The Thread

by Victoria Hislop

  Integral to Dimitri’s life at the university was his group of new friends. When they had finished their essays, they often met up again in the evening. There was always much to debate and the kafenion was a more appropriate place than the library.

  Vassili was the clear leader of their group, not just because he was the most physical (he played soccer for one of the city teams), but because of his loud voice and lack of self-doubt. His background and upbringing had been very different from Dimitri’s. His father, a refugee from Asia Minor, was a trade union official, and socialist beliefs ran through his veins, as red as blood. A few months earlier he had met the charismatic Communist leader, Nikolaos Zakhariades who, like Vassili’s own family, had come from Asia Minor. Vassili had fallen under his spell.

  Here was a set of beliefs with well-defined aims, and idealistic youths such as Vassili responded to the hugely powerful personality who promulgated them in this city. In days gone by, they might have followed Venizelos, but his beard had long since turned white and his powers were spent. Vassili’s new cause was more obsessive than a fresh love affair and more frenzied than a religious conversion.

  The only thing that distracted him from politics was music. Late one Friday evening, or perhaps even in the early hours of the following day, when five of them, Dimitri, Vassili, Lefteris, Manoli and Alexandros, had emptied a bottle of tsikoudia and they had almost run out of ideologies to debate, Vassili told his group of friends that he was taking them to hear some music. There was a popular rebetika singer performing downtown and they must all go.

  Dimitri’s father was scornful of most music so there had never been a gramophone in the Komninos house. In spite of this, Dimitri had heard plenty in the past few months. There was music on every street in this entertainment-hungry city, and crowds would gather in the sunshine as well as in the snow to hear klarino players from the mountains, mandolin bands and gypsy drummers.

  Most café owners now had radios, and from the crackling sets normally screwed to the wall behind the bar, Dimitri had, of late, become acquainted with rebetika, the popular ‘music of the underground’, the music of suffering. He enjoyed the nostalgic oriental sounds of those who mourned their lost origins in the East but had not yet been to any live performances. There had always been work to complete, books to read.

  ‘Come on, Dimitri, your essay will wait. This rebetis won’t.’

  They walked towards the railway station into a street filled with tekhedes, rebetika clubs, hashish bars, and brothels, and Dimitri thought how angry his father would be if he knew he was here. How else could he learn about life without exploring places other than the well-washed paving stones of the city’s bourgeois pavements? Vassili purposefully led them through a low archway into a dingy room, dimly lit and dense with smoke. The place was packed out and they squeezed their way through the crowd to the one table that was still free. Within seconds, a bottle of clear liquid was slammed down on the table with six small glasses.

  Three musicians were already playing, one on bouzouki and two on baglama, its higher-pitched sister. The music was rhythmic, insistent, repetitive and the atmosphere charged with anticipation.

  Eventually the big attraction emerged from a back room and made his way through the crowd. It took some time. He stopped to shake hands with a dozen people on his way to the area that was slightly raised to create a stage. At each table he accepted a tsikoudia and after clinking glasses with everyone close by, he downed it and moved on. He was smartly dressed in a suit and a gleaming white shirt, handsome, charismatic, smiling.

  ‘That’s Stelios Keromitis,’ Vassili shouted above the noise. He was a rebetika star from Piraeus and for a few nights he was in Thessaloniki.

  When he finally reached his fellow musicians, he picked up the bouzouki that was waiting for him and took his seat. He fiddled with the pegs for a moment to tune his instrument, tucked his cigarette neatly between the little finger and third finger of his left hand and, with a nod at the others, began to play. After a few introductory bars he started to sing. It was a growl, like a lion, deep and full of pain and anguish, matching the lyrics, which spoke of death, disease and separation. Such themes were the reality of day-to-day life in the sordid alleyways through which they had walked to reach this place.

  A large proportion of people in the room, Vassili included, were refugees from Asia Minor, and a yearning for the land of their birth was ever-present. The half-Eastern, half-Western sound of the music embodied their sense of separation and longing, and they inhaled the pathos of the music as deeply as they took the hashish into their lungs.

  As the night wore on, the audience began to sing and occasionally Keromitis’ voice was almost lost. By now he was smoking a narghile and only sang the odd burst between inhalations. The air was opaque with smoke and noise, and alcohol had thickened their sensibilities.

  About three in the morning, a man close to the front stood up and the nearby tables were pulled back. Slowly he began to revolve, his arms outstretched, cigarette in hand, his head angled to the side. Dimitri thought of the dervishes he had once been taken to see. This man’s trance-like state reminded him of theirs, though he looked earthwards rather than to heaven.

  The dancer was lean and strong, his unbuttoned shirt revealing a glimpse of powerful torso. His friends began a slow rhythmic hand-clap as he rotated, gradually dropping closer to the ground and never losing his balance as he turned on his haunches and rose again. He seemed in a state of extreme introspection and occasionally, as if pulling energy from the earth, he leaped high into the air.

  Dimitri noticed that the few women at the back of the room close to the bar, probably prostitutes, craned their necks to watch. One of them even stood on a chair to see over the crowd.

  These women who were paid for sex by the hour would willingly have given their services for nothing to this unselfconscious human being. His sinuous body and apparent oblivion to their admiring glances enthralled them.

  His performance aroused them all, men and women alike, and for six and a half minutes, no one looked at Keromitis. The power of the zeibekiko held them all spellbound. Eventually, when a few glasses had shattered at the dancer’s feet, a sign of approval and encouragement, the music changed from the mysterious, counterintuitive 9/8 beat and the man returned to his seat, blending once more into the crowd.

  Around five in the morning, when Keromitis had finally exhausted himself, Dimitri and his group drifted outside. The streets were filled with the hazy orange light of a newly risen sun and they made for a nearby café.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ said Vassili, who was at the head of the group.

  The combined effect of the hashish and the rebetika, even though it was full of suffering, had left them feeling high. It was the first time in his life that Dimitri had lost an entire night of sleep and he was surprised by the sense of heightened alertness it gave him. The overpowering ambience of the teke, the stridence and sincerity of the music, and the strong camaraderie within this group of students had all given him a different sense of what it was to be alive. He found the scent of the city’s subculture unexpectedly alluring and wondered how the bourgeoisie could be so contented with dinners in expensive Europeanised restaurants or with soirées in grand houses, when close by was a culture of such emotional rawness.

  When he had time and was in a state of greater sobriety to reflect, he would know the answer to this. That dawn, sitting in front of his mayiritsa soup, spooning warm and nourishing lumps of lamb’s guts into his mouth, in a childlike way he could not imagine how anyone would not want to be in this moment, in this place, with him.

  ‘I’m going back to get some sleep before our class,’ announced Vassili.

  There was a low-toned murmur of agreement from the others and each of them put a few drachma on the table before leaving the café and going their separate ways.

  Dimitri had a vague notion of the route that his father took to work and in his bleary-eyed state made a note to avoid the same stre
ets. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived back home, let himself in and slipped up to his bedroom. On the previous evening, his father had assumed that his son was behind the closed door, studying hard for the forthcoming examinations.

  After that night, visits to rebetika bars became more frequent and the griminess of the city’s subculture brought him closer to the heart of Thessaloniki. The evocative lyrics of broken hearts and broken lives may have had no connection with his own experience, but they gave Dimitri a chance to wonder and to dream.

  The pimps, rebetes and hashish dealers seemed as integral to the city as the bankers and owners of the department stores, and there was something appealing about the rawness of this alternative life, away from the order and perfection of the house in which he slept. For a decade or more, Konstantinos Komninos had issued dark warnings to his son about the areas of Thessaloniki that he claimed were too dangerous to frequent. ‘They’re full of low-life and whores,’ he told Dimitri. ‘Keep away from them.’

  Elias Moreno began to join the group on their evenings out. This usually followed a fierce and noisy tavli contest with Dimitri. For an hour or so, they worked their way through a repertoire of games: portes, plakoto and fevga, playing in a fast percussive rhythm whose beat neither of them ever missed. Not a second passed between the fall of the dice and the making of a move, and every action had its sound. First, the crack of the dice as they were hurled against the side of the board, then the whirl as they rotated like spinning tops and finally the quick slide and clack of the counters, before the dice were once again seized and thrown. The counters were constantly chattering, but between the moment when the game began and the final satisfying slam of the loser’s counter on the central ridge of the board, the players did not speak a word.

  Occasionally an expletive would be muttered at the dice for failing to land as a double. For the duration of the game it was war and, for an hour or so, with eyes focused on the board, they did not give each other so much as a glance. Dimitri mopped his brow with a handkerchief and Elias used his cuff. Only once the game had ended was conversation resumed. This was when Dimitri would enquire after Elias’ parents and also after Katerina.

  Now that the twins had both left the house in Irini Street, and Eugenia was working long hours in the carpet factory, Katerina had almost become a member of the Moreno family. She often went for dinner and took the place at the table that had once been occupied by Saul’s mother, who had died a few months earlier. The house seemed a little emptier without her silent presence.

  Most evenings Katerina stayed for a few hours afterwards, working on some embroidery and enjoying the company of Roza Moreno. For both of them it was not work, just the continuation of a pleasurable activity that they were lucky enough to do in the day as well as in the evening.

  Elias spoke of Katerina with admiration and affection, and, even though he thought it wrong to be jealous of his ‘milk brother’, sometimes Dimitri could feel a slight prickling under his skin.

  Elias had taught himself to play the oud and occasionally performed in one of the bars. Whenever he did so, Dimitri, Vassili and the others would go along. Elias had become a welcome part of their group. Unlike them, he was a working man, connected with a world of commerce that was far removed from their academic sphere of libraries and lecture halls, but they were all bound together by their attachment to rebetika.

  The music and the men who played it were the backdrop to the many evenings spent together and politics were often the subject of their discussion.

  The country continued to see widespread poverty and political and economic uncertainty. Unrest was brewing. In just over a decade there had been a dozen coups and nearly twice as many governments, and the pendulum had continued to swing between those who wanted the return of the monarchy and those who did not. The place of the monarchy in Greece had continued to be a matter of great controversy and debate. In 1920, when King Alexander had died of a monkey bite, his father had returned from exile only to be driven out of the country again two years later. He had been replaced by his eldest son, George, who was in turn obliged to leave at the end of the following year. For nearly twelve years King George had remained in exile, finally returning after a rigged plebiscite.

  Close-run elections were held in January of 1936 and although the Royalists gained the most seats, the Communists held the balance of power. This made for an uneasy climate, with no clear centre of authority.

  The police had new powers and were now able to arrest people simply for disagreeing with the government or protesting.

  Vassili felt that it was time for action. He tried to stir up his friends.

  ‘These prisoners have done nothing wrong!’ he ranted. ‘Usually they have just expressed the truth: that they are being underpaid and exploited. Which is factually right!’

  ‘It’s illogical, unjust . . .’

  ‘Intolerable!’ bellowed Vassili. ‘And we should be doing something about it!’

  Dimitri knew that if he got into a discussion with his father over the rights and wrongs of how the Left were being treated, they would come to blows. Most of the time he managed to hide behind the urgency of his studies, a need to go to the laboratory, pressing engagements with his professors and so on, but once a week, largely for his mother’s sake, Dimitri had dinner with both his parents. To spare Olga, as her disposition would patently not deal well with a huge row between father and son, he steered clear of controversial subjects, kept conversation light, talked of his anatomy classes, enquired after the business and generally kept the illusion going that he would one day join the Komninos business.

  It was one Saturday evening just after Easter and the weekly ordeal was planned for the following evening. Dimitri and Elias were playing tavli and had arranged to meet up with Vassili later for a night in their favourite teke. It was after eleven when they left the kafenion, but the musicians they were hoping to hear would probably not begin playing until midnight.

  Dimitri had drunk only one beer as he had to study hard the next day in preparation for some exams. If he had not been so clear-headed, he would have had trouble believing his own eyes as they walked through the seedy streets. For a while, they were walking fifty or so metres behind the shadowy and indistinct figure of a man. Then he stopped at an entrance in front of them and turned to look behind him before walking through the doorway, which had been opened for him from inside. He did not see Dimitri and Elias, as they were obscured by shadow, but both of them saw him quite clearly.

  ‘Wasn’t that . . .?’ Elias stopped, embarrassed, wishing he had not spoken.

  ‘My father. Yes. I’m certain it was.’

  Without discussing it further, they both continued walking. Dimitri was in a state of shock. It was one of the less filthy whorehouses but, even so, it was a known brothel. His father was visiting a prostitute.

  Dimitri’s first thought was to wait until his father emerged, and to confront him there and then.

  Elias linked his arm through Dimitri’s, reading his mind in an instant. He could feel his friend’s anger and dismay.

  ‘Perhaps it’s best not to make a scene here, Dimitri,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t say anything at all.’

  Dimitri knew he needed time to absorb what he had seen. For the moment, his only thought was that everything his father seemed to stand for was based on a lie. He was more connected with the dark side of Thessaloniki even than himself. He was a hypocrite.

  When Dimitri got home that night, he was almost insensible with alcohol. He fell against the hall table and sent an ornament crashing to the floor. His father appeared with such alacrity at the top of the staircase that Dimitri wondered if he had been waiting for him.

  ‘What time do you think this is?’ He was half-whispering, half-shouting, as he ran down the stairs at great speed towards his son. ‘Where on earth do you think you have been?’

  Dimitri thought he was going to strike him, otherwise why the hurry? He stood very still as his father came
flying like a raven in his black silk dressing gown towards him. He held on to the hall table with one hand to steady himself.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? Where have you been?’ Konstantinos’ voice had risen out of a whisper to full volume now. ‘Answer me!’

  Pavlina had been disturbed by the noise and was standing at her bedroom door on the ground floor, her face full of bleary-eyed concern.

  Maintaining his control, Dimitri leaned towards his father and, with an inch between their faces and in a low voice so that Pavlina could not hear, answered his father’s question.

  ‘I’ve been in Dionis Street.’

  Komninos went pale. There was a distinctly triumphant edge to his son’s voice.

  Pavlina had disappeared and now returned with a broom to sweep the shattered remains of the figurine. As she guided the shards into a neat pile, her eyes stayed on the two men.

  Konstantinos quickly regained his composure. Olga was now standing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she called down. ‘Dimitri, are you all right?’

  Her first thoughts were maternal ones. She knew that Dimitri frequented some of the unsafer parts of the city and she had read that there were often knife fights in the tekhedes.

  ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ he called up to her.

  ‘It’s time for everyone to be in bed,’ barked Konstantinos. ‘Pavlina, finish doing that in the morning, please.’

  Olga had melted away and Pavlina silently backed into her room, leaving the broom leaning against the wall. Konstantinos turned his back on Dimitri and retreated sedately up the stairs.

  Dimitri waited until his parents’ door closed and then, gripping tightly onto the banister rail, staggered up to his room.

  The following lunchtime, Dimitri, Olga and Konstantinos assembled round the large circular dining table, their places laid, as usual, at ‘twenty-minute’ intervals. The stiff flower arrangement at the centre of it reflected the mood. Pavlina came and went with the different courses and conversation was stilted. Each time she cleared a plate, she saw that Olga had scarcely touched the food. Dimitri had not done much better.