The Lace Tablecloth

by Anastasia Gessa-Liveriadis

  Tasia sat there numb and unsure studying her sandals, the dust on the table the colour of the sky. She was very annoyed with Olga as she felt abandoned as if in a wolf’s den. For a moment she thought of getting up and leaving, going to Ptolemais on her own.

  ‘Come and give us a hand,’ one of the women said. ‘Here, you can put on that apron to protect your dress.’

  Tasia was actually happy at the opportunity of getting closer and getting busy. If only she could be like Olga: start talking to everybody about everything, make people feel comfortable, break the ice, create a friendly atmosphere. She was a grown-up, educated woman and had no idea what to say and how to behave. Thank God she knew how to needle up tobacco leaves. She took to the task with extra zeal.

  ‘You’re a fine girl! You look a gentle and refined city girl but know how to do that type of work,’ said a young woman. ‘My name is Cathy.’

  ‘Father, are you going to cut some tomatoes from the garden? I’ll prepare something for midmorning break.’

  Tasia had the feeling they had sensed her embarrassment and were trying to make her feel more at ease. They were simple and gentle folk, good-natured and discreet, unpretentious and with hearts of gold. They offered her all they had, a share in their work and a simple meal: stale bread, olives, feta cheese, and tomatoes cut straight from the garden, hot from the sun. From the mouth of a crock wrapped in wet rags to keep it cool through evaporation, the water ran crystal clear in the mug. That’s how life was meant to be: honest, simple and peaceful, full of understanding and love.

  In a strange way this tranquil scene brought to the surface the cold bitterness nestling deep inside her and the pain of loneliness. She had a chance to change all this here and now, by opening her mouth and telling these gentle and hospitable people who she was and how she happened to be here. But Olga’s return put an end to all that.

  ‘You’ve got an exceptional mayor. He’s fixed everything. There is an empty room in the back part of the Town Hall, and he’ll put in all I need to examine the ladies. I’ll be coming every third Wednesday of the month, and he’ll let all of you know about it. Today I’ll visit the women I have on my list and I’ll start with your cousin, Despina. Come, let’s go,’ she said to Tasia. ‘We have a lot of work to do.’

  They had no difficulty finding Despina’s newly-built house obvious from the scaffolding, timber and tools lying around, the front part almost completed but needing more work at the back. A very young girl, almost a child, demure and shy, opened the front door and took them to the living room. She offered them the traditional spoon-sweet and a cold, sour-cherry drink. Then she asked if she could talk to Olga alone. The two of them left the room.

  Tasia was left alone to admire the most elegant modern furniture she had ever seen: small round tables, armchairs, buffets and couches. She also admired the embroidered cushions, tablecloths, curtains, all cross-stitch, most likely by the hand of the young housewife eager to demonstrate her skill and good taste. Ματαιότης, ματαιοτήτων, τα πάντα ματαιότης (Futility, futility, all is futile) Tasia thought with a sense of irony, garnished with a dose of envy.

  They left Despina and visited a number of other houses.

  ‘That’s the last one,’ Olga said as they entered a small yard, neat as a picture. ‘In two minutes I’ll finish and we’ll be on our way. We’ll be just in time to catch the bus.’

  ‘I’ll sit out here under that chestnut tree. The house would be unbearably hot inside,’ Tasia said.

  The shade created by the lush foliage of the chestnut tree was a blessing. She sat on the ridge of the well and saw her reflection down in the water. A crazed golden fly buzzed wildly, upsetting the total silence, coming aggressively close and then disappearing with the same speed. The birds hidden in the foliage were mute, as if their throats had dried out from the heat. In the total silence not even a single leaf moved. Only the water deep in the well called her to fill up the bucket and become refreshed with its coolness.

  She took the bucket in her hands and let it fall in. The noise of the rotating wheel and the sound made by the bucket hitting the water made her cringe, guilty of disturbing the total silence, as if she had committed a sacrilegious act. Fortunately, the wheel wasn’t as noisy when the full bucket was brought up. She rested it on the ridge and dipped her burning face into the freezing water. Then she took handfuls of water and splashed it on her back, neck and bare arms. Finally, she lifted the bucket, pouring the remaining water down on her head. She was ready to fill up the bucket again, lowering it carefully this time. The sound of a whistled familiar tune made her stop, the bucket still in her hand. A man wearing an army uniform stepped forward from the corner of the house holding a shallow basket full of all sorts of garden vegetables. On seeing him Tasia couldn’t believe her eyes and, unable to control herself, she let out a cry, while the bucket left her paralysed hands. It unrolled all the rope furiously, and thrashed the water.

  It was George, the only man who had made her head spin and her heart beat out of control. It was the man who made her have the most beautiful dreams and the most dreadful nightmares, the greatest longings and the biggest disappointments. He stared at her in surprise, obviously not expecting to see a strange woman in his front yard and asked politely,

  ‘Are you looking for someone? How can I help you?’

  It was obvious he didn’t recognise her.

  ‘I came with the midwife,’ she replied, ready to faint.

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ve been expecting her. I almost forgot. Please excuse me,’ he said and ran to the house.

  She stood there as if struck by lighting. Everything around her became dark as the ground disappeared under her feet and then … nothing.

  ‘Come on! Wake up!’

  Olga was shaking her and calling.

  Tasia opened up her eyes and found herself sitting on the wet stones, her back leaning against the wall of the well.

  ‘Let’s go. Let’s go,’ Olga urged her. ‘The bus will be at the intersection in twenty minutes. We must hurry if we are to catch it.’

  She was tottering behind Olga now who was almost running, not aware of Tasia’s predicament. It was fortunate Olga was close by. If Tasia had been alone she wouldn’t have known what to do. She felt as if she were dead and had come back to life. Was that how death was? Total darkness, total silence and lack of any awareness. Why then did she have to regain her senses?

  She felt strange, as if all the things around her — the fields, the carts, the animals -were fake, unreal. She looked at a group of women in the threshing fields. With winnows at hand they waited to catch the slightest breeze. But they didn’t seem authentic. Rather, they resembled painted people inside a picture. Nothing, but nothing was real.

  They arrived just in time to get the bus. Olga was forced to push and pull Tasia to get her in the bus and settle her on a seat.

  ‘You’re a mess! You have heat stroke,’ she said, touching Tasia’s forehead with one hand and taking her pulse with the other. ‘There is no other explanation. You’re burning and shivering at the same time. It’s my fault for taking you along in such heat. I’m really sorry. Please be patient. We’ll soon be there.’

  She was bending over the well, trying to see her face in the water, when all of a sudden she lost her balance, slipped and started falling speedily down. Terrified, she started screaming and was woken by someone shaking her by the shoulder, calling ‘wake up, wake up’.

  Where is she now? She opened her eyes with the fear of the dream still vivid, and faced Olga’s bright smile.

  ‘I sat here watching you sleep and waiting for you to wake up naturally. But then you started kicking and howling and I knew you had had a bad dream. That’s why I shook you.’

  Tasia was looking around trying to figure out where she was.

  ‘In any case,’ Olga continued, ‘I wanted to tell you the good news.’

  ‘What good news?’ Tasia snapped. ‘There can’t be any good new
s!’

  ‘Oh, yes, there can!’ Olga said playfully. ‘Congratulations are in order. You’ve passed and with fairly good marks. You got seventeen and-a-half! That’s very good! Five in your class failed, and eight have to re-sit some subjects. But you have done very well.’

  Tasia turned her head to the side and stared at the wall.

  ‘So what!’ she answered after a while, obstinately.

  ‘What do you mean, so what? Can’t you see that all your troubles are over and all the pathways are open to you?’

  ‘What pathways?’ she objected angrily.

  ‘Well, I never! I can see you’ve lost it completely. Instead of dancing and celebrating you look positively angry.’

  Olga seemed annoyed. She got up and walked to the window.

  ‘I’m afraid you must get up,’ she said after a while. ‘You have to collect your social conviction certificate and your identity card from the police station before we can catch the bus home. You don’t want your parents worrying. They must know you passed and that their efforts were not wasted. Come on, then. Get up and get dressed. It’s almost midday.’

  At the Police Station she waited for a considerable time before she was called. They let her wait in an empty, semi-dark room that had a strong smell of stale tobacco smoke. Most of the window shutters were closed to keep the heat out, but Tasia’s feet were frozen.

  As she sat there waiting, her mind went back to the civil war years. She remembered times when, as she had passed in front of the police complex on her way to school, she could hear groans and moans coming from inside the building, perhaps from this room. Maybe this room was the torture chamber, and the dark stains she could see on the wooden floor were remnants of blood. Who knows how many people were imprisoned, tortured, intimidated and humiliated inside these walls, she thought with horror. She couldn’t understand how a policeman, in every way an ordinary human being, could inflict pain and humiliate a fellow human being, irrespective of reason. She knew of some policemen regarded by their neighbours as upstanding and respected members of society, good fathers and good family men. She was wondering now if such men, in the course of duty, could change into jailers and torturers, looking at their charges not as living human beings but as inanimate objects.

  The sound of a door opening broke into her thoughts and made her jump to her feet. A police officer signalled to her with his hand. Tasia entered the adjoining room and stood before a large desk covered with papers, some covered with cigarette butts and ash from the overflowing ashtray. A senior officer sitting in a comfortable armchair behind the desk looked at her somewhat absent-mindedly and indicated to her to sit. He then started shifting papers and looking through them.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ he muttered, as if talking to himself. ‘Well Miss, you came to collect your certificate of social convictions. I’m sorry but I can’t give it to you.’

  Tasia was stunned.

  ‘But you said it’d be ready in four weeks. It’s been five weeks now,’ she objected.

  He kept on looking at her persistently for several minutes as if trying to assess her, then stretched, took a deep puff on the cigarette and watched the rings of smoke he was expelling ascend to the ceiling.

  ‘You didn’t understand me, Miss,’ he said slowly, as if choosing his words. ‘I didn’t say it’s not ready. I’ve said I can’t give you one.’

  ‘But … but … why? What stops you?’

  ‘You surprise me, Miss. This certificate is not like a bus fare. In order to give you one I followed a specified procedure. I have to find out about your family and get depositions of several important persons in your community. Unfortunately, your family history prevents me from issuing you with such a certificate.’

  ‘What are you implying, sir? About whose family’s history are you talking?’ Tasia asked, mystified.

  ‘Look, my girl. Don’t give me that innocent look! Your father is a known communist collaborator. He has dealings with Bulgaria, a communist country, where your paternal grandmother and your two uncles live.’

  Tasia jumped to her feet, enraged.

  ‘You were given wrong information, sir. What you have just said has nothing to do with my family!’

  ‘Oh, yes? Ask your father and he’ll tell you!’ he snapped at her.

  He put his cigarette in his mouth and began to search the papers on his desk with both hands.

  ‘Here is your identity card,’ he said, giving her a small, blue, folded piece of hard paper. ‘And don’t forget to carry it with you all the time. Do you hear me? All the time!’ he commanded.

  Tasia left the police station staggering like a drunkard. She was totally confused. Perhaps she was having one of these disjointed and incoherent dreams and would be right when she woke. It couldn’t be explained any other way! Just think: her father was a communist collaborator. Was it even possible? She was living in a bizarre and incomprehensible world.

  Since childhood she had believed the world was always as she had found it. The same with her parents: they were always grown up, serious and responsible. Then she had heard Aunt Antigone talk about her mother’s childhood and was shocked when she realised her mother had also been a child once. With a heavy heart and feeling guilty for being so lucky as not to experience the same misfortunes as her mother, she had learnt about the hangings, the uprooting, the persecutions, and about her mother losing both her parents at the age of five or six and becoming an orphan. However, she hadn’t heard many things about her father’s past and continued to believe he was always the same: grown up from the very start. She never imagined him having a mother, father or siblings, or carrying some dark and painful secrets inside him.

  The bus swayed violently on the dirt road and the heat was unbearable. On the sweaty and harassed faces of the passengers Tasia read the futility of effort, the meaninglessness of life. Birth, struggle, death. You come from nowhere and you return to nowhere, and the quicker the better. Toil, strife, anguish, and all that for what? In one hundred years who would know you ever existed? Who would remember you? She hadn’t seen her grandparents even in photographs and she didn’t even know their names. She couldn’t stop the ancient dictum mataiotes, mataioteton, ta panta mataiotes (futility, futility, all is futile) churning around in her mind again and again.

  Inside the bus three young students from a neighbouring village were the only ones talking, singing and joking. It was obvious they had been promoted to a higher class and were celebrating. So what? And then? She had also finished high school. And what was the difference? The way ahead led to chaos — without hope of liberation — to an abysmal bottomless pit without a God inside.

  Was there a God? Just look at her! The need to know if there was a God returned in earnest every time she was cornered, every time she reached an impasse.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ she asked Olga out of the blue, as she sat by her side, absorbed in her own thoughts. Olga paused, clearly surprised at the question.

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know how to answer your question.’

  She remained silent for some time looking at her with questioning eyes. Tasia watched the drops of sweat dripping from Olga’s forehead to her eyebrows and running in small streams down the sides of her face.

  ‘I’m only sure of one thing,’ Olga said finally. ‘I don’t believe in the kind of God we’ve learnt about at school and the church. From very early in life I realised the type of God we were taught about was a bigoted oppressor and an anti-life misanthrope.’

  She stopped for a while, deep in thought, and then continued.

  ‘I was about ten years old when my mother gave me a book entitled Seven Little Sisters. It dealt with seven little girls, about my age, from different countries and continents and different races, cultures and religions. I loved to read about each and every one of them, and made plans to meet them one day, to visit each country and live for a while with each of them. Childish, wild dreams! I had become aware they lived differently and worshiped different gods,
just about the time our theology teacher told us how fortunate we were to be born Greeks and Orthodox Christians. He said we were the only ones to know the one true God, and the only ones likely to go to paradise if we were good and humble followers of the church and its teach-ings. I was only ten years old then but the lesson made me very scared about myself and also the seven little girls in my book who I came to love. I was tormented by the idea of hell and of boiling forever in its black cauldrons filled with bubbling pitch, and felt desperately sorry for my seven sisters who, through no fault of their own, could not escape punishment. I started having nightmares, feeling their terror as they were pushed down a cliff, their eyes pinned on me with horror and envy. For months they wouldn’t let me have a good night’s sleep. In the end I was so angry about the unfairness and the injustice that I stopped my nightly prayers.’

  The bus continued to gambol on the unmade road and the heat had overcome even the three successful students who were now asleep in their seats.

  ‘Suddenly, my mother died,’ Olga continued, as if talking to herself, and Tasia wasn’t sure if the water streaming down Olga’s face was sweat or tears. ‘At my innocent young age I became convinced God had punished me for having stopped praying. But I was too angry to throw myself on my knees and beg forgiveness.’

  ‘I can understand how you must have felt.’

  Tasia nodded her head in agreement.

  ‘Why am I telling you all these stories?’ Olga queried herself. ‘You asked me a question about whether I believe in God. My answer is yes. I feel that way every time I hold a newborn baby in my arms. I can’t help it but I’m overwhelmed by the mystery and the miracle of a new life. However, I don’t believe in a God expecting us to apologise in front of his formidable throne for every one of our misdemeanours, trivial or otherwise.’

  ‘I don’t think God exists,’ Tasia remarked after some time. ‘There is no caring, compassionate and charitable God, because there is no care, compassion and benevolence in this world. And without God, living has no meaning.’