Gregory

by Panos Ioannides

  He was brought to by muffled bangings. No they were not demolishing the house, as he had imagined, it was banging on a door and a distant voice. An old voice, it seemed to him…

  “Open up, you crazy old man. Why did you lock the door?”

  He did not reply. He turned the cold water tap fully on, at the same time turning off the hot water tap, which was not hot. For the first time he discovered that he could tolerate cold water, that the first few seconds only were difficult.

  The voice outside was insistent:

  “Criton! Criton!”

  He could only just hear her. Then the shouts faded and stopped altogether.

  When the four hours were up he rose. Holding the shower pipe he stepped out of the bath and headed for the door. He dragged himself along the corridor holding on to the wall. His whole body burned and he felt his eyes wedged deeper and deeper into their sockets, like two cold, frozen, pebbles. Only his eyes still preserved the chill of the water.

  He opened the door. He shuffled in, leaving rivulets on the carpet and fingerprints on the furniture and on the clocks, which restrained him and supported him with a polyphonic ticking which all the time became stronger, louder.

  In his large, overstuffed armchair, opposite his favorite mirror, Noni was sprawled. Beside her was a suitcase, hastily packed, from whose frayed mouth protruded some of her beloved floral dresses.

  Noni was sleeping with her glasses for myopia perched crookedly on her nose and her nostrils full of mucus which she had not had time to wipe away before she had fallen asleep.

  Straddling the Florentine clock, upside down, her glasses for presbyopia shone.

  He quietly opened her suitcase and selected a yellow dress with which he wiped her nose. Then, with an effort, he picked up his blue bathrobe and threw it over her knees.

  He stood there, numb and naked, in front of her for a moment and then went into the kitchen to prepare her a hot water bottle.

  From the collection:

  Cyprus Epics, P.K.I. Publications, Nicosia 1968

  Translated by David Bailey

  Festival of the Full Moon

  My talent for listening to anything and everything with unflagging interest had opened up many doors and the sympathy I showed for other people’s problems had allowed me to taste all kinds of pleasant surprises, but this particular invitation gave me special pleasure.

  Half an hour after our first meeting, the archaeologist Kleitos Parides invited me to a party he was giving on the occasion of the Festival of the Full Moon. “Some of our most distinguished intellectuals will be there,” he told me at the end of his monologue - it was my ability not to transform it into a dialogue that had earned me his favour - “Most of them you know, I’m sure. They’re people at the forefront of letters and science. Men admired by a public that is unaware of the fact that their enormous contribution is founded on the inner light that they found by following the path!” In the end he also promised that I would meet some others who worked in the background with “thought-forms” and who had accomplished the supreme task of weaving the umbilical cord that joins body and soul and had drawn within themselves the power of the fifth and, sometimes, sixth kingdom of nature!

  I said that I was honoured by the invitation and would not fail to take advantage of his kindness! As for my misgivings about what he had said, I naturally made no mention of them. I knew that patience, enhanced with discretion, can work miracles. Sooner or later I would find out what sort of Festival it was, what “the path” was, what “thought-forms” meant and what the fifth and sixth kingdoms of nature were. Moreover, experience had taught me that the wait for something is usually the only pleasant part of surprise. So why not let those stimulating uncertainties make my expectations even more tantalizing?

  I was, of course, much obliged to my friend Harry who, shortly before the party, had tempered my disposition with a few chance remarks. Since he was also invited he came by so that we could go together. As I was getting into the car, careful not to crumple my clothes, he gave me a puzzled look:

  “What are you wearing those for?”

  He was dressed casually. I said that from what I had understood the other guests were the crème de la crème.

  “At Kleitos’ place?”

  It was a chance for me to fish for information, to prepare. Perhaps I should get out and change while there was still time. But no, it was better to let things take their course.

  “And yet”, my friend went on as if delivering a monologue, “you’re right! It’s a fact that it takes real talent to recognize Kleitos’ genius!”

  He was so engrossed in his private merriment that as he took the corner I found myself entangled in his hands as they fumbled for the handbrake….

  Parides’house, the smaller half of an apartment block, was illuminated. Several bicycles were leaning against the railings next to a motorcycle and a scooter. Further down a three-wheeler car and an old sedan were parked. Parides’ car, an American sports model, was tightly jammed into the narrow passage of the yard.

  “Have you had anything to eat?” asked my friend in the mood which had almost cost us dearly.

  “Of course not. The invitation is for food.”

  “The word ‘food’ means all sorts of things…”

  But he was not given a chance to enjoy the revelation he planned to make at my expense. Our host, a small, fragile, indefatigable man, had already popped up in front of us. Behind him, one and a half times his size and understandably slow moving, stood his wife Merope.

  “Come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

  We entered. Introductions were made: “I think Mr. Harry Pelides is well known!” said our host cheerily.

  “We have not had the pleasure,”answered his guests in the same tone.

  Then, laughing, each of them embraced my friend, and, shaking hands in a peculiar fashion, with the index finger extended to press his wrist in the region where one takes the pulse, called him their “brother Neophytos”.

  “Mr. Alkis Heilides,” said our host as he introduced me.

  “Mr. Marios Hiromerides, Mr. Evis Evangelides, Mr. Kyros Constantinides, Mr. Thanos Taramides, Tselepides, Chrysostomides, Harides…”

  I shook hands with them all and, since I had some experience in deducing things, from the fragments of information contained in their conversation I attempted to form some idea of their professional or intellectual status. I had to admit, however, that I had never chanced to see any of the gentlemen around me in the press or on television. They were complete unknowns although, naturally, they were not responsible for my ignorance, and my host was not so indiscreet as to give me information about people whom he took for granted, quite reasonably I thought, that I would know.

  “What will you have?” Parides asked out of obligation.

  “Oh, anything,” I said.

  “Let’s see. In the cellar there’s tea, milk, fruit juice, soft drinks and home-made milk shakes,” he enumerated.

  “A tomato juice please.”

  As Parides walked away, Harry pushed me into a corner which was adorned with a cracked amphora, one of Parides’ finds.

  “Now do you get it?” he asked with a smile.

  I admitted frankly that I didn’t. Why only juices?

  “Initiates don’t touch alcohol.”

  “Are they spiritualists?” I asked boldly.

  “Of course not. Occultists. They belong to a sect which prepares them for the initiation.”

  “What initiation?”

  “The oneness of the soul with God. They achieve it through purification, the exercise of virtue and indifference to worldly things.”

  It was a pointless explanation. Only those abhorring worldly things or the bourgeoisie in revolt would go about revealing such a lack of interest in clothes. And since they weren’t the bourgeoisie there was no other explanation. Ignoring the world of appearances and knowing the vanity of all ambition why should they care if they wore red socks and black shoes, blue
ties, green shirts and brown suits, or a bow tie with a pullover and a sports jacket on top! This affected insignificance was a testament to what else but their humanity?

  Our hostess arrived with the tomato juice in a paper cup one and a half times bigger than the one she was handing to one of her husband’s newly arrived guests.

  “We’ll open up the buffet shortly,” she said and gave us a meaningful smile.

  “Isn’t she sweet?” Harry asked me when Merope (I noticed that no-one referred to her as Mrs. Parides) had moved away.

  “Yes, very. Has she been initiated too?”

  “Has she gone over the path you mean,” my friend corrected me. “Of course not. Initiation is the end, the transition of man from the fourth kingdom of nature, the human, to the fifth which is the angelic. I don’t think Merope has managed that…”

  “What about you then?” I asked playfully. “I heard them call you Neophytos”.

  “I have the honour of being the youngest member of the sect. Out of politeness I told them that I found their theory interesting and the next minute they’d grabbed me. But I don’t regret it. I’m collecting material for an article I’m writing…”

  The loud voice of Marios Hiromerides who was talking to Evis Evangelides forced us to break off our conversation. Indeed, it had the same effect on everyone in the sitting room. Hiromerides was indignant, his bald head was bright red and, as he spoke, his belly stuck out of his jacket which was set off by a red tie. He had six-fingered hands which were constantly gesturing and always sweaty. Evangelides looked him in the eye with an indelible smile of happiness. He was thirty years old, tall and thin with a large head, fair haired and nervous. He laughed and continuously rubbed his neck as if to help it support the round lump that was pressing against his throat.

  Harry explained that they were talking about a new member of the sect who, in his well-intentioned attempts to initiate friends and acquaintances en masse was constantly putting his foot in it.

  “Blunders of the first order!” said Hiromerides. “Doesn’t he realize that he’s throwing pearls to dogs? The other day he cornered this friend of mine, an immature sort of chap who can’t have had more than eighty, say a hundred reincarnations, a draper by trade, understand! Out of the blue he started telling him about the initiation wand! Imagine! How it enters the purified person like a phallus for the intercourse of body and soul and plenty more that made the poor chap think that either our friend was after something or he was really going downhill… And as if that wasn’t enough he told him that if he came to the sect we’d turn him into a perfect hermaphrodite!”

  “Imagine if I told him about Kakaraka! He’d run away,” said the other man with a laugh.

  “Kakaraka?” Harry anticipated my question. “He’s Evangelides’ personal God. He revealed himself to him in London, in a ruined theatre. He went in to pray for a little role and the revelation occurred. He claims he’s like the Goddess Kali except that instead of breasts he’s got phalluses all over him. They symbolize the God’s total hedonism.”

  The folding door dividing the sitting room from the dining room opened. An exclamation of admiration ran through the assembled guests at the sight of the set table.

  “This isn’t a buffet,” hissed Harry, “it’s an anti-scurvy arsenal!”

  It really was! The table was set with all those vegetables or their extracts, all those fruits and nuts and their extracts, all those dairy products and by-products, which please vegetarians and the more noble subjects of the… yes, it must be the third since the fourth is human, the third kingdom of nature.

  All the guests, with the exception of Harry and myself, belonged to the first category without a doubt. The enthusiasm with which they fell upon those greens really impressed me. And so did my own efforts to understand why, though practical experience made the combinations of fruit and vegetables, nuts and honey, homemade bread and cheeses more interesting. In fact with a mouthful of juice or milk shake they became soft and could be swallowed more easily.

  “Ever since they discovered the truth they haven’t touched meat!” Harry explained. “In order to ascend from the fourth to the fifth one has to eat the second and purify the third…”

  “What’s the second?” I asked slow-wittedly.

  “Vegetable. First mineral, second vegetable, third animal.”

  “Which one do we belong to?”

  “The two of us or generally?”

  Another voice dominated:

  “After the food,” it promised.

  The hostess and several of the guests were pressing Thanos Taramides to entertain the company with some conjuring tricks.

  “Can he really do them?” I asked

  “Yes, of course,” replied my friend.

  “Well, why doesn’t he change the cauliflower into a couple of pigeons?”

  “Him? He’s like the Rock of Gibraltar! To give you an idea of what Taramides is like, he was at a reception the other day and as soon as the waiter placed the chop in front of him he nearly threw up there and then. He pushed it away and asked for legumes. The waiter frowned. They didn’t have that sort of thing in the place. Eventually they compromised and our friend got by with a well-cooked tomato. He sliced it up expertly and ate it according to the rules. With a knife and fork and a thin slice of bread for the seeds!”

  “They don’t even eat at home?”

  “What do you mean? Kleitos says that he owes the fact that he’s alive today to vegetarianism. He was getting tuberculosis and now look at him! Don’t be fooled by appearances!… He’s strong underneath. Imagine what his son will be like, having been born a vegetarian. He never eats meat. It’s rumoured that he was born an initiate or that he will be initiated in this incarnation. They say that he speaks three foreign languages in his sleep. He adores music, Bach and Scriabin. To look at him you wouldn’t think so. He’s a perfect combination of his mum and dad…”

  “Socrates was ugly too, and yet…”

  “I’ve not seen Socrates,” he interrupted, “but I’ve seen Hilarion.”

  And he proceeded, as he said, to put more “greenery” on his plate. Seeing me alone our host came up to me and asked out of obligation:

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Thank you, I’m full up to here…”

  “I hope you’ve not been bored.”

  “What do you mean? I feel wonderful.”

  “What’s your opinion of the chaps here? Wasn’t I right?” and he cast his eyes over his guests.

  “Ah yes!”

  “I consider myself lucky to have them as friends. It’s great to find yourself at death’s door or on the verge of madness and suddenly find an answer to all your problems! And the most important thing: you’re not alone anymore. Finding a crowd of colleagues living around you, waiting for you to sound your own little note for them to recognize you and stretch out their hands.”

  Unfortunately he could not continue the confession. His wife came near and told him that Hilarion insisted on telling him something before going to bed.

  He apologized and went. She replaced him quite admirably. She asked me if I was an old student of the lodge and when I said no, that I was now taking my first timid steps, she said “Is that so?” and sat down next to me. “And what do you want to escape from?” “Me? What do you mean?” “Well, since Kleitos says that most of them become occultists out of a desire to escape, I thought…” She just laughed and went on: “It’s really funny, the obstacles a pupil meets at first and the blunders he makes…”

  And when I naively asked “Which obstacles do you mean?”, she set about explaining to me.

  “They are different in every case. Take Evis as an example. Evangelides! He’s my second cousin you know! After the revelation of Kakaraka, you know that Ka-karaka…”

  “Yes, I was told about it just now…”

  “Right! Well, after that he became obsessed with the idea that it was his duty to help all women who were preoccupied with sex. Note that h
e himself didn’t feel any particular attraction towards my sex. At least that’s what he told us. He did it, he said, out of a feeling of responsibility. He needed to get to know Kleitos to be persuaded that this difficult task, - let’s face it, what girl isn’t interested in sex? - was not his duty and that he would do better to spend his time on salvation and less on girls’ complexes! And Marios? Hiromerides! He’s another case! For Kleitos to persuade him to give up séances and black magic we had to put him up for six months and find him a good job which brought in as much as he’d been making as a medium between the living and the dead…”

  At the rate Merope was going she wouldn’t leave anyone out. She told me about Chrysostomides, Lambros, who for years would not allow an uninitiated person to touch him, not even a handshake, so as not to lose any of the ethereal energy which he concentrated through thoughts at the end of his fingernails “for therapeutic reasons”. “Imagine the problem his poor wife had, being neither initiated nor ill, unfortunately…”

  She told me about Charalambides, Andrikos, who went out of his body every evening, travelling in his astral body and, completely invisible, helped his fellow men. About Constantinides, Kyros, who believed that in previous incarnations he had been the Pharaoh Aknaton, Pindar and Spinoza until the day that Kleitos convinced him that he couldn’t be Aknaton or Spinoza since they were both previous incarnations of his own… About Nicolaides and Tselepides and all the others who…

  “…needed to get to know Mr. Parides…” I concluded.

  “…before they could stand on their own feet,” she ended my sentence.

  The thoughts which all these interesting revelations brought to my mind were shattered by some tremendous chords. The stereophonic monster was flinging the diatonic music of Scriabin at us with all its might.

  “Hilarion won’t sleep if he doesn’t hear the “Poem of Ecstasy,” explained the proud father.

  “Isn’t he in bed yet?” said Merope admiringly as she got up with a promise: “In a while I’ll bring the sweets!”