:

  The Unseen Aspect, Kinyras Publications, Nicosia 1979

  Translated by Christine Georghiades

  * Turkish soldier

  * A village, the scene of fghting between Greeks and Turks in 1964.

  ** Turkish word for a Greek

  * Brother

  The Suitcase

  It lay wide open on the table; a challenge which they could not face rationally. The case was neither big enough to hold the absolute essentials nor small enough for them to decide that it would hold only the playthings of memory. An ordinary brown suitcase, worn out by the years but which from one moment to the next took on the significance of an ark, without having similar dimensions…

  They kept filling and emptying it, each time according to different criteria: now they packed “basic necessities”: clothes, underwear, sheets, utensils, for the first difficult weeks of adaptation. Then the “mementos”, as they called them: photographs of the children and their parents, letters, pictures and embroideries which they associated with the happy and tragic moments of the thirty years they had lived together in this house. Then documents, files, architect’s plans and evidence that this house, from which they were turning them out today, and the fields and the three small shops in the village square were theirs, that they had acquired them by hard work and sacrifices. Then again public spiritedness prevailed and, emptying the case of all their personal possessions, they stuffed it with documents and archives which he had collected over the twentyfive years he was manager of the cooperative and president of the village council; information which perhaps one day would prove valuable to their fellow villagers who were being expelled without the evidence in their hands which would prove that they were the members of this community, that they had lived and worked, bought and sold here, that they had a house, a field, a pew in St Paraskevi, a grave in the new cemetery…

  They also made other combinations and had endless, not always rational or civilised discussions until they finally came to a decision. What could be more sensible than to divide the space in the case? And each would put in his or her space what he or she believed to be the most valuable for him or her, for the two of them, for the family, for the village…

  After reaching this Solomonian solution they emptied the case once again, fixed in place the piece of cardboard which delineated their “halves”, agreed that the space in the lid, about three and half centimetres deep, they would fill with items jointly chosen, and they began the to-ing and fro-ing once more. And though this arrangement, so wise and just, should now have solved the problem, as always in the last few days, for a thousand reasons, either because one got in the other’s way or because everything was amiss that day, their conversation was neither friendly nor casual. “Take the transistor, take everything, but give me room to work…” “Doesn’t it seem unreal to you? And to say I didn’t expect it? I used to say our turn would come… Like our certainty about the other journey, our last…” “What clothes are you putting in?” “Some of everything… The Red Cross will give us plenty of second-hand ones. I’ll take only these which none of them will give us…” “I see! Your useless things…” “Our children’s album and the icon are useless in your opinion?” “And the socks? Why do you want them?” “I’ve hidden seeds from the garden in them.” “I was right to say you have absolutely no…” “What about you? What are these tatty bits of paper?” “Documents! Without them we have nothing. Their time will come…” “Will it come?” “And these old boxes?” “They’ll go right on top, in the common space. They’re our wedding crowns… I found them in our icon stand the day before yesterday…” “If you’re going to take them, you’ll put them in your half. Is that understood?” “To me, these are more precious than the deeds to our house. Do you understand?” “All right, all right. Don’t start snivelling again…” “Shall I put them in?” “Put them in. In the common space… But you won’t put anything else there. Agreed? Wait a minute…”

  He took the two crowns out of her hands and put one on her. He carefully set the other round his hair.

  “Do you remember how dreadful the weather was? The Sunday we got married… the first Sunday in May, 1945. A real deluge… God was weeping at my fate…”

  “Your fate? He was weeping for me, like my mother and all my family…”

  They laughed.

  “Luckily it didn’t continue…” he said. “Not then. But I think it started again… Truly, do you remember what a fine young chap I was? With my black hair and handlebar moustache? That mou
stache broke a lot of hearts!”

  “Of course. The spitting image of Clark Gable! Really, who had inflated your mind with the notion you were a lady killer?”

  “You did. Who else? If I wasn’t, would the sought after daughter of Lamaris have accepted me? The assistant clerk at the co-op?”

  “I don’t deny you were passable… But I don’t think I lagged behind… Do you remember what they called me in the village?”

  “Heddi Lamar! Heddi Lamar of Karpasia!”

  They forgot themselves laughing. But they remembered again… They embraced in despair. He tenderly stroked her hair which had turned grey in his hands… He hugged her tightly, kissed her on the forehead. Her knees gave way and she slipped to the floor, onto the handmade kilim. He went down, curled up next to her; with their crowns on their heads they relived there, on the floor, under the wide-open suitcase, their very first night in the bridal bed, when the storm outside only abated when she became his, crying, writhing in his arms…

  They separated and relaxed. They lay spent on the kilim, with his left arm round her neck, looking up at the ceiling, looking through it at the dark sky of Cyprus, waiting for the storm to abate, the nightmare to shatter in the simple reality of everyday life, after their exorcism and the awakening.

  “The last time,” she told him.

  Without speaking he caressed the mole at the base of her neck, turned and kissed her.

  “Never!”

  There was a knock at the door. They looked at each other like callow pupils caught red-handed… He glanced at the clock. No, it wasn’t time… They were to leave at ten and it was eight… They hurriedly began to unwind from round their naked bodies the ribbons of their crowns, which in the course of the wrestling had unwound and were wrapped round them like white ivy, full of names and wishes: “Michalis, with love”, “Koulla”, “Zenonas”, “Iro”, “With our friendship”, “Leventis”, “Papadakis”, “Anna”, “Congratulations!”, “Long life to you both!”.

  They dressed quickly. She gathered up the two ribbons, fixed them and arranged them at the top of the case. He shook his hair a little and ran to the door.

  It was Father Anthimos, the last monk remaining at St Lazaros Monastery, two miles from the village. It was he who had married them… He had heard that they were leaving today and had come to bid them farewell… He had received notification too… He would be leaving in eight days’ time, the following Sunday…

  “I see you’re packing… Are the cases ready?”

  “They’ve allowed us to take only one, Father, and we’re trying to pack it…”

  “I hear it’s difficult…”

  “Difficult? Only if it held all our possessions and even then we’d fret about the fields and the tobacco plantations it couldn’t hold… The co-op, the monastery… Have they allowed you something more, Father?”

  “Not even a crosier… At first they told me I was entitled to something of mine, vestments, crosses etc. After they checked them they changed their minds: this stays, this doesn’t go… They stamped none of the things I had set aside… No icon, no gospel, not even my phylactery from the Holy Tomb… A cassock only and a surplice and a cross of copper. And didn’t I explain to them? I’ve given my whole life to the monastery, to these holy vessels. I didn’t get married, didn’t have a family or the joy of children, why? For all these things! For my faith and that alone… It’s as if they don’t allow you your wedding crowns… That’s why I plucked up courage and came to you, my children. I know you’re tender-hearted and willing… I’ve brought you the Book of Gospels which I hid… for you to take with you. They won’t suspect you, they’ll let you through. And when, if all goes well, we meet again… Of course, if there’s no room… As I see…”

  There was room, they assured him, and if there wasn’t they would take something out and make room. They took the Book of Gospels from his hands. It was wrapped in old newspapers and tied crosswise with string.

  “What is it worth?” asked the man, who had heard about restrictions imposed by the Turks.

  “It’s priceless! But not to others! I decorated it myself, copied it out. It took me years. All the ornaments I made… It may be crude, it may not be a work of art but it is the fruit of Job’s patience. You understand…”

  “I ask because the Turks… in case it vanishes or they confiscate it…”

  “God forbid!” cried the woman.

  “The Saint won’t allow it my child. But if it is God’s will, how shall we change that?”

  They brought him a chair next to the table so that he could touch the Gospel and sat down near him. They drank coffee; without sugar for the monk, very sweet for him. They recalled peaceful times; when the monastery was a real hive, with thousands of worshippers on feast days and at the fair in his honour; with ten monks and five postulants; with young novices, workers and an abbot, God rest his soul, who cured with the touch of his most venerable hands all those who were in despair and sought refuge with him.

  “I’ve been alone for sixteen years,” said the old man, “and the only miracle to happen all these years was that I am still alive and serve my monastery.”

  “Shall I bring you some preserved fruit?” she asked him and got up so as not to show her emotion.

  At this monastery she had been baptised and married, they had baptised and married their children there, buried her parents and had a memorial service for them every year for fifteen years. Her daughter at the age of five had been cured by the abbot of the spasms and fever that had tormented her for days.

  She went to the cupboard and fetched the jar of preserved fruit, quince. She put three on each plate. “For luck, Father Anthimos, and your blessing.” When they had finished eating she asked the old man to give the jar to old Maritsa, it was on his way. “She eats sweet things and we couldn’t go and see her with all this bother.”

  The monk stood up, continuously stroking the parcel, his fingers playing with the string.

  “Long life to you, my daughter,” he said. “Maritsa is dead. Riza called her, told her to leave tomorrow… And she was in a hurry… She died in that old house all alone. They found her stiff, with a cat on her feet…”

  When the old man had gone out she said, “Perhaps Maritsa was the lucky one…”

  “Don’t let me hear you say that again! Because, by God, I’ll empty the old case again and take the gun. And if a Turk dares to set his foot in here…”

  “You couldn’t kill even a hare,” she told him through her tears, half-laughing. “Are you going to say you’ll throw your shoes in their faces, so I can put something of value in the case? Will it take the Book of Gospels?”

  “Take something out of the shared space or the doll. Shall we take dolls, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Lena’s doll? The one she wrote and asked me to send to Australia, to our granddaughter?”

  “All right, I’ll carry the lute in my hand.”

  “You’re taking the lute? You must be mad…”

  “You’ll see, it will be needed… I’ve thought about it… Weddings and fairs, thank God… I’ll play and you’ll take round the plate…”

  “I hope not…”

  He took the lute down from the shelf. He sat down on the chest and caressed the instrument gently and tenderly, as a little while ago he had caressed her. She, pretending not to see him, began once more to arrange the case. Now she had a new concern, the Book of Gospels. Since they had accepted it they had a duty to take it at all costs… To conceal it better she was obliged to take out an icon of hers and a second pair of shoes she had done battle to keep. “We’ll need them. We have a long road ahead of us…”

  He, bent over the lute, was carried away; the music stammered out stories of the past, woke up worlds they had thought lost. The children came back, with the noise, the nonchalance, the welcome disorder; the day when they celebrated their Lena’s birthday. It was the day when they paid off the loan for the house; after ten years of anxiety and a whole lot of sc
rimping and saving. A double celebration! He played the lute as the little girl, six years old that very day, danced clutching the doll they had given her, the one they were going to send to Melbourne tomorrow. On the table, where the case sat overflowing, a mountain of cakes for the children and savoury titbits and wine for the grownups. Their only son, Stavrakis, twenty years old, was laughing “carefree and innocent” as they believed, with Rodoula, the daughter of his assistant, who had come early to bring a present for Lena. In two months they reciprocated through her, she deserved it: they gave her a greater gift, their son… What music that was! How they danced to the chords of his fingers, how their expectations and hopes danced inside them, round them! The two of them were so happy!… That night, in each other’s arms, they lay long awake, listening carefully to the silence, dense in the house, and saw far ahead their road reaching to the grave without obstacles other than those God sends, and time… He finished the dance for the little girl and played the “scythe” dance for Stavros and then the “karsilama” which his son danced dashingly a a bridegroom on Sunday, June 2nd. Then came the turn of an improvisation, long drawnout, and a variation of the karpasitissa, which filled the entrance hall with shadows, on the day when Stavrakis and Rodoula, newlywed, left to emigrate to London. He played the same tune a second time, ten years later, on the night when Lena and her husband left for Australia…

  Then the silence returned and the lute was forgotten on the shelf.

  And she, as they looked up at the ceiling on the first night, when the house emptied and became filled with ghosts, told him that sometimes obstacles and suffering occur in life which are not sent by God and time…

  There was another knock at the door. He put down the lute with the same feeling of alarm as he had left her earlier, with the same sensation of having been caught red-handed doing something forbidden at the wrong moment…