The whole room seemed to be fluttering. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, tingeing the birds, the cages, and the aquariums with gold, making Alkis’s purple eyes look incredibly beautiful. This is paradise, I thought. Let this moment last forever, just like this, that’s all I want.
Months later, when I told Alkis that the love we shared was something rare, he answered:
—Just wait. This is only the beginning.
On that first Saturday, thinking about paradise and listening to the high, clear cries of the canaries, I had only a foretaste of paradise. I experienced the real paradise later on, with Alkis. I think our first meeting at Aunt Louisa’s was decisive. That day, everything conspired to bring us together. Love is white magic, and all around us that magic was at work. Perhaps elsewhere it never would have happened.
We went back down to the living room, and Alkis sat in the same chair. I sat a bit closer to him than before, at the edge of the sofa.
—I adore animals, he told me. I have ever since I was a kid. I feel compassion for them, since even the wildest ones are defenseless before humans. And that compassion grows even stronger when sick animals come into my office. I lift them onto the table and before I ever touch them I speak to them gently and they relax, just as a human would, because they understand that they’re there for their own good. When I can’t save an animal and it dies, I’m sick for days. I have a cat, you know. His name is Caesar. You’ll meet him.
—I have two dogs.
—Will I meet them?
—Of course.
The rest of the family trickled in. Aunt Louisa, Uncle Miltos, my cousin with her husband and three sons, my other cousin and his wife. They all lived in different houses on the estate and gathered each night at Aunt Louisa’s for dinner. There wasn’t room for us all at the table and we were laughing and the kids were shouting, “Ice cream! Ice cream!”
—Quiet! I’m trying to listen to the news on TV! Uncle Miltos yelled.
—Vanilla or chocolate? Aunt Louisa called from the kitchen.
—I want to watch a movie! A movie with murders! cried one of my nephews.
Alkis and I laughed so hard that tears ran from our eyes. He came and sat beside me on the sofa. The whole house had become one huge buzz, like a beehive. The canaries, the parrot—which was now screeching “I am the General!”—the commercials on TV, the kids, Aunt Louisa telling a story that no one could hear.
But within that pandemonium a secret, silent circle was forming around Alkis and me. We were like two fish in an aquarium, silently seeking each other out, swimming toward one another very fast, without looking at one another, without touching. Much later Alkis told me he had felt exactly the same thing right then, like telepathy. We didn’t know then that those moments during our first encounter at Aunt Louisa’s were to change our lives.
I watched Aunt Louisa. She was short and plump, with the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. When she smiled, her whole face lit up, and her body, too. And she was almost always smiling. She was smart, but she was also good—a rare combination. She wasn’t exactly an eccentric, but she had all the humor and charm of a person with imagination. Aunt Louisa loved everyone and everything, and respected all living things, people and animals alike. She had an inexhaustible well of energy, which was contagious, too, and everyone adored her for that. She gave unstintingly and never expected anything in return. She told incredible stories—or rather, the way she told them was incredible: she would get one tangled up in another, so that the simplest incident would become a Thousand and One Nights. Her stories didn’t make much sense, but I could sit and listen to her for ages. I liked to watch her fling her arms wide or imitate different people, standing up and sitting back down to give emphasis to her words. She was always surrounded by a cloud of little lapdogs. They burrowed in her skirts, perched on her shoulders, stretched out at her feet—I had never seen her without them. Sometimes the dogs would create the illusion of a colorful fur coat fluttering over her dress. I adored Aunt Louisa. I always sat next to her, hoping to absorb some of her energy and love.
—The dog didn’t have leptospirosis, there was nothing wrong with it at all, the vet was a fool, he had no idea what he was talking about. How many vets have we gone through, Miltos, a dozen? And Alkis doesn’t want to be our vet, since he’d have to come all this way—how could we possibly get twenty-seven dogs to his office?
Alkiviadis laughed.
—But Louisa, I’d have to close my practice, I’d have to move in here and be your personal veterinarian, like in the nineteenth century when royal courts had their own doctors. He winked at her. Actually, Louisa, I like the idea. I’d get to stay forever in paradise. Alkis sighed, and murmured, Outside this house, real life is waiting.
Then he turned and looked at me. He looked me deep in the eyes. It was the first time he had revealed himself to me in that way, and his gaze held something like a promise.
—But I guess each of us has to make his own paradise.
We didn’t know it at the time, but later we would both realize that with this sentence, Alkiviadis had proposed to me.
That night we ate the strangest assortment of foods. Pasta, pork, chicken, sausage, fresh fruit and preserves, which Louisa set out on the table before the main dishes were ready—it was all jumbled together on the table, main dishes, ice cream and sweets. The kids dumped ice cream on top of their meat, there was a kung fu movie playing, Aunt Louisa’s dogs were all barking, and the parrot shrilled, “Moron! Moron!” The canaries flew and chattered in their cages, making a racket.
Alkis, seated across from me, was smiling a secretive smile. He wasn’t looking at me, but I could feel his presence, as his exquisite hands, a surgeon’s hands, crumbled a piece of bread. And all the while the love that flooded the house was bringing us closer and closer together.
Aunt Louisa was describing a movie she’d seen:
—The mother bear and her cub were always together, it followed her everywhere. Miltos, would you give me some sauce, and children, don’t shout—so her baby just followed her everywhere, Miltos, why don’t we get a bear cub?
It was eleven o’clock.
—I’m going out to put up the German shepherds, Uncle Miltos announced.
—Really, how do you deal with all those German shepherds? Alkis asked. Don’t they fight with the other male dogs?
Uncle Miltos sat back down and lit a cigarette.
—My dear Alkis, it’s quite simple. All the big dogs live outside in huge kennels, like houses. I’ve even installed central heating. I let the German shepherds and the setters out at different times, I’ve developed a system, it’s really quite simple. The only problem is that I can’t ever travel. Louisa and I dream of going to Switzerland, where we went for our honeymoon, but it’s impossible. Who would take care of the dogs? If someone made a mistake and let the setters and German shepherds out at the same time, they’d eat one another alive.
—Tell me how it works, and I’ll decide for myself how simple it is.
—Well, my system operates on a twenty-four-hour basis. I let the German shepherds out from one to eight every morning. At eight I lock them up and let out the setters. At ten-thirty I lock up the setters and let out the German shepherds. At one in the afternoon I lock up the German shepherds and let out the setters. At five I lock up the setters and let out the German shepherds. At seven I lock up the German shepherds and let out the setters. At nine I lock up the setters and let out the German shepherds. At eleven I lock up the German shepherds and let out the setters. One a.m., lock up the setters, let out the German shepherds. And then the cycle starts all over again.
—Whew! My head’s spinning! Alkis tried not to laugh. That seems simple to you? It’s like a computer program. Besides, you can never leave.
—Where would I go? I’m only happy when I’m here. Of course I do think about Switzerland every now and then.
Alkis looked at me, laughing.
—Could you keep all those t
imes straight, when to let the dogs in and out?
—I’d mess it up right away, they’d tear each other to shreds.
—Life needs a system, Uncle Miltos said, and turned on the news.
—I’ll drop you at your place on my way to Glyfada, Alkis told me.
The whole family saw us out: the lapdogs, the setters, the kids with their ice cream, my cousins, Aunt Louisa and Uncle Miltos.
—See you next Saturday, I told them.
—I’ll be coming on Saturdays from now on, too, Alkis said.
In the car we were silent. Alkiviadis didn’t take my hand, though he did brush a few dog hairs off my sleeve.
As I opened my door, he said:
—I’ll call you.
—But you don’t have my number.
—I got it from Louisa. I’ll call you, he said again, and smiled.
I stood in the door and watched as his car disappeared around the corner.
35.
Alkiviadis and I saw one another often. Mostly we went for walks in the country. It was almost winter. Months had passed since our first encounter at Aunt Louisa’s. We would go on long walks, then sit in a clearing and talk. We talked for hours, trying to tell each other the story of our entire lives up until the moment we had met.
I would listen in wonder as my life unwound itself before me, with all its difficulty, madness and joy, acquiring an intense reality through this narration, while at the same time becoming utterly dreamlike. My life was confused and chaotic, though beneath the surface, perhaps as with all lives, there was an invisible structure, a continuity, a hidden purpose. Alkis’s life seemed simpler, but perhaps that was an illusion. Sprawled out in a clearing, we listened as our lives unfolded like fairytales. We compared our experiences. It was as if we were straightening up two messy houses, getting rid of one piece of furniture to make room for another. We tried to hold onto the good moments while banishing the pain and the guilt, the ugliness, the hopelessness. Sometimes I would cry, remembering some awful event, and Alkis would fold me in his arms.
—You had to get all this out eventually, he would say.
—And there’s so much more, I would reply.
—You’re getting yourself ready for me. And I’m doing the same, for you.
One day after our walk, Alkis invited me back to his place. When we lay down naked on the bed, Alkis took my face tenderly between his hands.
—Don’t be scared, he said. Don’t be scared. I would never hurt you. It’s not just that I love you. You’ve become me, you became me, and how could I ever hurt myself?
Later, after Alkis was asleep, I made myself a cup of tea and sat on the edge of the bed. I leaned over and took his hand. In his sleep he squeezed mine, hard. How long did we stay that way? I don’t remember. I looked at him. My eyes filled with tears.
This is the man of my life, I thought. I bent and kissed him on the forehead.
36.
Alkis’s place became my place, too.
It’s night. We switch on the light and smoke silently in one another’s arms. Caesar crouches, then pounces on the chairs and sofa, scratching at them with his claws. Alkis laughs.
—I like the scratch marks Caesar leaves on the furniture. Sometimes when he’s sleeping, hidden under the bed, I look at them and wonder if he does it on purpose, so I’ll think about him even when I can’t see him. He’s very proud of his claws, and he adores me. He’s trying to show me how strong he is, but it’s also an act of love.
—Alkis, people are so stingy with their emotions. They want to be loved, but only if it doesn’t mess up their lives, their schedules, their clean furniture. How many people do you know who would let their cats scratch up their armchairs?
—Then they live alone with their armchairs. Because the people who love us scratch us, like Caesar. We have to let others be free to show us their love however they choose, however they know, however they can—as long as they don’t destroy us. And what is love, anyway? It’s clawmarks, scratches, scars, traces someone leaves inside of you. The thing I fear most is stillness, silence. I want permanent marks, life. What’s love for you?
—For me, love is white magic.
Caesar awoke, emerged from under the bed, jumped onto Alkis’s lap and began kneading his sweater with his paws, purring.
The three of us looked at one another in perfect harmony, like a single being.
37.
These days we were going to Aunt Louisa’s together on Saturdays. We had met there, and now we went as a couple. And each time the magic of the estate would wrap itself around us tighter and tighter.
One Saturday Uncle Miltos showed us his enormous collection of photographs of birds from all over the world. He’d pasted them in albums, and beneath each photograph he had written the bird’s name in all different languages. The albums just kept coming. We were a little bit bored, but even that boredom was sweet. The hours passed as we listened to the strange, unfamiliar names of eagles, there was a fire in the fireplace, we drank tea, and Alkis held my hand.
Another week we all ate chocolate cake and watched Gone with the Wind. Aunt Louisa started crying during the very first scene. It was raining. It was nine p.m., the time when Uncle Miltos always let the German shepherds out of their kennels and locked up the setters. In the movie, during the scene when Rhett Butler gives that legendary kiss to Scarlett next to the river, bending her backward like a reed, Alkis whispered to me:
—Let’s go upstairs for a while, alone. I want to talk to you.
We sat down on a small sofa beside the aquariums. The birds were sleeping in their cages.
—I want us to get married, Alkis told me.
I didn’t answer.
—I want us to get married.
We were both looking straight ahead, but I could sense Alkis’s hands trembling. Time passed. Alkis lit a cigarette, rose, began to pace.
—I’m scared, I said.
—What are you scared of?
—I’ve never been married before.
—Fortunately, said Alkis, laughing.
—I’m scared.
Just like the first time we made love, months earlier, Alkis took my face in his hands.
—Don’t be scared, he told me. Don’t be scared. There’s nothing to be afraid of with me. And you know it.
I stood up. An uncontrollable rage was blazing up inside me.
—Every time I want to write, I want to write love stories. But as soon as I pick up the pen I’m overcome by horror.
—What does that have to do with us getting married?
—I don’t know. But it does. My true nature comes out in my writing. I’ve only matured in my writing. In real life, I’m at sea.
—Real life? You’re talking like a child. There isn’t just one life. Haven’t you been happy with me for months? Didn’t you manage that? Our life is something we create. If you want unhappiness, you’ll have it. Happiness is frightening, I agree, and it’s much more difficult. You have to break down so many barriers in order to get close to someone. It might seem like a paradox, but unhappiness is easy. Whereas you’ve got to really love yourself before you can let yourself be happy. You have to believe you deserve it. Otherwise you just can’t bear the joy. You’d be happy with me. I know it. Not mindlessly happy, like in fairytales. But you’ll start to feel fulfilled—and after that, everything else will fall into place. And you’re so ready for it, I just know it. I would never have proposed if you weren’t ready. You don’t know it yet. But I know.
—Yes, I told him, yes.
—Say the whole thing. I want to hear it.
—Yes. I want to marry you.
In the aquariums, the fish had hidden in their caves. I asked Alkis if fish ever slept. He kissed my hand.
—I’ll make you happy, he answered.
38.
The next day I received the first letter from John, from America. That day I was distracted around Alkis. John was a painter. He said flattering things about my book, but reall
y it was a love letter. I wrote back right away. We began an impassioned correspondence. I had no idea what he looked like. We wrote one another letters every day, letters that were thirty pages long. John became a sort of obsession for me. If he can write so beautifully, I thought, he must be beautiful, too.
He called me his “meteorite,” and wrote, You came to me express in the night as thousands of meteorites fell from the sky. I want to introduce you to the magic of Connecticut.
In another letter: Last night you visited me for an hour. You were wearing black, a string of pearls around your neck. For the first time I realized how beautiful you are.
The letters fell on the house every day, like rain.
Everything is so different with you. You sail through your secret garden and throw me a golden rope with an anchor at the end. I bury the anchor in my garden. Do you like Delvaux? He’s so sweet, so tender, and all those sweet, tender women sailing through his paintings look like you. And his men are real men, chiseled from marble, watching the women as they walk, ethereal but real. He has a painting called The Hands. The painter’s hands are in the work, and there are naked women staring at them. In the background another woman is lying down with a naked boy to make love, but the ground is all rocks, and their hands are in the air, they don’t know where to put them. To the left, in the foreground, is a face. It’s the painter, Delvaux. He’s holding a paintbrush and looking at his work.
In another letter: When I paint you, you’ll have a string of pearls around your neck, which will flow on your breast like tears, like stars.
My house is yellow, fairly large. It’s surrounded by a white fence and flowerbeds. Twenty cats play at multiplication in my yard—yesterday they reached fifty.
And another: I’m sending you a lock of my hair. It lost all its charm as soon as I cut it from my head, but perhaps someday soon you shall caress all of my hair…
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