the white bear
“The idea of a novel cut me like a knife.... Mentally,
I was killing a bear. ”
Yiannis Skaribas, Figaro’s Solo
-1-
How a White Bear Ended Up in Athens
The white bear was wandering around the streets of Athens, searching for its lost master.
Who is this white bear? Who is its lost master? That is the topic of our story today.
But let’s start with some background information. Which Athens was it wandering around? What did Athens of that period look like? That period of crisis, of inflation, of renewed devaluation.
Do economic terms, terms that are detached from the action and the character of its heroes, have their place in a story? What is the difference between the myth and the mythified?
All questions that demand an answer. But we, readers, are not about to mythologize. We are enlisted in the struggle for a better tomorrow for the world and for ourselves, we are fighting for better days to come. And they are bound to come, there’s no doubt about that. All bodes well in this better-than-all-possible worlds.
But before we even start, we have to obey a narrative convention that wants the bear to be of neutral gender, because since childhood we are used to referring to a bear as “it,” unless it is specified as a Papa or a Mama bear. In any case, we have no other choice but to work with the materials available. And these materials are, for the most part, determined by chance.
Let us not try to make head or tail of something that has neither. If we had an organized life, a timetable, a position that gave us precise authorities, whether constitutionally guaranteed or not, we might proceed according to a gradual, well-thought-out method. But when everything is on the verge of chaos, when everything marches on in the dark (inside power, in the center of its center, in its main core, there is a dark nucleus), everything is possible, every beginning is good, nobody is forcing anyone: I am not forced to tell the story of the bear that got lost in Athens during the holidays, nor you, much less you, reader, to listen to this story, which, alas, is in danger of becoming a boomerang coming back to hit me in the gut, making me, once again, throw up all the disgust and joy I get from life.
The important thing is that, up to this moment when I am sitting down to write, even though I smoke a lot, I have yet to suffer a heart attack, which would scare me and make me give up or cut down on my smoking, roll up my sleeves, and start writing only about the important events of my life, leaving a sort of heritage testament to posterity. I am still now (knock wood) perfectly healthy. I have not burdened others with insurmountable worries. When Aliki and I broke up, we both cried a little of course, but this took place within reasonable, human limits. She flew off to stay with a friend to alleviate her solitude, while I buried myself in the anonymous crowd that was traveling by plane, in order to retire into my own solitude. Of course, I am still damp from Aliki’s touch, from her virginal freshness against my cheek, her lust for life that nothing could injure. I think of her, I want her; that girl tore me to pieces. I’m like a schoolboy when I’m with her, but I like this state she often put me in.
On the whole, therefore, I am well. Amidst the general misery of my country and my people, I am still behaving relatively optimistically. Proof of that being that I’m still in the mood to type. The required amount is at least three pages a day. Let us get to three pages to start with, and then we can move painlessly to five, eight, sometimes even ten, on those days when inspiration fills my sails, a wind that tears itself against the riggings and masts, a nor’wester, as it’s called. A moment will arrive, during this digging up of feelings, when I will identify with the universe, with the deeper path of life, when I will surpass myself and then, as gambling people say, I will have hit the jackpot. I will feel like a writer worthy of his mission. But until then, I must walk a long, joyless, monotonous road, overgrown with nettles and thorns. The peaks are few. And precarious. And the road that leads to them seems interminably long!
It was from such a peak that our friend the bear descended. It had been living free in the mountain when its lair was discovered by some topographers who were taking measurements for the digging of a tunnel through the mountain—that of Ahladokambos to be precise—in order to shorten the road leading into the interior of the Mani. They took the bear and brought it to the town of Kalamata. That way, while it was still ą cub, the bear associated with people and came to know their peculiarities. It lived as a domesticated animal until the day when, the daughter of the topographer having gotten involved with a gypsy (the one who had relieved her of the little gold chain around her ankle), the young bohemian spoke to his father about a bear that lived, if you please, in the backyard of his girlfriend’s house. The gypsy’s father went and asked the girl’s father not for his daughter, but for his bear. In order to sell, the topographer would have to get permission from his daughter, who had become attached to the animal. His daughter, Aliki from Kalamata (four as in a row: Kavála has but three, Patras, two, and Tziá a single one), in accordance with her friend the switch-hitter, told her daddy that he could give the bear to the man who wanted to buy it. The young gypsy, who was turning her on, had made this a condition of their love affair continuing.
The topographer was gladly rid of the animal, which had caused all kinds of problems in his garden and had made him the laughingstock of the neighborhood. One neighbor in particular, Manolis from America, had suffered an accident in Chicago and was not all there, poor man. Every time Manolis saw the topographer, whether in the street or the cafe, Manolis would ask him, at the top of his voice, how his bear was doing.
And so it was that, from the mountain heights of Ahladokambos, after a brief sojourn in Kalamata, the bear found itself in the hands of the gypsy, who took it to Athens for the Christmas holidays, obeying that ancient custom that dictates that gypsies with bears should wander through various neighborhoods collecting money by making the bear do certain tricks. Now, how the bear came to get lost in the concrete city of Athens and how it was picked up by the traffic policeman at the junction of Third of September and Alkouli Streets and handed over to Police Lieutenant Livreas, we will see presently.
But first, a few words on the sexual attraction between Aliki and the young gypsy who had relieved her of the small gold ankle chain; and a few words also on the consequences that the disappearance of the bear might well have had on the cultural life of Kalamata.
I should point out that it is purely coincidental that the young girl in our story has the same name as my friend, from whom I am expecting a tender phone call at any moment. It is one of those coincidences that occur both in life and in fiction. Nothing more. No further symbolism or thought association intended. Aliki from Kalamata is a high school senior with an acne-covered face. She goes to the cafes in town, where she sees the boys sitting around talking about motorbikes and soccer, but she avoids coming in contact with them.
On the outskirts of Kalamata, as almost everywhere in Greece, lies a semipermanent gypsy camp, which provides the town with vegetables, Nissan pickups, seafood, fortune-tellers, witches, songs by Manolis Anghelopoulos and Jehovah’s Witnesses. As she strolled by the cafes with their plastic chairs and ice coffees, and the discos with their video clips, the young Aliki had decided to strike back at her acne vulgaris and cure it—something no dermatologist had succeeded in doing so far—by surrendering to a vulgar entanglement with the young gypsy. This assignation took place one evening that May as her grandmother was in the garden, killing a chicken for the feast day of Saints Constantine and Helen, which also happened to be the names of Aliki’s father and mother. The young gypsy was stealing plums when Aliki saw him and said: “Wait, you don’t have to steal them. I’ll give them to you.” The gypsy couldn’t have asked for more. The household seemed like a privileged one. Aliki gathered lots of plums in her apron and took them to him just as the chicken fluttered in the old woman’s hands, breathing its last. As she lifted her skirt, the gypsy saw Ali
ki’s pretty legs and became flustered. Twilight was falling, nobody could see them. Thus it came about that, amidst the intoxicating fragrances of spring, Aliki gave him the gift of her first sigh, her first spasm, that coincided with the chicken’s last one. From then on, every evening at six o’clock sharp, at the bottom of the garden, she would meet her friend, who was in no danger of compromising her in the cafe where her friends hung out, since gypsies were not allpwed inside. Besides, her swarthy lover was very sexy.
It was during that summer that her father, Constantine, who had a thick mustache and was a militant supporter of the Socialist Party, was awarded the contract for the digging of the tunnel that would shorten the national road between Athens and Kalamata by two whole hours, and, having come across the white bear in the mountains, had brought it home as a gift to his daughter. And it was during the same summer that the young gypsy, fancying the idea of a bear, had spoken about it to his father, the chief of the gypsy camp. All of which led to the bear, aged only a few months, walking around Athens during the Christmas holidays.
As for the cultural life of Kalamata, no, the bear was not missed at all: a very active mayor had turned this town into a little Paris.
On the other hand, the bear had been something of a consolation in Athens, first cultural capital of Europe, until the moment when it got lost at the junction of Third of September and Alkouli Streets and put itself obediently into the hands of the police officer, who led it, according to regulations, to the traffic police headquarters nearby on Saint Constantine Street, as the bear had been obstructing traffic. The usual circulation restrictions in the center of town had been lifted because of the holidays, and the traffic was absolute chaos.
-2-
Whereupon In Athens, First Cultural
Capital of Europe, the Sight of a White
Bear Still Draws People’s Attention
We are not among those who doubt that whatever was done was done well. However, our gypsy started off from Kalamata in his Nissan pickup with Aliki the bear tied on the flatbed amidst wishes for a bon voyage; like another Zampano, he took his own Strada. He made his first stop in Nafplion, first capital of the modern Greek state, before Athens. The summer Lotharios were resting up in the wintry square below the fortress of Palamidi, listening to the latest Harry Klynn* tape at full blast. The sight of the bear excited them. At Corinth Canal, where he stopped next, everybody was eating souvlaki and listening to the same tape. The gypsy listened carefully to find out what people were laughing at. He heard about how different politicians acted in Parliament, about soccer players, and about well-known entertainers. During the next few days, he taught all these things to his bear, who would mimic them with an acting talent as great as, if not greater than, that of the movie star who was also called Aliki. The bear would mimic the top Socialist minister speaking in Parliament, the goalkeeper Sarganis diving to save the ball, and the president of the republic embracing his wife.
Having thus trained his prize pupil, he would set out from working-class neighborhoods and march upon suburbs where, the summer before, the culture hounds had flocked in their Mercedeses to converted quarries to attend performances by Peter Brook and Peter Stein. These events had been successful beyond expectation. Children gathered round the gypsy and the bear; so did grown-ups, who hadn’t seen such an old-fashioned spectacle in a long time. The gypsy was raking it in. The poor man dreamed of sending his own son to school, so that he might escape the wretchedness to which society would condemn him for being the son of a gypsy. The people laughed at Alikis antics, and, with the holidays drawing closer, having spent their Christmas bonuses, they amused themselves by watching the bear make fun of the neo-Hellene who was forced to tighten his belt, when for him, a big gut had always been synonymous with prosperity. This act was not part of Harry Klynn’s tape, which had been recorded before the devaluation of the drachma; the gypsy had added it at the urging of a greengrocer friend of his.
At which point he decided to march up to the more distant suburbs to the east. However, although on the map this journey looked simple, in reality, most roads were closed due to the digging of sewers. Just as it was in Kalamata. However, he made a decent living, thanks be to God, and had nothing to complain about. Not like when he was a boy and he had to sell flowers in the taverns. He even appeared on a TV show about occupations that were dying out, in which he said that his bear made the most money at the lines formed by the unfortunate Athenians waiting for a bus or a trolley. As he spoke, his gold teeth shone on the TV screen like a corporeal treasure.
-3-
Whereupon a Gang of Junkies Decides
to Dope Up the Gypsy’s Bear
They were just sitting around doing nothing. Each one had become the other’s snitch. One would pretend to be friends with the other until he could squeal on him to score a hit. Nothing else counted in their relationships. Although relationships, the way most people perceive them, did not exist among them. Their only reason for living was to score a hit. The area was perfect for it, because of all the retired military officers. There were no cafes, no pool halls like one would find in other neighborhoods. There were no political party youth organizations, not even any kiosks. In other words, there was nothing reminiscent of a traditional suburban neighborhood with its video rental shops and funeral parlors open all night.
Here in Papagos there was nothing. Only wide roads where solitary types walked their dogs, where Philippino housemaids and gardeners pruned the trees at a distance from one another. The kids growing up here had nothing better to do than commit the odd burglary, siphon gas out of cars, and harass the local cops, who gave them the same fossilized bullshit as their parents. The appearance of the gypsy and his bear could only cause their pinball brains to tilt. They convened and decided to drug the bear. The leader of the gang, son of the “commie-eating” General Vorias and a former prison inmate (a fact that rendered his power over the others indisputable), suggested they first daze the animal with their motorbikes, irritating its master, and then, when the gypsy wasn’t looking, slip the bear a spiked pastry.
But the clever bear did not fall for this trap. To begin with, it had not liked this area, because it was full of barking guard dogs. Then, the bear had looked into the eyes of those young people as they surrounded it. It searched for those dreamy eyes that would gaze at the bear in order to escape the misery of their lives, eyes that Aliki had often come across in the center of Athens, on the faces of passersby who held two or three plastic shopping bags; but here it did not find the eyes it was seeking. As a result, the bear showed no interest whatsoever in the pastry it was offered, while its master the gypsy, thinking he had hit on an aristocratic neighborhood, passed the hat around, only to collect stones and dried shit. They even slit one of his truck tires and he had to change it in the freezing cold. He left, cursing and swearing, while the junkies, furious that their devilish scheme had fallen through, followed him, revving wildly and popping wheelies, all the way to the suburb limits on Mesoghion Avenue.
-4-
At Traffic Police Headquarters
The officer on duty, Lieutenant Livreas, was taking a statement from a lady, Doña Rosita, who had just escaped death in a car crash at the junction of Mesoghion Avenue and Hypoxi-nou Street, when the traffic policeman came into his drab office to report the arrest of a stray bear. Next to the lieutenant sat a young traffic policewoman, who seemed to find the story amusing: “A bear found unaccompanied in the center of Athens? That’s a good one.” Lieutenant Livreas looked up from the lady’s statement and asked the officer where he had put the bear.
“In the basement, Lieutenant,” he replied. “We’re waiting for its owner to come and claim it.”
“It’ll probably be a gypsy,” said the lieutenant, and turned his attention back to the lady, who was still shaken by her nighttime collision. In his head, he was trying to figure out where the hell this Hypoxinou Street was; he had never heard of it. He concluded that it must be a side street, in which
case the lady who had been driving along Mesoghion Avenue had had the right-of-way and therefore the person who had crashed into her was solely to blame.
“But there wasn’t just one, Lieutenant,” insisted the woman. “Two cars crashed into me.”
“Two? What do you mean two?” the officer asked, puzzled.
“I told you: I slowed down, I flashed my headlights at them to show that I would keep going since I had the right-of-way, and even though I saw they had stopped, suddenly, I don’t know why, they both crashed into me.”
Lieutenant Livreas was hunched over his report, trying to summarize the statement of the beautiful Doña Rosita in the conventional language of police reports, when the lottery ticket salesman walked into the office, his pole covered in tickets like a leafy tree. Both Livreas and his secretary berated him for their bad luck at the big New Year’s drawing and refused to buy new tickets.
“What are we going to do with the bear?” asked the officer for the last time.
“Bring it here,” said Livreas, sounding official.
“But it won’t fit in the elevator.”
“Then bring it up the back stairs.”
The officer left the room.
“Were you serious, sir?” asked his secretary, as she stood up to welcome some colleagues wearing civilian clothes who had come to announce the glad tiding that they were finally leaving work.
... and Dreams Are Dreams Page 15