Back to Delphi

by Ioanna Karystiani

  - Why don’t you say something? she asked him with forced naturalness.

  - Words are cheap.

  - Why don’t you look around?

  - Pine trees move along, clouds sail together.

  - What’s that mean?

  He didn’t answer her.

  Could May’s feast be making him numb or, worse still, upsetting him? April, before, and March, before that, would be safer months, but what if they had cold and rain and were forced to keep indoors? The bright, smiling and lukewarm May was the final temporal frontier, so that everything could happen before the arrival of summer, before June’s acceleration began, before July’s lack of constraint and August’s extravaganza.

  She turned to face him.

  - You haven’t a bone to pick about where we’re going have you?

  A good question, timely, but that, too, was left unanswered. The eventual destination had given her much trouble. First off, she had looked into the possibility of the ten National Forests. Then, she had recalled and assessed random comments by admirers of caves, estuaries, artificial lakes and hot springs.

  A sort of colleague, one of those women with whom she did alternate shifts tending the infirm, whenever someone got sick or had other business to attend to, was waxing lyrical about her stay in the township of Orchomenos last July, during the celebrations of the trout season—fish cooked in the oven, fried and smoked, this last with a Golden Award in Germany— which took place at the spring of the Three Graces in tandem with a concert by the incomparable Kostas Makedonas. The spinster had a crush on the artist, great crowd, lots of spirit, she affirmed. Another colleague was committed to the yearly festival at her place of origin, the Prespes lakes near the northern borders, a free-for-all with a parade of musicians and ministers. The now deceased brother of the elderly Cretan swooned with nationalist fervor over Arkadi, in the Pelopon- nese, the niece of another client, even further back, swooned with revolutionary fervor over the Mikro Chorio, home of the heroic communist Velouchiotis.

  Paros, Syros, Zagoria, which she knew herself from sneaky three-day excursions in the past, nice places, but they required planes and boats.

  Crowds, holocausts, bloodshed, long distances and the sea were not suited for the Vivian-Linus pair.

  Yukaris, the only one in the know about the whole endeavor, advised her, not an island, not impossibly far, keep it sensible, dear Vivian, Viotia, Phthiotida, Corinthia, Argolis, 2 take your pick, let s stick close by, just in case.

  He suggested she should consider a quiet place, with open

  2 The prefectures closest to that of Attica, with Athens its capital.

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  views, comfort and cleanliness, with good meals to be had, and walks, for the sake of detoxing, even temporarily, from being cooped up, and from crowds and spittle on the streets, in short, a country pension at the beginning of May would be perfect, as the customers are few, usually mostly foreigners.

  Vivian Koleva had been mulling it over, she’d grown unaccustomed to recreation, the past ten years she didn’t as much as thumb through the pamphlets that were lying in wait everywhere, for everyone, with offers for unforgettable holidays in illustrated Edens.

  Her final choice had to be focused. Be an investment for the future.

  The parking lot of the pension Amphictyonia, buried in greenery, everywhere bougainvillea and honeysuckle, had six car spaces, only two were occupied, the bookings were minimal, thankfully, the crowds wouldn’t pour in until a couple of months hence.

  Not a soul in sight.

  - Wait a bit, I’ll go in first, said Viv, took her bag, got out of the car, shook her arms and legs to get rid of the stiffness, looked up at some birds frolicking from branch to branch, admired them, taking care that Linus noticed, as if prompting him to do the same, for the sake of a proper start in this beautiful environment.

  For the sake of acting carefree, she walked slowly, even lazily, towards the entrance, went up three steps, looked inside and signaled to Linus, no rush.

  A couple around forty-five was settling their bill, looking overjoyed as did the fat, middle-aged owner, a German woman, the fourth reason Viv had selected this hotel; that is, it was isolated, had a view, its decor discouraged depression and

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  the receptionist was a foreigner, which definitely reduced the chances that she might be familiar with or remember Greek faces and events.

  The couple came out dragging an overly sophisticated piece of luggage on wheels, personal articles at the bottom, computer on top, in a mood so jolly it verged on exhibitionistic, they both said good morning to Viv, have a lovely time, said the man, just like we did, seconded the woman, looking with some curiosity at Linus who was still sitting in the car, unimpressed. She drew a short step, thought of something, started towards the Fiat that was moored at the edge of the property, but finally turned back to Viv who was standing nervously on the lower step and opened before her the top button of her shirt. There were red marks on her neck and her cleavage was pasted with generous amounts of cream.

  - Allergies have been the death of me. There’s still pollen, the only drawback to this place. Make sure you get some antihistamines on time if you have a problem, she said, and acting youthful, she strolled sprightly towards the Golf.

  They drove off to the accompaniment of classical music, at full volume at that, the piano bellowing.

  In two minutes Vivian and Linus were inside the cool spacious hall, their luggage resting on the ceramic tile floor but the frau was nowhere to be seen, the reception desk empty but for a square glass vase chockablock with freesias, that’s where Linus thought to put his cigarette out, and next to it a purple New Testament with a protruding piece of paper as a page- marker on which Viv read a shopping list, soap-creme, insect repellent, air freshener, feta cheese.

  They waited. He with his elbows on the bench, she with her gaze bouncing off the partitions with the keys, all there, twelve rooms, to the framed local flora, tobacco leaves, clovers and horsetail, then on to the shelf with the foreign titles, then to the Scrabble set on the low table in front of the fireplace, then the

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  fireplace itself, made of stone and imposing, she hadn’t managed in her lifetime, finally, to own an apartment with a fireplace, not even that.

  - If you use the American kind of almonds, the cake breaks up in the oven and then it gets mildewy.

  That’s what the German said as she walked in with her mouth full, fine sugar around her lips, her Greek fluent, the heavy accent matching her body type.

  She said hello, of course she remembered Viv, she even seemed glad, because she did like to chat, it showed, and a client the same age as her would be the ideal partner for a beer if she needed to play up the German side or an ouzo, if she was required to be Greek.

  On her neck and in her ears hung handmade jewelry with strings, pips, screws, straps and tin tulips. Vivian Koleva had sold off all hers, four golden pieces, bracelet, ring, cross, brooch, had gotten rid of them for a ludicrous one hundred and ten thousand drachmas, after she had already stripped her living room of the silver. Five pieces, two candleholders, two small frames, a bowl, another seventy thousand, to get the money together for the deposit for the first piece of property in Pangrati.

  It was true, certainly, that the lost treasure hadn’t meant all that much, a fat lot of a treasure, too, more or less what can be found at every home, not at all priceless, emotionally or financially, wedding gifts that didn’t suit her character, surrounded her and weighed on her against her will, she neither wore them nor polished them to a shine. Their remembrance, though, was more proof that she persisted in remembering everything unsavory, deaths, poverty and famine, her past was useful only as punishment. The happy memories were short-lived interjections, once in a blue moon, that dropped in like ghosts from thin air and then were gone.

  The German drew attention to the fa
ir weather, took down

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  two keys, to Viv’s question, which is the room with the better view, number 10 at the corner, she said, let Takis have that, he’s in need of a rest, a bit pale, Takis, on the delicate side, ascertained the foreign woman jocularly and handed him the key, first floor to the left, she called to his back, as he’d already grabbed his traveling bag and was climbing the stairs three at a time.

  - My nephew, Viv spoke, she owed the clarification, from abroad, she continued nervously digging into the depths of her bag, that’s where his folks live. He’s finished his studies and is undecided as yet about the next step.

  - Is he an archaeologist too?

  - Something along those lines.

  - So pale. Doesn’t he get any sun at digs?

  The German goggled her eyes in a funny way, shook, used her whole body to express herself, was after intimacy at all costs, sought to establish a relationship on the double, stumping the unprepared Viv, who put together an explanation any old way.

  - He was sick for a long time.

  - It shows. I could tell from the first moment.

  Viv took her ID card out of her wallet and walked it along the bench to the form the foreign woman was filling out enunciating the particulars, two single rooms, four nights with breakfast.

  - Your eggs are bought or your own? Viv interrupted.

  - I adore chickens. The chicken and the horse are my favorite animals.

  - So the eggs are your own. I’m thinking of getting him back on track with proper food, you see.

  - In this place, he’s sure to perk up, Mrs. Alifraggi, Xenia Alifraggi, the German spelled out the full name on the ID, as she wrote it down in her files. So, then, I’m Sabine, if I may introduce myself again.

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  - Xenia, said Viv and reached out for the handshake and to pick up the key for number 12 and the ID.

  Sabine turned to a drawer, let me give you two remote controls for the TV, she said and Viv got the chance to pick Linus’s soaked cigarette butt out of the vase with the freesias.

  When she went up to the room it was twenty past eleven.

  She flew into the bathroom and spent five minutes splashing cold water on her cheeks and neck, to freeze them, to anesthetize them.

  She didn’t open the balcony door, she hung no clothes in the wardrobe, she didn’t take off her shoes, she fell to the bed on her back with arms open wide like a prone Jesus on the cross.

  The simile was adversarial to her in its own right, she had no traffic with gods or saints that come marching in retrospectively, especially given that then, as events were peaking, the parish minister had knocked on her door, a stranger’s unfamiliar face, a thirty-five-year-old terribly composed and mighty sure of his technique, willing to support her, even wash her conscience clean, she stoically heard through the introduction, according to St. Makarius, the sinners in hell are tied back to back so that they may not gaze upon each other’s faces, she then listened to his personal spiel, full of poetic embellishments, installments of repentance and checks of forgiveness and then she decisively pushed him to the door and sent him on his way with a curt good-bye.

  If there was a God and he had targeted Linus, let him grab the boy from her like so many who crash on motorcycles and die on the spot, making a clean exit rather than feeling life fade on their skin with every passing day and having this business drag on for years.

  In the end, she did feel for Linus, she used his first name in her mind, ever since 1997, she hadn’t once been able to think, let alone say before others, my son, and when they, either

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  unsuspectingly or with a vestige of sympathy, said, your son, she jumped like some wild thing, the word alone affronted her.

  Yukaris had weaned her from it after the second meeting, her father afterwards had never asked about anything to do with him, her mother was chomping at the bit for news yet very rarely in their awkward and summary talks about pills and wild herbs did she slip in out of the blue some epilogue about the poor wasted boy, and her younger sister, Xenia, barricaded with her family in Canada, she obeyed her husband who forbade any reference to the nephew, a condition backed by the threat of divorce, their two little girls, twelve and eleven, didn’t even know they had a cousin.

  Xenia’s Greek ID had been mailed from Toronto, only don’t let Spilios find out about it, her sister had moaned in her half-page letter, it was common knowledge that Doctor Alifraggis had on several occasions given her severe beatings and the last time, being an orthopedic surgeon, he had himself set her arm in plaster.

  Viv considered the Kolevas surname as famous among Greeks as the surnames Karamanlis, Papandreou, Mouschouri and Onassis and she needed to guard the five-day excursion against any resurgence.

  Neither Linus nor herself resembled themselves of ten years ago as they had been plastered across the pages of the press, he was half his size and had gone white, she was double and had molted.

  While still in the car, she’d asked him to meet her outside the reception at twelve and he hadn’t told her to go to hell, which meant he was amenable.

  In his travel bag, there were new underwear, new clothes, new sports shoes. When yesterday afternoon at her house she took them out of the box and retrieved the bunched up paper tissue in their interior, she had replaced their black laces on the spot. As she was pulling them out through the holes and they

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  snaked around her finger, she got short of breath, saw them elongate, turn into sleek, cool serpents and wind themselves around her arms, preparing to wrap around her throat, which naturally was instantly drowned in saliva and in r’s, she started coughing and spitting again in the arshtray and on the morsaic floor, the words were being thwarted inside her head.

  Just like last year when, during the general siesta, she heard from the apartment block across the street a voice, same as Linus’s, rage, I told you, Mom, didn’t I bloody well say, I need my running shoes washed?

  The same distress then, too, the same craziness all over, even though she did at some point steal a glimpse at the irate bully, she nevertheless spent the whole afternoon in a tease over the damned sports shoes.

  I wonder what happens to him when he lays his hands on a shoelace?

  She couldn’t afford to ask him, naturally, for the next few days’ plan to work, the past had to be crossed out with an X.

  Whenever she slipped out of reality, imagined things, grew fearful and was then preoccupied exclusively with fear, she felt contempt for herself.

  Well, then, time to kiss the wasting of energy good-bye, time to focus.

  Ten to twelve. She got up, rapidly skimmed through her two little books to quickly freshen her memory with the difficult names, she put some ointment on the herpes, redid her lipstick, pulled a comb through her hair, stuffed her bag under her arm and, clutching the strap, she went out.

  On her way down she was welcomed by the local radio station with news from Livadia and surrounds.

  The German woman at the reception hall was looking through the New Testament and she extrapolated on the Word to the client, though she hadn’t asked for it, she favored a wide spectrum of knowledge, something of comparative religion,

  something of space science, something of ancient Egypt, something of genetics, something of sea lions—they consume twenty kilos of shrimp daily, she said, giving a sample of her encyclopedic aptitude.

  For her, Vivian-Xenia would become the perfect alibi for uncontrollable soliloquies, Thanos who spends day and night at the card table, brought me here while I was a flower and I’ve now become a cauliflower, she mocked herself in impeccable Greek, pitying herself with a warm applause, her thick arms shaking like beams in an earthquake.

  - We haven’t been able to have kids, this in an apologetic tone and immediately the question, you, Mrs. Xenia, do you have kids?

  - It didn’
t come about.

  The client’s answer imposed a short silence. Everyone carries their sack and for as long as one lives, it will keep getting filled with insults and sorrow, Vivian thought, waved good-bye and walked out into the yard.

  While waiting for Linus she took to examining the flower boxes with the gaudy petunias though, at times like this, and generally, in fact, she couldn’t care less about flowers and trees, the two flowerpots on her balcony in Athens were there because any fifty year old woman on her own who doesn’t have at least two potted plants is cause for suspicion.

  There they were trespassing on strange property, the navel of the Earth.

  They zigzagged among the increasing crowds in the streets, tourists mainly who stopped to browse ancient souvenirs and mock-traditional bric-a-brac on stands, benches and coffers in small shops.

  It was hard to evade a horde of seventy-year-old Scandina-

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  vians, some wore wide ties with piano keys, probably bought at the Salzburg stopover, on others ties with prosciutto, trophies from the Parma stop, and almost all the women had draped themselves in the folds of ancient-style chiton shirts, they must have bought out half of Plaka.

  Tired faces, looks of incomprehension, it was more than certain that they didn’t care all that much where they were travelling to, where they stopped on each occasion, to what sights the travel agencies dragged them, anything was fine, as long as they kept moving, simply remained in motion, in order not to get immobilized already in the familiar stillness before the end, visible in their case with no need for binoculars.

  They overtook the tourist groups and they also overtook two groups of five folded canvas umbrellas each, standing upright, side by side and white, like groups of Arabs loitering on the curb.

  Linus, with his dark glasses on, facing unwaveringly straight ahead, saw to reason to dawdle paying attention to anything to his left or right, followed Viv meekly, and at one point, as if asking for help or support in his uncertain progress, his feet released to a long walk for the first time in years, he even took her by the arm, for mere seconds, but their first bodily contact, a sensation long forgotten, like an electric shock, propelled them apart again.