Throughout the evening, she learned a lot about Yannis Andreadekis, and the more she learned, the less he sounded like a find. To start with, he was the only Greek she’d ever met who had landed in Canada illegally, having gotten work on a ship in Greece, then, wanting to avoid military duty, leapt overboard just outside the port of Montreal, almost killing himself in the process, nearly drowning in the grimy water, was hypothermic for hours, and survived only for the kindness of the proprietor in a dépanneur who’d fed him fatty bacon and tea while he ran on the spot over a heating duct. He had been working under the table and dodging the immigration authorities ever since, he told Helena, winking, without the slightest bit of shame.
He began asking her out more often, which had Helena asking a few discrete questions to the regulars at the restaurant about how, theoretically, an illegal immigrant might eventually become legal. And she could never be sure if it was because of those questions that Yannis was suddenly plucked from work by Immigration Canada one day. He was brought to a prison to await trial and a seemingly inevitable deportation. Helena, feeling guilty, contacted everyone she knew, assertively cashing in favours, and hesitantly promising new ones. Until, through the restaurant owner’s daughter-in-law (who had a close friend whose father worked in immigration), she found her in. She then contacted everyone who had ever known Yannis and, through the neighbourhood lawyer (who always brought his family for Sunday dinner at the restaurant), compiled documents that vouched for him, illustrating that he had several people willing to sponsor him in the event of his release, and, most importantly, someone with landed-immigrant status waiting to marry him.
When Helena signed the final papers, it occurred to her that, as far as marriage proposals went, this couldn’t have been further from her adolescent daydream of a sharply dressed gentleman sitting at her father’s table, listing his innumerable assets and proclaiming his unwavering love for her, not a whisper of a dowry, with the entire family rushing in afterwards, already celebrating. Instead it was she, the woman, offering her hand, and only as a means of getting a coarse labourer she had somewhat fallen for out of prison. It looked like, even when it came to getting a husband, she was destined for difficulty and hardship. With a sigh, she dotted the one “I” in her name and slid the papers over to the lawyer, watching them disappear into his briefcase, the lid being swiftly shut and sealed with two professional clicks. Yannis was released within a month, and, in accordance with certain clauses and stipulations, they were married almost immediately, a slapdash ceremony at the nearby Orthodox Church, with her cousin standing at her side in a dress she’d borrowed from a friend. The day after the wedding, she moved the little furniture she’d acquired over the years into a small apartment Yannis had found for them off of Arundel and placed a planter of red geraniums on the doorstep.
In 1964, after waitressing well into her eighth month of pregnancy (making sure the owners knew what this did to her back), she gave birth to her first son, Yórgos (though, as to avoid giving other children the chance to pick on him, his Greek name was pronounced only in the house; “George” in the playground). Two years after Yórgos was born, to the month, she had Kóstas (a name chosen for its ease of use both in the house and playground), and with the money Yannis was making, which, after becoming the co-owner of a growing and reputable painting company, was always on the rise, they managed to get a mortgage for a two-storey apartment building on Langford. The complex looked great from the outside, had four suites, and after choosing to live in the one with the small garden in the back, they rented out the other three, providing them with a bit more than their monthly payments to the bank, hence making it a legitimate second income. And seeing as Helena was at home and would be able to keep track of the comings and goings of the tenants better than Yannis, he asked if she would act as the landlady; take care of things so he wouldn’t have to worry about the apartments “as well as everything else.” It was remarkable to Helena how, sometimes, others weren’t capable of seeing her suffering for what it was.
Working as a landlady suited her. She was good with money, and good with people too, always smiling, asking about their lives, making them feel as at home and relaxed as she could. Understanding how these few simple gestures and niceties could make the business side of things go that much smoother. It lowered people’s guard, had them throwing out fewer questions and demands. Because Helena detested demands, detested when people cocked one of their thighs out to the side, hand on their hip, and spoke like they’d just been coronated the sovereign of a newfound state. The problem was (and throughout the 1970s she became increasingly convinced of this) that people in Toronto were watching too many courtroom series, eating pizza slices off TV trays while admiring graceful lawyers strutting the floors in front of jury boxes, giving inspirational speeches and instilling viewers with a false sense of empowerment, as well as all the words that went along with it; words like “legal privilege,” and “within my rights.”
Thankfully, in the last year or so, Toronto had entered a unique era, a period in the city’s history where these words had come to mean less and less. It was due to another word that was being thrown around at the time (and with much doom and gloom attached to it): “recession.” But for reasons Helena didn’t understand, some provinces were being hit much harder with the term “recession” than others, like Ontario. Which had people flocking to Toronto. The vacancy rate was close to nil, and to address the housing shortage there was an abundance of new apartment complexes being built and renovations being done to existing ones to create extra suites, hammer falls counting down the seconds of summer. Which in turn had Yannis’s painting company making a bundle and a queue of prospective renters at Helena’s door, ready to put a security deposit down months ahead of the end-of-lease dates she gave them. Whatever this worrying phenomenon “recession” was, it hadn’t come to the Andreadekis household.
For once, Helena thought, finally, the world wasn’t working against her. Though, as she was sure it would revert back to its old ways very shortly, she thought it best to benefit from it while she could. Understanding that there was a limit to what people would pay for an apartment in their area north of Dundas, she was interested in finding out (as anyone would be really) where that limit capped itself off. Which had her carefully, and with quiet persuasion, encouraging tenants to move out of their suites as soon as possible, at which point she could change the contract and increase the rent to whatever she deemed fit.
Because, really, when it came time for them to leave, there was always something that needed repair; and even if there wasn’t, what about the general wear and tear on things that she’d have to pay for down the road? Helena wasn’t responsible for that wearing and tearing, so why should she have to waste her money refurbishing things that hadn’t been cared for as well as they should’ve been? She was a businesswoman, and she was just adopting some justifiable common business sense.
And it wasn’t as if it was making her rich—by any stretch of the imagination. If she were rich, she wouldn’t have to watch her money like this in the first place; in fact, if she were rich, she would lower the rent, practically give the apartments away to people. And, let’s see, what else: she’d have a garden, a nice one, something bigger than the meagre backyard plot they had now, big enough that she could invite people over for the Feast of Dormition in August, with a firepit where Yannis could set up a spit and knock down the cinders, stirring the coals until they were the perfect temperature to roast a lamb. And if not a garden, then maybe a holiday, back in Greece. They could visit her parents, spend Easter there, in the way that Easter should be spent: go to the vigil in church on Pascha Saturday, watch the lighting of the Holy Fire at midnight. That’s what she would do. And while she was there, she’d be sure to go to the beach near Kalamata where the shore slopes into the Mediterranean, and she’d swim in that sea that she remembers so well, in the water she can picture even now, water that was always calm and blue and clean. That’s exactly what she�
��d do if she ever made enough money. She’d spend it. Because she would be free to. Free to do whatever she wanted.
Cedric, still squatting on the kitchen floor in front of his daughter, looked up at Helena, and, as if suddenly recognizing her, was beaming. He shook his head, something cold, something sardonic in his expression. “You don’t say. Why it’s Helena Andriakolopolis-alis.” Cedric stood up tall, until he was looking down into Helena’s face. “I’m sorry. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Whhell.” Helena took a step back, exchanging another look with Julie, trying to smile. “Is Andreadekis is how we say.”
“Cedric,” Julie mumbled, “is everything all right?”
“Yes, Julie,” he said with an odd formality. “Fine. Things are just fine. We’re here, if I remember correctly, to sign a lease.” He looked around the kitchen and pointed at the stapled papers on the table. “Yes, that lease there. You see,” he said, addressing both women while tapping the side of his head. “A memory like an elephant.” Cedric stepped over to the table and slid the papers into his hand, scooping them up as if they weighed several pounds. “Oh, Helena, you’d never believe the things I recall. In fact, I wonder . . . knowing what I know now, if I could just . . . ask you a few questions about the details in this contract.”
Helena attempted a smile, scratched the back of her neck. “Yhess. Off-course.” She took two further steps back, leaning against the kitchen counter now, crossing her arms over her chest. She watched Cedric as he flipped the pages of the contract over. His wife and child watched as well, everyone in the room feeling the volatility in his gestures, everyone afraid to speak, as if the cartoon noises from the other room were fragile and sacred.
As the seconds passed, Helena felt herself becoming less afraid and more annoyed. You see, she found herself thinking again, do you see what the world had dealt her? No breaks for Helena. Never. She looked at her feet, wondering how long she was going to have to wait in this awkward silence while Cedric perused the clauses in the lease.
Cedric lowered the paper from his face. “You know, Mrs. Andriakolopolis . . .”
“Is Andreadekis.” Helena shifted her feet.
“Exactly. Well, you know, I can’t seem to find anything in here about your needing both ‘key money’ to secure our placement and three full months of ‘last-month’s-rent deposit.’ Strange it wouldn’t be here because I think that’s what you told us we had to pay. Now, you wouldn’t . . . dream of taking advantage of us, would you?” Cedric let out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, that would make you a kind of . . . conniving, corrupt—well, for lack of a better word—bitch, wouldn’t it?”
Helena gave him a toxic grin, then looked at Julie, who in turn looked down at her daughter, feeling the sudden need to pick Melissa up. “I wonder, honey,” Julie mumbled toward the back of Cedric’s head, bouncing her daughter as if the child desperately needed placating, “if we shouldn’t come back a little later.”
“You know, Julie . . . I’m afraid ‘a little later’ is not quite something I can do. Besides,” he smiled at Helena, cordially dipping his head before returning his attention to the lease, “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself here. So then, where were we?” He flicked the papers, turned the page.
Seeing the frightened look on Julie’s face, Helena shot a quick glance toward the living room, where the Saturday morning cartoons were still safely blaring. She found herself wishing her husband were there. Why did he never drop by anymore in the middle of the day, with his transparent detective work, his jealousy, looking for clues of the illicit lovers that Helena had never had? Not that she was afraid for her safety (she doubted this odious man would lash out with his wife and daughter right at his side), but she could feel that his resentment was seething. Everyone could, including the little girl, who now looked like she was about to cry, gawking at her father, tuning in to his hostility.
“Now this is interesting,” Cedric said, having found (or not found) another clause in the lease. He laughed, shook his head, and took a step toward Helena. Julie reached out with her only free hand, Melissa in the other arm, and held on to his elbow, as if to restrain him. He responded to this by wrenching his arm free.
Helena straightened.
Melissa started to cry. Everyone turned to her.
“Oh just great,” Cedric said, tossing the lease back onto the table. “Do you see what you’ve done, you stupid cow? Do you see that?” He gestured at Melissa, now wailing in Julie’s arms. Julie, an appalled look on her face, headed for the door, opening it wide and stepping out into the blowing snow, leaving it ajar behind her.
“Just fuckin’ great.”
Helena looked Cedric over disgustedly, finally slipping off the end of her tether. “Ande gamisoy, uh! Esy eksogamo tekno! You! You go out of my house! Now, you katharma ! Out!” She pointed. “Go!”
Kóstas and Yórgos quickly appeared in the living room doorway but stopped there, not moving, watching the scene unfold. A clip of classical music played from the cartoon behind them.
Cedric headed to the door, looking more in pursuit of his wife and daughter than someone obeying the order to vacate. He spoke to Helena over his shoulder, “Anyway, don’t forget to hit us up for the paint job. And a new bathtub too while you’re at it. You’ll make a bundle on us, don’t you worry.” He stepped outside and gently closed the door.
“Julie,” Helena heard him call. “Wait. Just a second. Hey, I said wait !”
Helena had followed closely behind him, and she locked the deadbolt as soon as she was within reach, then stood on her toes to peer through the peephole. She saw no sign of Julie and the little girl out in the street. Just Cedric, standing alone on the sidewalk, rubbing his forehead and looking around the neighbourhood like he was lost. Eventually, he hunched his shoulders, pulled the collar of his coat up over his neck, and walked out of sight.
“Ma?” asked Yórgos to his mother’s back. “Who was that guy? I mean, what . . . was that all about?”
Helena returned to the kitchen table and picked up the lease papers. She noticed her hands were shaking. She filed the forms neatly into the drawer where they belonged and remained standing there in front of it, the drawer still open. “Notheen,” she answered. “That was about notheen. Just some stoopid katharma, thinks he knows everytheen.”
The television in the other room filled the silence that followed with the beginning of a commercial break, a man’s voice like an auctioneer’s, rapidly endorsing the “All-New-Hot-Wheels-Ultra-Hots, in stores everywhere.”
She closed the drawer and turned to her sons. “Honest,” she was speaking in Greek again. “Just some guy who’s going crazy. That’s all. Nothing more.”
She walked to the sink, turned on the tap. “Nothing more.”
( vi )
the one free afternoon i’d had in
ages and thought i’d spend it
answering her tireless pestering
taking her by the hand into
the backyard to look for
something to do
dog days
toronto
syrupy heat
gooeing the tar between the
cracks like charcoal bubblegum
so I lugged the pool we bought
for her out of the shed
the one I wouldn’t have
dreamt of having as a child
and she stood there
in her bathing suit
six and already shy
covering her sex
while i filled the
plastic with every
floating toy in production
water rippling at her ankles
glistening in a barbie-doll pink
and all she could do
was watch me
the hose drooping
from my hands
in a pout as
low as
hers
Melissa stood in front of the spray-painted train, thinking, thinking about the immensity
of where and how we fit into it all, what we’re forced to dwarf ourselves in measurement against—it’s almost natural that such an overwhelmingness manifests itself physically, inspires something tangible, like graffiti, something left behind for the wayfarer to read, see, witness. Even if it’s simply to say. “I was here. We were here. Once.” Wasn’t that why people scratched their initials and names into newly paved slabs of cement, brandishing sticks to etch out letters and dates, children squatting down to push their palms flat into the congealing mud, why travellers, merchants, and crusaders of antiquity inscribed other cultures’ holy buildings and landmarks? They were all saying the same thing really. They were saying, quietly, soberly: “We weren’t important. We weren’t someone whom you would normally remember, someone who altered a heroic past or a courageous future. And why didn’t we? Well, it turned out to be much, much bigger than us, so big that we couldn’t. But we could change this wall, this train, this rock, this bathroom stall. Maybe even with something aesthetic or poetic, something thought-provoking, challenging, something that we drew or wrote in protest, disgust, dissent—or maybe, maybe it was just something. But something that was ours. Exactly ours. Put down in precisely the size and colour we intended it to be. It’s not much, of course, but it was born solely from our choice to leave it behind. This, here, is our paltry stain that we’ve chosen over sterility, our tiny peripheral shout over silence.”
September 14, 1985
Steven was walking toward the bright lights of a gas station at Pearldale and Finch, his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, one of them fingering the blade of a knife. He knew that a switchblade would have been more formidable, dramatic, and so probably more effective, but an old folding penknife—with its pin so caked with grime that he’d struggled to open it—was all he could find rummaging through the drawers of the house he’d woken up in. Which meant it would have to do. He saw an expensive-looking car pull up to one of the pumps, a chubby man get out of it, unlock his gas-tank cover, and hinge it open. He was blond, dressed in pricey casualwear, and looking around a little uneasily, probably feeling more than a touch out of place, as if his low-fuel light had just flickered while on his way out of town, up the 400, heading to cottage country, ready to spend a day and a half at his own personal plot of furbished boreal shoreline, with its dock and covered boat, with its weathervane mounted onto the apex of his boathouse, for aesthetical purposes only. The man looked critically at the grease on the pump and hose, put the nozzle into the hole, and twisted around to watch the digits of the pump flitter into higher values.
Believing Cedric Page 11