Good Will Come From the Sea

by Christos Ikonomou

  Chronis replaces the stone over the slit and pushes his wheelchair back to get a better view. He makes his hands into fists, stacks one on the other, and rests his chin on the top.

  He waits.

  The scorpion doesn’t move.

  Why do you have a scorpion? asked the guy who came to fix the internet.

  It helps me remember, said Chronis.

  The guy made a pss pss sound as if he were calling a cat, tapped the glass with his finger, bent down over the tank.

  Does it have a name?

  Kermit. Sometimes I call him Gregor Samsa. Depending on my mood.

  The guy looked sideways at Chronis and then back at the scorpion.

  Kermit, huh?

  Yep, said Chronis. And I call the canary Sylvester, and the snake Eve.

  * * *

  Chronis stares at the scorpion and feels it staring back at him with its twelve eyes. He wonders what it would be like to see the world through twelve eyes. He looks at the scorpion’s tawny body, its eight legs which have blended in with the rock, and its tail sticking up in a perfect curve, the stinger hanging from the end like a bitter black tear.

  He waits.

  The scorpion doesn’t move.

  Dtan dtan dtan. The churchbells ring heavily, as if in revenge, like a hammer intent not on nailing, but on punishing the nail.

  Dtan dtan dtan.

  The procession will be coming soon, and the old man is still locked in the room with the girl. It happens every evening. And each night when the girl emerges and slowly descends the stairs, gripping the rusted handrail, she seems thinner and weaker, her skin more sallow, her hair less blond, as if her face is absorbing the yellow from her hair. Day by day, night by night, she descends the stairs more slowly, her head bent lower and her knees weaker, as if some terrible creature is hidden in that room, a dragon sucking the girl’s blood, sucking her strength, day by day, night by night. Chronis knows he has to do something, there has to be something he can do to keep the girl from climbing those stairs, to keep the old geezer from locking her in the room, and though he knows what he needs to do, he isn’t sure he should, because virtue isn’t an ideology or a religion, nor is love – if they were, people on the Christian right and the Christian left would be the best, most benevolent people in the world, and you can see for yourself how most of them are, crooked rascals whose eyes shine with hypocrisy, woe to they who feel love and kindness out of ideological commitment, woe to they who turn Christ into a religion, which is to say an ideology – and since the entire anti-authoritarian ethic rests on the denial of authority, that denial can’t itself be denied, even in the name of virtue or love, because then we’d have to admit that the ethic is subject to the tyranny of relativity, in which case the anti-authoritarian individual becomes not an opponent of tyranny but a slave to two tyrannies – first, of authority, and second, of relativity – and consequently whatever action Chronis takes, while by no means guaranteed to bring about a positive result, will most certainly result in several evils. Besides the fact that, if we really want to tell it like it is, intervening in others’ lives is also a demonstration of power, of authority. And don’t try and tell me it matters whether the goal of that intervention is good or bad. Don’t you dare try to unload that one on me, because it’s the worst Manichaeism of all: good power, bad power. Am I right or am I right?

  Something like that, at any rate.

  Then again, if you refuse to accept either relativism (nothing is entirely white or black) or Manichaeism (everything is either white or black), maybe there’s something else going on? Maybe you need to get yourself checked? Maybe you’ve lost your bearings? Maybe you can’t even be sure that two and two make four?

  The guy who came to fix the internet plugged everything back in, then stood up and started to gather his tools. He threw another sideways glance at Chronis’s legs.

  Car accident?

  Vibrator.

  Vibrator?

  I set a bomb in a sex shop, slipped on my way out, and crushed both legs.

  Chronis waits.

  He waits, his gaze fixed on the scorpion, as if he too were a scorpion with eight, ten, twelve eyes. He waits.

  Then, with an astonishing move, the scorpion leaps like a tawny shadow from the top of the rock and lands on the coin of bread, lifts half its body into the air, grips the coin between its pincers, and stabs the bread with its black stinger.

  Chronis raises his head and exhales and feels half his body unclenching, relaxing – it’s been a long time since he felt the other half, from the waist down. Though sometimes he does. He feels it like a mass of pain, a monumental, ghostly pain, a pain both seen and unseen, a pain more terrible than any other, the pain of flesh that isn’t flesh, of legs that aren’t legs, pain the size of god, a godly pain, which exists yet remains invisible, a pain that hurts like two pains, because it’s born of a body – or half a body, anyhow – both visible and nonexistent.

  Chronis raises his head and looks out the window. Across the street the door to the room is still shut, lights off, curtains drawn.

  Dtan dtan dtan. The sound of the bells hammers into his temples.

  Dtan dtan dtan.

  He looks back at the tank and sees that the scorpion has already started to knead the bread, the soft insides of bread baptized in wine – what a rare scorpion, the only of its kind, Androctonus artophagus. Or perhaps Androctonus artocrasophagus would be more appropriate?

  Take, eat; this is my body, says Chronis.

  Drink of it, all of you, he says. This is my blood.

  Amen.

  * * *

  Between the tolling of the churchbells he can hear his mother’s snoring. A maestro in the chair yet his cock won’t crow.

  He spins the wheelchair around and goes back to the window. It’s May. Which means something. It means something that Easter fell in May this year. He read about it the other day on the internet, but already forgot – which is a good thing. On the one hand he’s annoyed that he forgot so quickly what it means that Easter fell in May, he doesn’t want to forget anything, he’d prefer to remember everything, because memory is truth, memory is love, memory is life, but on the other hand he’s glad he forgot, because it gives him another challenge: to remember what it means that Easter fell in May without using the internet. The internet destroys your memory because there’s no need to remember anything anymore – you just push a button and it’s all there before you. But if you abolish memory you abolish everything, you abolish truth, love, life. And if you abolish this life here, if you squander your life in this world, you squander your eternal life, too, because memory on its own is handicapped, memory on its own is a paralyzed, crippled body. It’s not enough just to remember. The memory of fire doesn’t warm the body any more than the memory of water refreshes it. If you want to get warm, it isn’t enough to remember a fire’s warmth – you have to actually light one. If you want to quench a thirst it isn’t enough to remember water – you have to drink it. Life requires action. And if you squander your life here you squander your eternal life, too, because only those who live their lives on earth to the fullest will also live eternally, since the only path from this life to eternal life is life itself, not death – death is nothing.

  Or something like that.

  But back to the old man. He’s late. He’s taking a long time tonight. Which means something. It must mean something. And yet Chronis knows that no matter how much he searches on the internet he won’t find out what. No matter how much he searches, he won’t find out why the old geezer has been locked in the room with the girl for so many hours tonight. And they say technology is king. Find out in seconds flat how many times a person blinks every day, how many wads of chewed gum you’ll find per square meter on the sidewalks of Caracas, how many days of sunshine there are in Mongolia every year, how many women in Europe conceive a child in a bed bought at
IKEA, how many families in America sign their dog’s or cat’s name on their Christmas cards. But you won’t ever find out why the old man has been locked in the room with the girl for so many hours. The internet will never tell you that. Never.

  Between the tolling of the churchbells he can hear his mother’s snoring. A maestro in the chair yet his cock won’t crow.

  A nice Lenten cocktail was just what the doctor ordered for his mother.

  Recipe for Lenten Cocktail Caipillinha Number 2

  Ingredients:

  1 shot Xanax (1 mg)

  1 shot Seroxat (30 mg)

  1 shot Cymbalta (30 mg)

  1 shot Remeron (45 mg)

  1 glass water (preferably bottled)

  Preparation:

  Put all the ingredients in your palm at once (except for the water).

  Close your fist and shake well.

  Use the water to swallow the mixture.

  (Note: if preferred, drink the water through a straw.)

  Maybe I should’ve been a bartender, Chronis says.

  * * *

  This place is to blame. No doubt. The island is to blame for sure. On an island there’s nowhere to hide. In a city you’re a stranger among strangers but don’t feel like one because everyone is. Here, on the island, everyone knows you, you know everyone, and yet you feel like a stranger because that’s what you’ll always be. Islands are contrary to human nature. The sea is contrary to human nature. Only monsters can survive on islands. Monsters or gods. Look at Christ. Only he could walk on the waves. Only he who conquers death can conquer the sea. The sea is hell. Hell is the sea surrounding an island. That’s what hell is. A speck of land with sea all around. Without a doubt. Look at Christ. Learn to see. Look at Christ.

  Good evening, friends. Tonight we have a guest in our studio, Chronis Petrakis. Chronis – do you mind if I call you Chronis, Chronis? (laughter) – is an individual with mobility issues. He’s also what we call an internal migrant. Two years ago he left Piraeus and settled on an island in the Aegean, his ancestral island. Chronis, good evening and welcome (applause).

  Good evening, Nikos. Thank you for having me.

  So, Chronis, tell us. How difficult was your move from the city to the island?

  Well, Nikos, it certainly wasn’t easy. No one’s yet invented a floating wheelchair, and journeys by boat are always uncomfortable. But thanks to the Virgin Mary and Saint Nicholas, we managed. All’s well that ends well.

  As Shakespeare would say.

  As Shakespeare would say, that’s precisely right. And now that we’re here, life on the island turns out to be pretty exciting. After all, as John Donne would say, no man is an island – and if the sea washes away even a clod of the soil here, Europe is that much smaller.

  Exquisite words. What you just said about Europe getting smaller, Chronis, could really serve as a reminder to our European partners and friends – and we may need some scare quotes there, ladies and gentlemen – who’ve been hatching their own plans for the proud, long-suffering citizens of this nation. Exquisite, insightful words. Can you repeat that bit, Chronis? We’d all like to hear.

  If the sea washes away even a clod of our soil, Europe is that much smaller.

  There it is, friends (applause). That’s great, Chronis, thanks so much. And I have to say, I’m a huge fan of Miami Vice, but I didn’t remember John Donne ever talking about islands and Europe and so on. You caught me unawares.

  It’s OK, Nikos. It’s not so terrible to be caught unawares every now and then. The real problem is when they catch you in your underwear.

  Ha, unawares, underwear. Excellent, very clever (laughter). That’s a good one, friends (applause).

  Thanks, Nikos. I guess it wasn’t too bad. Do you know the other one, about Don Johnson?

  Hahahaha. Chronis Petrakis, ladies and gents. A real one-of-a-kind guy. Let’s take a short commercial break, we’ll be back in a minute.

  Here we are back in the studio with tonight’s guest, Chronis Petrakis. So, Chronis.

  So, Nikos.

  We were talking about your new life on the island. Tell us about your experiences during these many months. Can you describe your daily routine?

  Well, Nikos, I can tell that you and your faithful audience nourish a deep love for the art of poetry, so permit me to answer not in my own words but with a few lines by Anne Sexton.

  Anne Sexton, of course. What a singer she is, what a voice (applause).

  Sure, Nikos. Poet, singer, Shakespeare, Sexton, sex addict, it’s all more or less the same. And I have to say, I’ve found tonight’s show quite sexy. It’s been sexcellent.

  There it is again, folks (laughter). Chronis Petrakis, ladies and gents (applause). A true original, that’s for sure. Well, we’re all ears.

  I am rowing, I am rowing

  though the wind pushes me back

  and I know that that island will not be perfect

  it will have the flaws of life,

  the absurdities of the dinner table,

  but there will be a door

  and I will open it

  and I will get rid of the rat inside me,

  the gnawing pestilential rat.

  God will take it with his two hands

  and embrace it.

  Tap tap tap.

  Chronis goes back to the window and looks across the way. Lights out, curtains drawn. He knows what he needs to do, but he doesn’t know if he should. And if he does, he needs to hurry, because the procession will be passing by any minute. Just listen to the bells. The procession will be here any minute. How tragic it all is. A quadruple tragedy. A quadriplegic tragedy. Let’s review our notes. Tragedy number one: the most suitable way to save the girl is for someone to report the old man to the competent state authorities (a tragedy that in fact comprises two sub-tragedies, or perhaps tragedettes, in keeping with the tragically diminutive aspect of that to which we refer – namely, tragedette number one: competent; and tragedette number two: state authorities). Tragedy number two: the only person who could report the old geezer is Chronis, but Chronis doesn’t believe in reporting, or in state authorities, for that matter. Tragedy number three: the only other way to save the girl is for Chronis to take matters into his own hands, but Chronis is a cripple. Tragedy number four: even were Chronis to overcome this technical difficulty, he’d find himself face-to-face with another, more critical issue: if it’s a crime for the old man to impose his will on the girl, why isn’t it a crime for Chronis to impose his will on the old man, in order to make him stop imposing his will on the girl? Careful, now. Don’t tell me that the ends justify the means, because I might just lose my cool. That’s the kind of bullshit sophistry that got us where we are today.

  Tap tap tap.

  Chronis opens the window just a crack and listens, then closes it again. On the old man’s roof across the way, a cat is sitting and staring at him with bright yellow eyes, as if it just ate a whole flock of canaries.

  Tap tap tap.

  Careful, I’m telling you, this is serious business. It’s a major dilemma. The whole town knows that the old man locks the girl in the room each night. And the whole town knows why the old man locks the girl in the room each night. The whole town knows that the girl’s mother knows why the old man locks the girl in the room each night. The whole town knows that the girl’s mother knows what goes on in the room where the old man locks the girl each night. The whole town knows why the girl’s mother lets the old man lock the girl in the room each night. Everyone knows everything, but no one does anything. Say that again. Everyone knows everything, but no one does anything. Say it again. Say it again, say it a thousand times like a riddle, an incantation, a little song.

  Everyone knows everything, and everyone does nothing.

  Everyone, everything, nothing.

 
Everyone, everything, nothing.

  Everyone, everything, nothing.

  Tap tap tap.

  Everyone knows everything, and everyone does nothing.

  And listen, the dilemma is really big. It’s not ethical, or sociopoliticocultural. It’s not a financial dilemma, either, though they say if the girl’s mother didn’t owe money to everyone with two nostrils, she wouldn’t be handing her daughter over to that coffin-dodger every night. It’s not even an existential dilemma. No, it’s ontological. If everyone knows everything and does nothing, what does that make you, who also know everything and do nothing? You’re just like them, you’re the same as them, one of them. But if you do something, you’ll stop being like them, stop being the same as them, one of them. If you act, if you find a way to bring an end to this mess, you’ll be different. So choose: either you’re like them or you’re not. It’s clear as day, the dilemma is ontological. Are you really who you are, or perhaps you just think you’re who you are, whereas you’re actually someone else, someone like them? Watch what you say. Watch what you don’t say, too. Because unspoken words aren’t words, and unperformed actions aren’t actions. So watch it, be careful. You’re responsible not only for what you say and do, but also for what you don’t say and don’t do.

  Momentous words, sayings of great men, distillations of wisdom.

  Tap tap tap.

  Who’s there?

  At our window stands a bird

  Tapping the glass with pleading words