Sure, we might observe and ponder why a lonely woman is more likely bitter while a lonely man is more likely sad, although it’s pretty simple, really: an unwanted man is a buyer with no money, and an unwanted woman is a seller with empty shelves. That’s how, seemingly, the theme of the European financial crisis comes full circle.
Although we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.
* * *
—
Meanwhile—as you rightly know—a Russian man who is lonely and sad in a bar is unimaginable. Upon entering any establishment for the purpose of drinking, he immediately seeks out company, instantly infiltrates it, and, without delay, forges a quick, if shaky and dangerous, friendship while stepping on everyone’s toes and violating personal boundaries that his drinking buddies didn’t even suspect existed.
If a group of men are drinking, he’ll plop down next to them, uninvited, instantly “logging in,” so to speak, with widely accepted passwords: “This is some game, huh?” or “Those Sauerkrauts don’t know shit from clay.” And bam, he’s already found like-minded countrymen; bam, he’s entered a vague financial relationship fraught with catastrophe, such as “This round’s on me!” thus uncovering a snaky path to a snafu to be followed by fisticuffs. If there are ladies drinking, he’ll rush to them—the outcomes are obvious if diverse. Police reports usually detail only the fallout, the crowning glories of these encounters: perpetrator was drinking, got acquainted, continued party at new acquaintance’s apartment (or park, or basement), started an argument, assaulted victim (new friend / lady friend) with a wooden stool (or kitchen knife, ax, etc.). But the intentions, the intentions were perfectly openhearted and pure.
You can’t escape a lonely Russian on a beach: he doesn’t hide behind a distant boulder, as a European would, but instead unrolls his beach towel overlapping yours, and upon hearing Russian spoken proceeds with a tactless line of questioning. Thank God for iPods: these days everyone is wearing headphones, but just think, a mere ten years ago they used to bring boom boxes to the beach, NSYNCing for all to hear.
Russian women, as you and I have often discussed, love to flock together. The stereotypical picture of old ladies congregating on a bench by their building’s entrance is improbable in Europe—I mean real Europe, Western Europe. Not sure about Eastern Europe, but didn’t see it there, either. In Greek villages, however, you have solitary old ladies in black sitting solemnly and wordlessly on folding chairs by their open front doors, red chintz curtains drawn. Only once, in the magical village of Margarites, did I see a group of such ladies in black quietly talking, and they, upon seeing me, a stranger, fell silent. Greek men, by contrast, are forever and routinely congregating; they drink coffee outdoors, fingering their worry beads and talking about women, soccer, high prices, and politics. More precisely, they begin with politics, and only then move on to the rest. They people watch with lively interest, and so outdoor cafés by bus stops are especially popular: folks get on the bus and they get off the bus; this provides endless entertainment.
* * *
—
Today there was a German family at dinner: mother and father and two boys aged around eight and ten. All four of them ate and drank in complete silence—it made me want to reach out and turn up the volume. On their faces—I looked at them closely—was good-natured indifference, and in twenty minutes of chewing nothing transpired: no remarks, no smiles, no jokes. At some point one of the boys reached over and seemingly pinched the other, but I rejoiced for naught: there was no reaction. And soon, silently and synchronously, they got up and left.
I couldn’t help thinking: Fifty years from now, when their parents are gone and those boys are old themselves, everything good already behind them, they will go to sit alone at separate bars, somber drink in hand, among other dignified, lonely old gents, each of them honoring the great European tradition of respect for other people’s privacy, staying mute till his very last breath.
Oh, the life they could have had—fighting with their neighbors, banging on the radiator with a stick, writing querulous petitions to the courts, spoiling the fun of youngsters, imposing themselves on others with recollections of battles in Königsberg, and enjoying other debauched behavior.
No, if for some reason I were forced to choose—“Are you with us or with them?”—I would, after protesting, resisting, and throwing a tantrum, still choose our boorish yet warm, loquacious, and insufferable way of going through life, if only to avoid the polite, dreadful, and deafening silence.
* * *
§
Bought a local Russian-language newspaper. From the classifieds:
JOBS
—Night shift at funeral home.
GIVING AWAY
—Will give away iguana with aquarium and heat lamp.
—Will share my kombucha.
LOOKING TO SELL
—Wedding dress, sequined. Comes with veil, gloves, and tiara.
—Two-bedroom apartment in Athens, Kallithéa, 2 balconies, 75 square meters, €75,000.
—Apartment in Ukraine, Village of Nikolaevka, €60,000.
LOOKING TO BUY
—Roly-poly Russian tumbler toy.
—Arctic fox or badger grease.
PERSONALS
—Carefree gal, full of laughs, seeks a fiancé, plump, tall, under 75.
—I’m a doctor, 41 years old, attractive, slender, married. Looking to meet a beautiful young woman, not predisposed to weight gain, without insecurities or reproaches, for pleasant encounters 2–4 times per month. Will cover rent. Please call only on Monday and Friday mornings, or Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Can’t wait!
JOBS
—Russian-speaking family looking for a housekeeper under 40, hardworking, with a clean heart.
MISCELLANEOUS
—Have you consulted a weight-loss service only to be swindled out of your money? Please give me a call to discuss.
—At a remote and faraway monastery on Mount of Temptation (Israel) there lives a solitary monk. In serving our Lord, in seclusion from other humans does he spend his days. He has virtually no means. By his spiritual endeavor he atones for all our sins. If you’re inclined to help, please do so generously. Father Gerasimos Vourazanidis will mention you and your loved ones in his prayers. Phone # ****, Fax # ****, Ethniki Trapeza bank acct # ****, PO box ***, Jerusalem, Israel. Archim. Gerasimos Vourazanidis.
* * *
§
Many, many moons ago—twenty-five, to be precise—I first came to Crete and lived on the outskirts of the town of Rethymno. Back then, Rethymno was small, its border right by the old university. Past there were ditches and gullies, the rattling of a backhoe digging the foundations of future buildings, which now stretch out for fifteen kilometers from that very spot.
Basically, everything was still fresh, young, and untouched. The roads on Crete were impassable; some were simply dirt roads, and I enjoyed taking off my sandals and walking on the cooling evening dust that felt like flour. Nowadays, asphalt is everywhere and it’s easy to drive places, but not just for me—and that’s the problem. These disgustingly convenient highways were built straight through magnificent and mysterious mountains full of birds and trees; there are no more trees and no more birds there, only heaps of red stone in the whistling wind.
So there I was, on the Island of Crete for the first time, sitting at a restaurant in the harbor, right on the water, people watching. The restaurants there were crap—tourist traps with frozen fish and jacked-up prices—but there was one authentic spot, low-key and right under your nose. Everything was homemade and done right, the giveaway being that Greeks ate there. The tablecloths were blue gingham, and you could crumble bread straight into the sea to feed the fish without leaving your table as the sun shone down.
About ten feet away from me, in one of the tourist traps, there was a Swedish woman—aroun
d thirty-five, orange hair brushed straight up, T-shirt with no bra the way they like it in Scandinavia—surrounded by three Vikings of enviable height and heroic good looks: rosy cheeks, golden locks, and piercing blue eyes. All four of them were three sheets to the wind, very jolly, most noticeably the woman, who was laughing loudly with her mouth open wide. You couldn’t miss her.
A quarter century passed and the Crete of yesterday, so inviting in its pristine remoteness, bucolic and patriarchal, had faded and surrendered to cement hotels and boardinghouses. Its distant outskirts, where summits once afforded mind-blowing vistas of sparkling seas and uninhabited shores, were now dotted with greenhouses and covered in abominable white film, all to grow tomatoes, say, for the visitors of those cheerfully painted cement hotels and boardinghouses.
And no longer did you feel like getting behind the wheel and driving farther, farther, farther, because in the distance, there, too, were asphalt and white film and convenience. The joy of these wild expanses that I got to experience was gone forever.
And so, twenty-five years on, I am once again sitting at a homey restaurant in the small harbor of Rethymno, my elbows resting on that blue-checkered tablecloth. Maria, the proprietress—now long in the tooth—is making her way toward me with my meal while I, as usual, deliberate the relative merits of driving drunk. But how can one not drink with dinner? And then from the table next to me comes this loud, drunken, mouth-wide-open laugh. I turn around—my God!
Thinning orange hair brushed straight up, peeling skin, T-shirt worn over a bra-less wrinkly body, leg in a cast sticking out like a bazooka, arm wrapped in some bandages—it’s that very same Swedish woman, now in a wheelchair! Surrounded by the very same three Vikings, now slouchy and ruddy-faced, the remnants of golden locks blowing in the wind, eyes faded almost to white.
All of them shit-faced, all of them laughing hysterically; one is plagued by a smoker’s cough, he’s waving his arm—“Enough!”—which only makes the rest howl louder with jolly boozy laughter, and she, that faded carrot-haired beauty, the loudest and jolliest of them all.
And the sight of these invincible people filled my heart with awe and my eyes with tears.
* * *
§
The blood feuds here are like those of Sardinia. You visit some tiny mountain village in the year 2000 and then, ten years later, you read in the latest travel guide: they all perished, killed in a standoff. Toward the end of that standoff, the police came, surrounded the house where the shooter was hiding. They yelled into a megaphone: That’s it, Cousin Manolis, surrender! And he yelled back: This is none of your business, let me just shoot the last one and I’ll come out myself. How do you not respect that? They are all related down here.
We know one such family. About fifteen years ago we used to frequent a taverna run by Yorgos, a young man of uncommon good looks. If you’ve ever seen those preclassical kouros sculptures—that’s Yorgos: tall, heavy hipped, with an inscrutable Mona Lisa smile that isn’t really a smile but a natural crease of the mouth, for Yorgos was never amused. His eyes were also preclassical, Mycenaean, wrapping around his face like a pair of sunglasses and aiming somewhere behind his ears; their color was pale grape, perfect for staring blankly into the distance.
He was the son of the proprietor of the taverna, as I say, and as it was customary here, the entire family—all ten—toiled away during the high season from dusk till midnight: they bought, they brought, they peeled, they chopped, they served, they cleared. And everything was cooked by one immortal granny; well, there were two dark-haired short ladies helping in the 100+ degree kitchen, but the chef was Granny, all in black and shaped like a question mark. She’s still toiling away there, fifteen years later.
So here is Yorgos, balancing on one tanned arm six oval plates of seafood and potatoes, the wine and six glasses held in his other tanned arm—the sun is setting, everything is bathed in golden light. The Germans already had ordered their Schweinekotelett and Mythos beer. Paradise. With his pale eyes, Yorgos is looking out over the German heads and ours—always above the tourists’ heads—his eyes glancing over the mountains, the rooftops, the balconies and treetops.
“Sit with us, Yorgos, have a drink!” we say; we have known him for a long time. Or we think we know him.
Yorgos sits.
“The world is full of evil,” says he.
“Sure, that’s true,” we respond lightheartedly. “But the weather is delightful.”
And then it all comes pouring out. Yorgos is first in line; someday a bullet will come for him. Or not. It might be a knife. They are from a mountain village about twenty miles from here up a small green road. (We’ve driven past it, by the way, there was nothing sinister. A mini-mart, ice cream kiosks, gas station.) But in the nineteenth century, somebody stole somebody’s sheep. The victim’s honor was insulted: A sheep? Rustled from me? And so he stole two back. The initial offender was outraged in turn. Soon somebody’s second cousin once removed was, well, removed. So it was necessary to retaliate by killing that clan’s next in line, a daydreaming sixteen-year-old boy: you snooze, you lose. And so it went. Yorgos’s family ran away from the village to the shore, a little safer there, no one is going to just start shooting in a crowd full of tourists, that’s not manly, completely out of the question, the most important thing here is honor! But when the crowds have dissipated, then maybe.
Yorgos wanted to major in architecture and got into some European university. But his father yanked him away from his studies come peak season: You need to work, there are hordes of tourists coming. You can go back in the fall. Father spoke, son obeyed: from April till the end of October, Yorgos carried, stacked on his beautiful tanned arms, platters of tourist feed. “My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.” They have a good restaurant. It was the best in the area. Year after year, the money flowed.
By November, visions of architecture fade: you close your eyes and Schweinekotelett is all you see. No impetus even to try. So he makes his way to Switzerland, to Germany where he spends lavishly, skis, frequents casinos. They could kill him there, too, of course, and there is no knowing who the killer might be.
His brother is also a target. His sister is married and living in a neighboring village; they wouldn’t kill her, that’s bad form. By killing a woman, you lower yourself, losing your place at the top of the social hierarchy. Same for old people. The best is to kill a killer, but, failing that, killing a young man before he’s had a chance to father any future avengers.
And so Yorgos and his brother look out into the distance, scanning the mountaintops with their pale Mycenaean eyes.
“We never tell the truth about where we’re going and when. If we need to leave at noon on Monday, we always say that we’re leaving at two p.m. on Wednesday. We never know who’s listening. Never know who might come. Never know how long we’ll live. The world is full of evil.”
All Cretans are liars, it’s said. Maybe that’s why? He got up and left: too much work to do. Can’t leave him a tip; he’s the owner, not simply a waiter. The Germans don’t know, they tip. But are Sauerkrauts people?
Blood feuds are studied from every angle as a particular type of ancient institution that supports the clan structure of society and as a post-traumatic reaction—this leaves a wide berth for all things Freudian. There is something called “afterwardsness”; those who are interested can delve further. Wherever the concept of honor exists, so does the concept of insult. Where there is insult, there is revenge, spilled blood and the avenging of said honor. It’s not only sheep that can trigger a conflict—it could be a woman, or disrespectful speech, or a disrespectful glance, even. “Sing, Goddess, sing of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus.” Rage—өυμός—is a typically Greek quality. It’s as if it is stored somewhere deep inside, kept fresh forever.
An example: A man gets killed and is survived by his wife and baby. The wife hides his bloodied clothes i
n a dower chest; throughout his childhood the boy keeps asking: Where is my father? “You’ll know when you grow up.” When he finally does, his mother hands him clothes caked with blood. He puts them on and goes out looking for vengeance.
Or another: In 1987, a shepherd killed a hospital orderly he encountered at random. They were chatting, and the orderly, for some reason, shared that a long time ago, his distant relative killed a man with this or that last name. The shepherd realized that the victim in question was his uncle. The orderly’s last name was the same as that of his uncle’s killer. That meant they were related, and that meant the blood feud applied. “Suddenly, blood rushed to my head, my brain was cloudy, I just knew I had to kill him.” Astonishingly, this shepherd was born twenty-two years after his uncle was murdered.
* * *
—
I went to see Yorgos this week, too. He’s still alive. His face puffy, his eyes paler than ever, habitually scanning the balconies and rooftops. He looked at me with indifference.
“Yorgos,” I said. “You don’t recognize me?”
“I do.”
He set my food in front of me and walked away. Not being dangerous, I was of no interest to him whatsoever.
* * *
§
In Greek villages you always find: white walls, blue doors, and a grim-faced old lady sitting on a rickety stool, looking out, possibly at you or possibly into the obscure depths of a life lived. She’ll be wearing a black dress, or a black top and skirt—hard to tell; her head will be covered in a black scarf, her wizened black-stockinged legs set wide apart for stability. She will also be leaning on something: a walking stick or a shepherd’s staff.
Aetherial Worlds Page 17