Back to Delphi

by Ioanna Karystiani

  Viv stumbled, but simultaneously sighed with relief, she had wanted that touch although at times the thought did cross her mind that she should avoid it in case she unwittingly flinches, in case some small cry escapes her and he gets in a rage and all hell breaks loose.

  - No museums and oracles today, he turned to her and said.

  - Whatever you say. We’re in no hurry. For five days, Delphi is ours.

  Her choice of place was just right when the scales of her calculations and deliberations had shifted to antiquities,

  Mycenae was declared off limits despite possessing a Lion Gate, Cyclopean walls and arched tombs, the clan of the Atreids was synonymous with a mayhem of murder and lust, same for Olympia, despite her prepaying two gym memberships, Linus wasn’t the athletic type, the only one of his ilk who hadn’t watched the European soccer finals and the Olympic Games, the social worker, the saint Mrs. Afroudakis, had noted his refusal, staunch and unexpected against the trend prevailing in the two months of July and August of 2004 when her bulls had turned to lambs, penned in front of the TVs and all the more effectively drugged with the national triumphs.

  As a kiddie, Linus-Trampolinus walked on the curb to preschool hopping like a spring kid-goat and bleating out the numbers. He couldn’t read the street signs yet, but he could broadcast, at 32 we have the bakery, at 34 the Lotto, at 36 the dry cleaner’s, at 38 the vet, at 40 the barber.

  Now, out of the corner of her eye, she watched him walk as if on a patrol duty, without harvesting the images he had been made to go without, the vibrant sounds that were offered aplenty, with no zest for the itinerary and impatient for its conclusion, his footsteps crushing heavily on the sidewalks, his shoulders sunk, his body derelict and old, sentenced at thirty to long-term punishment.

  Tall and thin, he had his father’s build.

  Fotis was lucky, after all, she’d been right to call him a scoundrel on a bitter New Year’s, he had exited on cue, with everything that happened afterwards, the preceding wreckage was negligible.

  Sun that almost burned, light that almost blinded.

  Let it also blind anyone obsessed with famous cases and the observant who might recognize them, any old acquaintance thereabouts on an excursion who might stumble on them.

  In recent years, Vivian Koleva had the scenarios all ready

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  for such an eventuality. There had been certain instances to date when she had made use of them and they’d worked.

  Mere resemblance, my name isn’t Vivian, she had answered chummily to a man her age who had approached somewhat reluctantly at the Syntagma Metro station, I never studied, don’t even know the whereabouts of the universities of Athens, born and raised in Argentina.

  And, you are mistaken, ma’am, I never lived in Kypseli, I’m come from Thrace, here on business, she had cut short a woman waiting in the same taxi line as her, with whom she had once shared a grocer’s, in the springtime one would be going in for strawberries as the other walked out carrying the same.

  Every such emergency and the chance of being cornered again by some sharp-eyed and eager-nosed hound, necessitated frequent changes in hairstyle and sunglasses, avoiding rush- hour crowds as much as possible, carrying under her arm evidence from improbable places on the planet and renewing her stock of tales, ready to declare herself a resident of Hawaii, Bogota, Johannesburg, retrieving on the spot a tourist pamphlet from her overseas home.

  Johannesburg had come in handy at a shopping mall, when, as she was paying for the plastic shower curtain, the cashier had given her a long, funny look, or so it had seemed to Vivian, who preempted her by explaining she was putting her mother’s bathroom to order before getting back on the plane to South Africa.

  Four years ago, one tenant at her building had bumped into her at the foyer while she was unlocking her mailbox at ten at night, saw in his look that he had an issue with her and gave him short shrift, a letter from my only daughter doing postgraduate studies in Sweden, she parceled out a ready-made fib and it worked, the guy shook his head and immediately concurred, yes, I know all about children leaving to study and never coming back.

  The prearranged falsehoods were her armament against the unexpected, Viv saved herself any further ado while shamelessly admitting that she, who despised lies, was now issuing them forth copiously even if she did so with the sweat of her brow. She devoted hours, usually the early morning ones, to inventing new alibis, embellishing the old ones, rehearsing the words and gestures, stocking up on special renditions, gathering together a fresh crop for the five-day excursion.

  She breathed in and caressed her own cheek and throat.

  - Thank God you never had any allergies.

  That’s what she came up with, she was afraid of the prolonged silence, because the despicable carefree attitude of those around was driving her mad and because her bag was a heavy load and even more so was the thought of the things she had buried at the bottom.

  But did she well and truly and seriously think that if a dangerous situation developed, she would be able to plunge a stabbing knife into him? That she could use the bronze pestle, which she’d barely ever used for crushing garlic, to crack his skull in two?

  Beige wrapping paper bought by the meter and used as tablecloths, tin cans instead of vases, olive branches instead of flowers, the decor of the steakhouse Nectar, crowded with groups of mixed nationalities encircling platters with meat and bowls of Greek salads.

  Viv and Linus had seated themselves at the table that was most remote, by the door to the WC, facing the wall with the National Tourism Bureau poster, savory marbles and digestive forests.

  The waiter planted in their midst a kilo of chops, Viv put the fleshiest and best grilled on the honored guest’s plate, since

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  you were a wee thing you loved the white tubular bone with the lamb marrow, said she and pulled out with her fork the white tubing from all the rest of the chops and gave him the treat. He accepted it. The shadow of a smile, his thanks. She, too, was pleased.

  - Beer? she said and got no answer but filled his glass anyway, a bottle for the two of them, no more, relaxation was desired and necessary, tipsiness was not, inebriation was forbidden and not only under the current circumstances.

  How old was he when he’d broken every bottle in the house? At ten, fourth grade, and out of the blue. She no longer kept alcohol in the house and the boy had taken it out on the bottles with the cherry juice, the lemonade, the grape molasses and the vinegar, all in pieces piled up in the sink. A miracle he wasn’t cut up, she sure got a scare, but that’s all over, back to now.

  Three lasses, lively and good-looking girls, thankfully were sitting seven tables away, yet the buzz alone of the tavern was by itself a devious stimulant, families that talked a lot, laughed a lot, groups of youngsters that teased each other a lot, Measure in all things was out the window and so was Know thyself , the overweight clientele were piling orders on the waiters, another round of souvlaki with all the trimmings, and, we’re waiting on ten more mince patties and, buddy, grab another five mixed platters, and, bring us another two nectar carafes, good wine, evidently, locally produced by the owner.

  The music abated the mood, fresh hits with no real longing, extroverted, trite and ephemeral, so that they fitted right in with the ad hoc staging of group revelry.

  Viv and Linus were taking the hits of festiveness in the back, as they had elected to be facing the wall, the hanging poster wouldn’t be in a position to remember them.

  They hadn’t decided whether to dine hurriedly and depart or to pretend, primarily to one another, that this was for them what it was for the rest, a meal in the countryside.

  - BACK TO DELPHI - 45 -

  They had sought refuge in two or three awkward exchanges, this place must be raking it in, the bread’s good, the french fries are precooked, she, they’ve left out the napkins and, let me squeeze you some lemon, he.<
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  Twenty minutes later they hadn’t had their fill, but they’d given up trying, their plates still half full, their forks laid down, the last remaining gulps of beer in their glasses, when the voice broke out in the hall of a three-year-old girl who was running among the tables like a spinning top, loudly singing the latest Eurovision hit “Yassou Maria.”

  The proud and tender dad was chasing after his girl, who was collecting applause and caresses, she was one of those creatures so blessed with gracefulness that you couldn’t find it in you to call them annoying brats. Linus was listening, Viv had turned around and was looking at the child, a mirage in sea- blue swirls, her cheeks blushed a camellia red, her nails painted, her small palms two soft dates, she also looked at the father, a thirty-year-old, her son’s age.

  It upset her. She waited patiently for the chase to be over, but the jubilant little diva was enjoying her effect on the audience and the power of monopolizing her dad from the ten- strong family gathering, two babies plus grandpas and grandmas. For ten full minutes, the customers, even a couple of foreigners, became the chorus to “Yassou Maria,” Linus kept his head down, right above the overflowing ashtray, and Viv, at the end of her patience and not knowing how to stem the obvious associations, his and hers, had a go at, Patriarch Bartholomew, I saw him on the news Easter Sunday rubbing up against Sarbel and offering his blessing, she said to Linus, hasn’t been a single year without him showing up at that Eurovision circus, she added wryly, breaking in two an olive branch from the tin vase.

  The barb got no response, the youngster was raking in acclamations, Linus was now surreptitiously following from

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  behind his dark glasses the festive, luscious toy-girl that got a rise out of adults making them willing to play for a bit, even act silly.

  The receipt under the salt and pepper read thirty-three euros, Viv left a fifty euro note, didn’t wait for the change, a gargantuan tip. She stood up, Linus followed suit, they exited with long strides.

  - My heard, she moaned, I got a headache she amended posthaste, as they took the road back to the pension. There was no need to consult among themselves to the effect that a siesta, some rest at all events, is a good thing after eating, they were both eager to be on their own, in their respective rooms, it was three and they had fought since just after eight that morning to make it unharmed through the almost seven hours spent together, quite a lot as a trial run at coexisting after years of sparse meetings of twenty minutes, a quarter of an hour, sometimes a silent five minutes.

  A while later, as she sat at the edge of the bed, pressing down on her belly with her bag resting on her knees, she wondered how they’d make it through the next four days, the whole business felt like the beginning of a great adventure with an unforeseeable end.

  Three years ago, too, she had been so driven to the ground that she felt she was running out of the energy needed for what had to be done. At that time, June, summers always a season of mortal danger, she would get rooted to the spot in front of a green light, without the wherewithal to cross the street, a journey of twenty feet. She would look at the shelves in the supermarket aghast, unable to lift her arm and pick out the chlorine or the sugar.

  Days would go by without her washing her hair, she would get to work with crinkles in her skirt and her shoes unpolished. Those rare times when her cell phone or the phone at her house rang, she wouldn’t pick up, two clients had her terminated.

  - BACK TO DELPHI - 47 -

  The fridge had gone bust for a month, she didn’t call the technician to fix it, it was July and she drank water from the tap and ate her tomatoes tepid.

  As during that time, she turned on neither the radio nor her TV, filled with the festive furor of the Olympics, the objects around her protested the deadly silence and, in her mind, their commentary ran riot, the lunch tray murmured that pre-Easter feasting was long gone, the purple pillow on the sculpted chair was saying, I’m done for, the car keys were demanding, come on, let’s go for a drive by the sea, the amber stone on the table declared, I want to go back to the Baltic, her ID card was not mincing words, you’re on your way to fifty, the plastic chair in the balcony was complaining, you’ve forgotten about me lately, come sit and get fresh air.

  As no others lived in the house or visited, so that things could hear their name being called out, bring the chair over, you’re in my chair, and, wipe down the chair on the balcony with a wet rag to get rid of the rain-mud, several pieces of furniture and objects were throwing their weight around, were passing comment, were consulting among themselves, they scolded her, shared this or that with her, showed their affection, fought to give the apartment a semblance of life.

  Especially the green glass shade around the kitchen bulb that had countless times shed light on Viv at night stuffing herself with stale bread, standing upright like a soldier at his post over the pot with Linus’s beef, rummaging in the cupboards and unburying the old Donald Duck cup for his milk, his Batman eggcup and the colored straws for the frappe coffees of his adolescence, that were still being rescued from shelf to shelf and apartment to apartment, during those weeks of collapse, full of fruit flies from the wizened fruit, initially the shade would protest, I turn on and show the scum of the vegetables rotting in the plastic bag, then, later, it would whisper to her companionably, all I now illuminate is your fall.

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  Day before the seventh of July, feast day of St. Kyriaki, she

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  spent the night circling the block in order to not fall asleep and, as in past years on this date, play the part again in her sleep of that mother with the all-white hair and the torn lining in her skirt, the one who, under different circumstances, would be celebrating the name day of her eighteen-year-old daughter. All told, tragedies aren’t things that pass, they annex the days and nights and subjugate the future.

  The finishing touch to the whole business was the visit by Charidemus. Charidemus who? Thirty-five-year-old, retarded, the lovey-dovey numbskull of Aigion and surrounds, the nitwit for some smart alecks, who rang her doorbell one late afternoon, came in, like he did yesterday, with the familiar milk pie in the round baking dish wrapped in a knotted dishcloth and sat, like he did every time, for half an hour, grunting and gesticulating with pleasure, proud of his blue suit.

  Charidemus was a man of renown in his native land, a lover of the sound of typewriters, a daily visitor to the local law firms and accountants. They set out a chair for him and let him listen to the rhythmical sound of the keys, the dry tock-tock was his mainstay.

  He did not speak, couldn’t read except what was typewritten and in capitals, two rows, no more. With a note like that, with an address on it anywhere in Athens, he was capable of boarding the bus and arriving at the right place, let the specialists come up with the scientific explanation. The cousin of Petra, a half-mad fellow student of Viv’s in high school, he had for years, starting in 1998, made the trip to the capital once or twice a year, just to bring her the milk pie. Viv had allowed her mother to give her address to Petra, hated milk pie, which she gave to the old folks, but she felt compassionate towards the youth, a delegate from the village of her childhood, and each time put a goodly tip in his pocket.

  Charidemus with the baby eyes, the crookedly shaven

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  moustache and the black curly hair, had in recent years lost his bearings because the typewriters had been replaced by the comparatively silent keyboards of the PCs and the sound that filled him with joy was no longer to be heard. Someone had made a gift to him of a defunct typewriter and his cousin, single, compassionate and a loner, with no neighborly relations and fixated on her school years, would type Viv’s address for him and escort him to the bus.

  In the visit the year before last, summer of 2004, Charidemus looked around at the dust and the shells of the sunflower seeds on the floor and the coin-sized oil stains on Viv’s robe an
d took to thrashing on the couch and yelling out at full volume his incomprehensible vowels. Right on top of his came hers, now brehave and be grood. The apartment block was up in arms, they called the police, the neighbors came out on the balconies, eyes and voices greedy for the details on which feeds the gossip of the contemptuous.

  A trying afternoon. One trial among others, it was getting to be four months that she hadn’t seen her son, on two occasions he hadn’t wanted to, on the other two she hadn’t wanted to herself.

  Late that night, although in bed since seven, as soon as the policemen left with the milk pie and Charidemus followed in their wake, after spreading out on her bed six packs of aspirin and next to those three bottles of high-pressure pills, stock for her clients, she toyed with them, counted and recounted them, then put them away again saying, sorry, fellows, forget it, it’s a no go, I have the strength but I’m not entitled, and she made the decision to at least try and escape by doing very different things, on the off chance she might be able to occupy her thoughts in some other way.

  So she visited an institute of podiatry that solved the problem of ingrown toenails, though hers were fine, and let herself listen to the women, with her soles soaking in a tub, as they

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  chitchatted about reflexology, cheesecakes, the perfect tan and Latin dance school's, a lot of tango, a lot of samba, she herself, despite her business at Titi, had only ever danced once, on her wedding day, and that was that. She paid and left knowing she would never set foot again in the pretty land of cosmetic parlors and nirvana sold by the hour.

  She went to a lecture, too, with the projection of slides from the Galapagos Islands: Darwin, his schooner, his studies on the origin of the species, mounts covered in grass, sea elephants with their cub and birds picking the fleas off giant turtles; she left halfway through, her problem haunted every last inch of her body and her mind, didn’t leave a smidgen of space for anything else, it throttled from the start all attempts at even a brief diversion.