by Arnold Zable
Before he was able to pull the trigger, there appeared a spotlight on the rafters. It followed Sophia as she descended to the stage dressed as an angel. I hoped the ropes were adequately disguised by their blackness. Sophia landed at my side. The devil wavered. I stood my ground. A shot rang out. The audience gasped. I caught the projectile in my teeth. Each succeeding shot was deflected until the pistol was emptied.
I took my bow alongside Sophia, and knew that my career as a stage magician was over. The evening was a farce interspersed with rare moments of competence. Only the backdrop received universal praise, though painted, my compatriots hastened to add, by a hired artist. I was not made for the arts of deception. I did not have the required audacity. And I preferred solitude to the glaring exposure of performance.
I had no option but to return to work. The era of the coffee palaces was over. Ithacans, ever adaptable, took to the simple cafes they had long established and served mixed grills, soups and coffee. We knew how to cater to the needs of the time, the austere years of the Great Depression. I did what I had to do to earn a living, but my mind was elsewhere. In the evenings I returned to my studies of hypnotism. After two years of practise, I placed advertisements in the pages of the Greek newspaper headed: ‘The power of Science and Hypnosis’.
‘To all Greeks,’ I wrote, ‘We announce that those who suffer from headaches and back pains, sterility, melancholia, stress and worry, insomnia and epilepsy, and all the ailments and pains of nature, hypnotism is a potential cure.’ The cost of a consultation was three shillings, and would take place in the backyard shed, where I am now writing the final pages of my manuscript.
And they came, just two patients in the first month, but in time, a steady stream. I knew from the moment they stepped in what truly ailed them. In their melancholia and migraines, shortness-of-breath and insomnia, I detected the symptoms of a deeper malaise. It could be seen in their bent shoulders, and the defeat in their posture. It could be sensed in the tightness of the body, as I had sensed it in Stratis on a Fremantle wharf, on the day of my arrival. In their eyes I saw signs of the panic I had known following the death of Demos. The symptoms indicated an enduring nostalgia, a longing for idealised pasts that could never be reinstated.
The patients sat in a comfortable armchair, and I began my instructions. ‘Focus on the sounds about you,’ I intoned, ‘the swish of a passing tram, the distant bark of a dog, the rustling of leaves on the vine. Detect the silence that lies at the core of all sound.
‘Submit to your weariness. Conjure the image of a spiralling stairway. Descend and allow yourself to touch the earth beneath you. Open your eyes and observe the landscape: rocks bathed in white light, a lizard basking in the sun, eyes glazed with wonder. Raise your eyes beyond the precipice, fix them on the sky beyond it, and follow the flight of the sea hawk. View the island through its vigilant eyes, the boats returning to harbour, the terraces etched in the mountain, a shepherd driving his flock to pasture. Become aware of the weary voices lifting from the valley as you trudge home after a day of labour. Hear the excited barking of dogs as you step onto the familiar pathway.
‘Pause for a moment on the threshold. Strip yourself of illusions before you enter. Recall the moment of decision, the last time you stood here, the shrivelled harvests on the blistered earth, the infertile soil of the hardened landscape. Recall the years of famine and endless warring, the enemy landing on your shores, marauding armies stealing across mountain passes. Recall the fratricidal feuds, brother informing on brother, son upon father, the fatal disputes over a few square metres of farmland. Recall your lust for a new life, your desire to flee the suffocating presence of ancestors.
‘Now enter and close the door behind you. Rest your limbs after years of work. And when you are refreshed look about. You have regained the hearth and the homecoming. Now that you know you can return, retrace your path to the labyrinth. Climb the steps and return to the hum of the world around you. Allow the fragments of sound to draw out fragments of memory. We all have our fragments to assemble and make sense of. We all harbour the wish, like blind Homer, to take the lyre in hand, and recount the tales of our journeys.’
And seated here, I heard them, endless variants of the voyages we had all embarked on: re-enactments of the moment of leaving, the last trace of land sinking, the precise moment when the past was lost, and the future was shrouded in mystery. All that remained after years of absence was the recital of names. Of hamlets and villages, islands and cities, scattered throughout the homeland. Each name, a vital link in an ancient chant, each tale a variant on loss and separation, fortunes won and squandered, of aborted dreams and thwarted ambitions. And small triumphs: a son and daughter who had gained entrance to a university, a business grown to fruition, a family reunited, an enmity reconciled, the birth of the first grandchild.
In each telling, time was suspended, and in each tale, there resided the bitter aftertaste of life’s ironies. Through each tale I relived my own, and came to understand that all we can hope to retrieve from our wandering and exile, is the tale of the journey. And in the silence that followed after the last words were uttered there was release, and in the completion of the telling, the temporary calm after the tempest.
There is little more I wish to write. I know my end is coming. It is in the strenuous effort I must make to perform the smallest of tasks. It is time for others to take up the tale. I cannot speak for Fotini. She was a kind soul, and I regret I did not know how to give her comfort. And I have little to say of Manoli. Stratis wrote to me of his youngest son’s departure.
I was there to meet him, in the summer of 1939, when the boat drew up to Station Pier. As soon he stepped out of customs I saw the resemblance to Stratis, the fatal brew of pride and stubbornness. When I embraced him on the stained boards of the pier, I felt the same tautness in the body I had felt when I embraced his father on my arrival in Fremantle.
Within days, I saw the signs of the malaise that afflicts those raised by absent fathers, a dormant anger that could erupt at any time. And within months, I observed the symptoms of his overwhelming nostalgia, Manoli’s manic obsession for the sea. And I loved him, as I had loved Stratis, and ached for Sophia, my daughter, when she fell for his charms. But I could do nothing but allow fate to take its course.
It is Sunday evening. I have returned from the station where I farewelled Sophia and Xanthe. This afternoon I walked with Xanthe to the park and taught her how to handle kites. When we returned I made sure, as I have in all her visits, that she saw the manuscript. I am certain she will read it. After all, the fattening of the mouse, and the presence of a skull were deliberate diversions, and diversion is the essence of magic. And the presence of the manuscript, beneath the skull, was a suggestion, and the art of suggestion is the essence of hypnosis.
I am surrounded by my books, the violins, the tools of many trades, the prints of the island, the cockatiel, the sayings glued to the walls, and the absurd skull—‘my faithful comrades,’ as Robert-Houdin said of the props he surrounded himself with after he retired from the stage. On the summit I was enveloped in sky and wind. And in this shed, I am enveloped by my eternal studies. This room is all I need. I have learnt to dance alone.
BOOK VIII
Andreas’ tale
XANTHE: ITHACA 2002, 1981
IT IS approaching midnight. The patriko is silent except for the labour of rats and termites. Despite their stubborn endeavours, Martina sleeps soundly. One manuscript has ended, and the other is yet to be completed. I take up my pen to rework the tales Andreas recounted in that winter of tempests, punctuated by abrupt silences, interludes in the storm. Nature has taken her place by the loom.
As I write, I retrieve Andreas’ voice, as it once flowed: from the balcony, the cafes of Stavros, by the kitchen fire, and, on feast days, by this walnut table in the living room. ‘Once upon a time there were two brothers,’ Andreas resumes, ‘and we met our father for the first time when he returned from Afstralia, the Great S
outhern Land.
‘Stratis did not announce the day of his homecoming,’ Andreas recalls. ‘He knocked at nightfall, and we did not recognise him when we opened the door. He had been gone fifteen years and smelt of foods we had never eaten. His one familiar feature was the thick moustache that men of the island were so proud of. There is a saying that a man without a moustache is like a meal without salt.’
‘Stratis stood at the threshold of the kitchen that Manoli and I had built in his absence. He was afraid to move towards us, and we were afraid to move towards the stranger. He lifted his arms as if about to embrace us, then let them fall by his sides. His face was caught between bewilderment and a dismal attempt at a smile. He did not say a word, and this enraged Manoli. He pushed past him and ran from the house.
‘It was the first of many escapades, my child. Manoli would trek to Perahori, the Far Village, to stay with Aunt Irini who had looked after us since the death of Melita. Or descend to Frikes to spend the night out on the fishing boats. He would depart at dusk and return as the sun was rising. Whenever he saw Stratis approaching he would step aside to avoid him. If Stratis tried to placate him, he would back away. There is nothing sadder than the sight of a father trying to reach out to an enraged son,’ Andreas says. ‘And I remained in the middle, not knowing which way to turn.
‘In the weeks after his return, Stratis walked the paths of the mountain as if regaining his bearings. He inspected the family groves, and ran his hands over the lower branches like a physician. He bent over and entered goat houses, and busied himself with adjusting the timber supports. He stood on the cliff path and gazed for hours at Afales and the neighbouring islands.
‘Those who knew him before he departed said he had returned leached of his spirit. Only when he met up with compatriots who had journeyed to far places, did he become animated. They were of the same clan. They sat for hours and spoke a dialect only they could comprehend. Their talk was threaded with the strange names of streets in foreign cities. They were like old soldiers who had fought in distant battlefields.
‘Stratis was most at ease when consulting his books. They were his advisers, his ministers of state. He built sturdy chicken coops and kept accounts of the number of eggs each hen laid. He devised more efficient means of retrieving the olive harvest. He took to keeping bees, and in his hands the hives flourished. The best honey is made from the flower of the thymari,’ Andreas tells me, ‘but nowadays there is not enough nectar for the bees to feast on.
‘Stratis knew much, but talked little. He went about his tasks with a dignity that drew neighbours to consult him about their ailments. Within a year he had gained the respect of all in the village, except Manoli. His return had thwarted our plans. Finally, we descended to the katoi, moved aside the looms and threshing bins, and set to work.
‘When the boat was completed Manoli could not wait to be away. He was fully at ease only when he cast off. While I was as content to return as he had been to leave, Manoli’s mood darkened whenever the caique approached home. A chasm was opening up between us.
‘And it widened when Stratis announced he was to remarry. Despina was lame and glad to have found a husband. Like Melita, she came from Zaverda, the mainland town that provided many Ithacan brides, but unlike the straight-backed women of Zaverda, she walked with a limp. She was a kind woman and I did not mind her presence, but Manoli refused to have anything to do with her. He pushed away the food she served and sauntered out whenever she entered. He refused to attend the wedding, and spent the day in Frikes, by the caiques.
‘He said that no one could replace Melita, and that to marry a second time was a betrayal. He accused Stratis of spitting on her memory. He did nothing to conceal his contempt and anger. I saw it all,’ Andreas shrugs, ‘and could do nothing about it.
‘Manoli wanted to sail ever further from Ithaca. Brotherly Love was not big enough for his ambition. We used the profit we had gained from trading as a down payment on a bigger boat. Manoli was far more strong-willed. At his insistence we embarked on trading voyages east to the mainland port of Piraeus, and north to Corfu and the Adriatic.
‘We approached Corfu town for the first time late afternoon. We rounded the old citadel into the harbour and drew up to the marina. It was dark by the time we finished securing the caique. We walked through the arcades in search of a place to eat. Strips of sky could be seen between the walls of narrow alleys. Clothes were flapping on lines strung from balcony to balcony. An operatic aria drifted through an open door, drawing us into an eating-house.
‘As we ate, the young woman who had served the meal sat down at our table. We were the last customers. Stella was three years older than Manoli, a schoolteacher with modern ideas. Her father, who was once a fisherman, had journeyed to New York in search of a living. At nights she helped her mother run the eating-house and a pension on the floor above it.
‘Where do such things begin, with a glance, a wink? Within days Manoli and Stella were seeing each other. Manoli was lost in a delirium. He insisted we take Stella when we set sail for Venice. As a child she had accompanied her father in his fishing caique. She knew the craft of seafaring well. She winched in the anchor, adjusted the rigging, and took her turn by the wheel. Manoli worshipped her.
‘For seven days and nights, we traded our way north through the Adriatic. There was always cargo that required the services of a smaller caique: pigs bound for an offshore islet, local wines and dried goods that we sold in the bigger ports on the Adriatic coast of Italy.
‘It was dark when the caique approached Venice. We moved between outlying islets as the dawn was greying. Not a word passed between us. Cathedrals and mansions, grand hotels and warehouses peered through the mist from the banks of narrowing channels. Facades were stained and peeling, foundations rotting, but the grandeur overwhelmed us.
‘The caique was moored in Venice for five days, while we went about our business. I recall one thing above all others, the sound of feet tramping. Venice was as much a city of feet as a city of water. Manoli and Stella would leave me and stroll through the streets. I did not mind at all. I sat in cafes and listened to armies of feet treading the pavements.
‘One evening I saw a band of black-shirts marching with fascist banners. In their tread I heard the march of armies through the millennia. They distributed pamphlets proclaiming the rebirth of Empire. They chanted slogans that spoke of days of reckoning. Their sullen faces were a portent of what was soon to come.
‘On the return voyage we detoured to Corfu where Manoli farewelled Stella with the promise of returning. Months later, she arrived unannounced in the village and knocked on the door of the patriko. We were at sea at the time. When Stratis opened the door, before him stood a young woman in a tight-fitting dress and high heels. She looked him in the eye and asked for Manoli.
‘Stratis was seized by anger. He was affronted by Stella’s brazen manner. He slammed the door in her face. Stella knocked again. Stratis rushed outside, and drove her from the house. As she ran, he called her a whore and a foreigner. “May demons dance in your stomach,” she shouted as she paused to kick off her high heels. Soon the road was lined with spectators. Those who enjoyed the performance say that she clutched a shoe in each hand, and laughed as she ran.
‘When we returned from sea, Stella and Manoli were inseparable. They attended the weekend dances at La Romanza. A band from Vathy played tangos and waltzes, swing and sambas. Manoli dressed like a levendi. He doused his hair with pomade, and wore a light flannel suit and panama hat. The couple rowed out to islets for picnics on secluded beaches, and met at night for secret trysts. Everyone knew about it my child, except Stratis.
‘Stella stayed on Ithaca for the three months of summer. She left on a fine day in September, as she had arrived, without forewarning. Manoli’s rage knew no bounds. He blamed Stratis for his loss and cursed him for driving Stella from the island. He accused him of sending Melita to an early grave. He said he had forgotten about his wife and sons in his ye
ars in Australia. He claimed he had slept with whores while they were left to fend for themselves. He said many things, words that once uttered cannot be retracted.
‘Stratis remained calm during his son’s tirades, but there came a time when he erupted. Their quarrel thundered from the house and through the village. It spilled into the streets where they stood, face-to-face, fists clenched, hatred blazing. I separated them just as they were about to come to blows. My brother turned on me and said I had colluded with the old man. He descended to Frikes, and took out the boat for a week. When he returned, I knew that he would never trust me again.’
Andreas leans forward to grasp the poker, and stirs the embers. The wind has temporarily ceased. All that can be heard is the wood hissing. ‘Yes, we built a boat called Brotherly Love,’ he says, his gaze on the fire. ‘We worked the islands for twelve years. We built a kitchen and grew up under the same roof. We drew our boat up to secluded beaches and slept under the stars. We sailed the length and breadth of the Ionian, and knew its waters like the paths of our village. And when Manoli announced he intended to leave for Afstralia, I obeyed his final wish and did not tell Stratis.’
Andreas turns to me, in a rare show of anger. ‘It was Manoli’s parting shot,’ he tells me. ‘He arranged the journey secretly and left without a word of farewell or forewarning. He turned his face to the morning star and did not look back. I ferried him to Vathy and returned to Frikes. And for the first time I cursed him. “You have turned your back on the island,” I shouted. I stood on the deck and hurled my curses against the sky.