Hey guys, he said. Guys, why don’t we call the stations?
What stations?
The stations. TV. So they’ll come and show everyone what a sorry state we’re in. How the little guy is sitting out here suffering in the cold. Fuck Social Security and all those government ministries.
You know, it’s not a bad idea. It might just –
Forget it, big guy, said number three, who was stirring the fire with a branch he’d pulled off the mulberry tree. I don’t like the sound of it.
Why?
Because. I’m not going to become a spot on TV. I’ve got my dignity.
The man on the stool started to laugh.
Hear that, guys? The gentlemen over there’s got his dignity. Why don’t you tell him to pass some over to us if he’s got any to spare?
The others laughed too.
Number three looked at them and then pointed his branch at the man on the stool.
Watch it, you cripple. Don’t mess with me, I dance a tough dance.
Didn’t we cover that ground? number five said. Enough already. Fighting isn’t going to get us through the night.
Then he turned to number one, who was standing to the side reading his book, his lips moving as if he were talking to himself.
You started to say something earlier, he said. Come on over so we can all hear.
Number one closed his book and slipped it into his coat pocket and drew closer to the fire. The corneas of his eyes were white from the cataracts, the pupils almost entirely covered. He’d seen how the others had looked at him – he’d seen lots of people looking at him like that – and for a moment he thought it was time he bought a pair of sunglasses to wear when he went out, even at night. He didn’t like for people to look at him that way. He didn’t want to scare people and didn’t want their pity, either.
Go on already, said number three. Or do you want us to beg?
They all gathered around the barrel and stretched out their hands, very close to the flames.
• • •
I was headed home late one night from Amfiali. It was cold and foggy but I decided to walk to save myself the taxi fare. Suddenly somewhere around the water treatment plant I hear a crash and all of a sudden there’s a violin lying in front of me. It really made me jump, it was a close call. If I’d been two meters further on it would have smashed me right on the head. I look up. There’s a huge apartment building so tall you get dizzy just looking at it. One of the balconies has a light on. I hear some noises and a woman shrieking. Everyone else is asleep, and no one wakes up or comes out. There isn’t a soul in the street, either. And the fog is so thick you can barely see a thing.
A few minutes later I see a young guy come tumbling down the front stairs of the building. He’s wearing a wife-beater and he’s got one of those things on his arm, what do they call them, a tattoo. Barefoot and with his hair all crazy and the kind of eyes that make your blood freeze. But I wasn’t afraid.
What’s going on, man? You almost killed me.
Go fuck yourself, gramps, he answers. Not angrily but like he might start crying any second.
Then he drops to his hands and knees and starts gathering up whatever he finds on the sidewalk. The instrument is in thousands of tiny pieces. The strings in one place and the wood in another, it’s a total mess. But the young guy picked up every piece didn’t leave a single splinter. Then he held the whole mess cut in his arms and sat down on the stairs. He was holding the violin in his arms as if it were something alive some baby or little kid. I was standing off a little ways and watching him messing with the pieces and trying to put them back together again. Look at that, I said to myself. That violin won’t ever make music again. No song will ever come from its strings. That’s a damned sad sight.
The violin’s a beautiful instrument, said number four, the one with kidney stones. My father, may his soul rest in peace, used to cry whenever he heard the violin. He was a refugee from –
It’s nothing like the accordion, though, broke in number two, shifting on his stool. There’s no instrument like the accordion. I tried everything to get my son to learn to play but he wouldn’t listen to me. He never listened to me. He didn’t listen to anyone. That’s why he.
He took a swig of tsipouro and the same shiver ran down his back again. He stood up from the stool took the comb out of his pocket and started running it through his hair, which felt hard and prickly, like thorns.
Number three struck the side of the barrel with the branch he was holding.
Will you guys shut up already? Come on, man, what happened next?
I was thinking all that, number one continued, but I didn’t say a thing. I just watched him stroking that violin and didn’t let out a peep not a word as if I were a priest who’d just given a dying person his last rights. On the one hand I felt sorry for him and on the other I didn’t want to say something he might take the wrong way. Because he was clearly pretty upset.
Hold on a sec, broke in number three. I missed something. Now someone’s dying?
Number two, the one with the tsipouro, started to say something but thought better of it and bowed his head.
What’s he laughing at? Didn’t I tell you not to get on my nerves? Didn’t I tell you –
We all heard you just fine, said number two. You dance a tough dance. So why don’t you show us your moves? You’re all talk. Come on, let’s see what you’ve got!
Number one touched him on the shoulder. Please, he said. In the light from the fire his eyes were a strange yellow color. Number two shuddered. He hunched over on his stool and fell silent.
Then number one turned to number three.
When a priest goes to give a dying person his last rights he’s not supposed to talk, he explained. Not before and not after. Otherwise it doesn’t work. I didn’t know either. I found out when my Maria died. I called the priest from the hospital and he came and left without saying a word. I’d been in the hospital for a week from morning until night and hadn’t shut my eyes once. I begged him to say something to me just a few words it didn’t matter what. Aren’t there moments in your life when you need to hear something? Moments in your life when you really need some human conversation. When you need to hear something so as not to.
He stopped and took a gulp of breath as if he were drowning. By now he was yellow all over. No one said a word. All you could hear was the roar of the fire and the wood crackling in the barrel.
Then what happened? asked number five. You didn’t finish the story. What happened next?
I hear a voice overhead. I look up and see the top half of a woman hanging over the balcony railing and she’s shouting and shouting. You wouldn’t believe the things that came out of her mouth. I couldn’t see her face or anything but she had long black hair that was hanging loose in the air. It felt like you could reach out a hand and touch it. The things that hair reminded me of. At any rate. She was cursing up a storm, a real sailor’s mouth, you wouldn’t believe the things she said. My jaw dropped, I’d never heard a woman cursing like that. And the young guy turns to me and says:
You hear that, gramps? It’s not enough that she killed my violin, now she’s swearing at me, too. But you should stick around for the next episode. I’m going to go back up there and throw her TV off the balcony. First it was her turn and now it’s mine. Aren’t I right? Don’t worry, I’ll even things up. Stick around and you’ll see what kind of party we’re going to throw here tonight.
That’s what he said but he didn’t budge at all. He just sat there and messed with his violin stretching the strings and trying to piece together the broken pieces of wood. But it was no use.
The nail on one of his toes was black.
You’re going to lose that nail, I say to him. It hurts a lot to have a toenail fall off.
I don’t know what got into me next, but I turned to him and said: Don’t give up, kid. You’ve got to have hope. If you fall down you have to pick yourself right back up again.
Okay, ol
d man, he said. Whatever you say.
And he actually stood up with the violin in his arms and started to walk away. At the door to the building he stopped and said to me:
You want to hear something I read once, gramps? It’s not the fall that kills us but the sudden stop at the end. You get it? It’s the sudden stop that kills us.
I thought about it for a minute.
That’s a big thing you said, I finally tell him.
But he was already gone. I turned and saw him climbing the stairs inside the building with his head bent and then I couldn’t see him anymore.
I walked as far as the corner and waited. I can’t tell you how anxious I was. I kept thinking he was going to come out onto the balcony cradling the television and toss it into the street and then who knows what might happen with that woman. Because I was worried about her, too, even after all the curses she’d dumped down on him. I was thinking how young they were. Such young people, just kids, so where does all that hatred come from?
Then what happened? asked number three, who had practically put out the fire from stirring it so much. What happened next? Did he throw the stupid TV over the edge? Maybe he pushed his lady friend, too? She deserved it, that’s for sure.
Nothing happened, said number one. I waited there for a while but nothing happened. I didn’t even hear the woman’s voice again. Then I saw the light go out on the balcony and everything got quiet.
What kind of bullshit is this? number three shouted, hitting the barrel with the branch again. Come on, tell us what happened next. He can’t have done nothing. No way. What kind of man is he?
Yeah, he must have done something, said number five, who’d taken off his glasses and was cleaning them with his scarf. He can’t have just left it at that.
Nothing happened, I’m telling you. I waited there in the fog for about ten minutes and smoked a cigarette but nothing happened. Then I left but I didn’t go straight home. I was so shaken up that I couldn’t sit still. So I started walking down toward the port. On the way I thought about what the young guy had said about falling and the sudden stop. I had lots of ready answers in my head but none of them suited the situation. As I walked I watched the lights down at the port grow in the mist. At first they were beautiful. Then they got frightening.
• • •
A car with a broken exhaust pipe passed by on the street. The clattering startled them all.
Go fuck yourself, you asshole! shouted number three.
Then he turned to the man with the tsipouro.
Is that how things work in your village? Yiannis treats and Yiannis drinks? Pass that bottle around, you pig.
He grabbed the bottle and poured some tsipouro into his mouth without letting the rim of the bottle touch his lips. Then he handed it to the next guy. They each took a swig.
We could have done without that story, the man on the stool said to number one. What were you thinking? You crushed our morale, goddamn it.
Yeah, said number four. He’s right. He looked number one in the eye then looked away again. You crushed our morale. A real man would have done something. Instead of sitting there and whining over his broken violin. You didn’t handle the whole thing very well, either. You should’ve given him better advice.
Number one looked at each of them in turn but didn’t speak.
Number three stirred the fire with his branch and then threw it in the barrel.
Man, if I’d been there I’d have known what to do, he said. But what do you expect. The world is full of fairies these days. There aren’t many men left with real dicks between their legs.
He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and weighed it in his palm. He pressed a button and the blade sprang up, glinting in the firelight.
I know what I’d have done, he said.
Number one silently looked at each of the others with his milky eyes. He’d shrunk beside the barrel with his hands wrapped around his upper arms hiding his face in the collar of his coat. His shoulders were shaking.
What kind of people are you, he finally said.
For a while no one spoke. In the glow from the fire their faces seemed transformed, full of shadows that kept changing shape. Then someone, number three, took a step backward and tilted his head so that he was looking straight at the sky. It was gray and blurry like a TV screen with no signal. He looked at the sky with such concentration, almost motionless, as if he were trying to figure out how much the sky weighed or to calculate the distance between himself and the sky, which seemed to have sunk down so low that it was resting on the rooftops of the buildings.
This night just won’t end, he said. What time is it, anyway?
And then he said:
These days I keep on dreaming that I’m falling. That I’m tripping on something and falling. I wake up in terror and my heart is pounding so hard I feel like it might burst or come flying out my ears or something. It’s a terrible thing to be falling. Really. Terrible.
Now the others were looking up, too. They had all tilted their heads back and were staring up at the sky.
What’s worse, though? asked number one. An endless fall or a sudden stop?
You tell us. You seem to be the reader here.
I don’t know. The things I read don’t agree with the things I see. Or with the things I think. Nothing agrees with anything.
The fire went out. Someone went to get another pallet. It was the second to last. And there weren’t many boxes left, either.
They all huddled around the barrel. Even number two, who could feel a deep pain shooting up from his heels to the middle of his back, got up from his stool and stood with the others. They all crowded together with their hands stretched close to the fire. Very close to the fire. Their bodies were touching, their elbows and arms. They jostled and pushed against one another as if they wanted to work through their heavy winter clothing and touch one another’s skin. They came as close to one another as they could get. But instead of warmth they felt a shiver pass from one body to the next – they felt a cold current leaping unrestrained and breaking the circle of bodies, heedless of the fire burning so close to them, so close to their hands so close to their chests and faces.
• • •
Early in the morning, passing by on my way to work, I found them still standing in a circle around the barrel. By then others had come and were waiting on the sidewalk, old men, women, foreigners. But they were still gathered around the barrel, those five men with faces white from cold and exhaustion, watching silently as the fire slowly died in the freezing light of day.
Charcoal Mustache
IN MARCH during one of the blackouts Takis Vassalos and I are sitting at the Existence Ouzeri on the corner of American Ladies and Bythinia Streets across from a tiny triangle they call Plateia Irinis, Peace Square, which has a strange billboard in one corner advertising Immortal Cabinets and a statue in the middle of the American doctor Esther Lovejoy who apparently saved lots of lives in these parts after the population exchange of 1922.
Takis waits tables here every evening from five to midnight, five to one, five to whenever. During the day he works as a contract laborer for the municipality. He works two jobs because he has two kids. His wife Vasso died forty-nine days ago. She was driving down to Faliro and had a heart attack in the car and some stranger saw the whole thing and brought her to Metropolitan Hospital – she was still alive and fighting, wouldn’t give up – and that’s where the trouble started because it’s a private hospital and they refused to admit her if the guy didn’t pay and of course he objected – he was just some stranger passing by, what an absurd thing for them to expect of him – and while they were haggling Vasso died right there in that hospital corridor among strangers, far from Takis and her children and Takis says if he were a real man if he had a drop of self-respect he would go to that hospital with a grenade in each hand and blow the whole whorehouse sky high and take everyone with him, doctors nurses hospital directors, all those motherfuckers and a few more for good measure.
If he were a real man if he still had integrity if he didn’t have two kids and debts to the banks and a mortgage on his house. If this if that my whole life these days is one big if, Takis says. How did they manage to convince me that I’m weak and washed up and can’t do anything anymore can’t react in some way – I don’t care about the money, Takis says, I don’t want money or revenge. What I care about is that there’s this huge injustice and I know I have to do something about it but at the same time I’m not sure who’s innocent and who’s guilty, if I knew then maybe things would be different, says Takis. See what I mean? Another if. If and if and if would make even a dissident diffident.
That’s the kind of thing Takis has been saying recently. But tonight is different. Tonight as we sit by the window in the dark and outside it’s like wartime like the occupation with darkness all around and the streets deserted and your heart freezing from the cold and dark – tonight Takis says other things. A little while ago he got up and found a gas lamp and lit it and made his boss go home – a blonde from Smyrna who’s not all there in the head and who’s crazy about the singer Stelios Kazantzidis and pronounces all kinds of words as if she were still back in Turkey, like köftes for keftes – and then came back to the table and looked at the strange sign in the square and asked me:
What kind of tsipouro do you want? With anise or without?
There’s no wine?
Of course there is.
What are you drinking?
Tsipouro.
With anise or without?
Without.
Pour me one too.
He brings over the bottle and some smoked herring and olives and a monkfish tail and some boiled nettles then sits and picks up right where he left off. He talks about the old days. He talks about how things used to be around here for the refugees who came over in in those stinking boats in ’22 and had their heads smeared with tar and how they built their first huts out of mud and had to dig wells for water and then he talks about the years after that when things got a bit better, about the peddlers who used to wander through the streets – the vegetable guys selling cucumbers and purslane, the fishmongers who brought tiny smelt from Faliro and jars of tuna or pickled fish, and the guys selling salep who crushed ice in the summer and mixed it with sour cherry juice and made something they called karsabats which you drank and felt lighter somehow and for a little while you could forget your troubles.
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