Dead Europe

by Christos Tsiolkas

  Madness was indeed being celebrated in the swirling frenzy of the dance. There was also hunger, raw, piercing hunger that was only muted by the sweet bliss of alcohol. Even the children were going up to the barrels, filling flagons with the sour red liquid and swilling it down. There was madness in the screeching old women, wrapped in thick swathes of black, who were singing the songs as if they were young and free again. But always the hunger. The Germans had gone from house to house, field to field, piling their trucks with livestock, wood and trinkets. There had been madness there as well. The war had entered its third year and now, certain that loss and humiliation awaited them, the actions of the German boys were growing ever more savage. The week before, four youths had been executed in front of Baba Yiannikas’ coffee shop and the whole village had been forced to watch. With the men’s blood not yet dry, the villagers danced on the stone and concrete, believing that the spirits of the youths were taking solace from their frenzy.

  —Play, you dirty gypsies, urged Baba Yiannikas, his skin hanging in loose spongy folds, his once-bulging belly having disappeared, his ribs visible again for the first time in forty years.

  And the band played. Mulan blew a note of such piercing anguish that the very tables seemed to lift off the ground and begin their own dance. He knew he was not singing in God’s voice—he was singing with the Devil. The Devil had proved a more faithful companion than God, and Mulan consented to the demons celebrating on this night. As the music became even more furious, the whole village descended into the madness of the dance, more and more circles formed, the men leading with hollering and strangled cries, the women clapping their hands and shrieking with laughter, the children weaving amongst the adults. Mulan blew hate into his reed. The world sickened him. And the world swirling before him danced the hate right back to him. It seemed a thousand stomping feet, a thousand screeching voices, a thousand clapping hands were singing hate and madness and above all hunger, always hunger, right back to him.

  Lucia was not dancing. She was sitting alone at her table watching the village abandon itself to the music. Her husband was leading the main circle, drunk, but still nimble on his feet. Her brother Fotis was holding Michaelis’ hand, encouraging him to further spins and leaps. She looked across the swirling bodies and spied her sister, Fotini, sitting alone at their father’s table. The young woman was with child and she sat, demure and still, with her hands clasped around her rounding belly. Raising her eyes, Fotini spied Lucia. She smiled at her and Lucia smiled back.

  Damn you, Lucia whispered to herself, may God grant you a girl, may God grant you an imbecilic girl. May all your pregnancy and labour be in vain. May you die delivering the animal inside you.

  Abruptly she rose from her seat. She could find no solace, no pleasure in the music and in the dance. Michaelis forbade her alcohol, so she was unable to drown her torment. Her sister-in-law Irini had just delivered a son. Fotis’ wife, Olga, was pregnant with their third child. Even with sickness and war and hunger, it seemed that new life was everywhere. Only she was condemned to the excruciating shame of being barren. Damn you all.

  She grabbed a scrap of bread from her table and walked over to where her Uncle Pericles was stoking the fires of the spit.

  Baba Pericles had managed to hide three adult pigs from the Germans by concealing them in the desolate caves on top of the mountain’s highest peak. He boasted that his pigs understood him and that he had instructed them to keep quiet at the sound of any approaching footsteps. The Germans had indeed climbed the peak but the pigs had remained silent, obeying their master. It was these three pigs that the village had feasted on that night. The crowd had fallen on the roast flesh; all that remained were the charred bones.

  The old man was happily drunk. All through the night, when the musicians rested their instruments and taken refreshments, his grateful neighbours toasted him.

  As Lucia approached, Baba Pericles stumbled onto his feet and attempted to lead her into a dance. She pushed him gently aside.

  —Come on, child, let me dance with the most beautiful woman here.

  —I’m too tired, Uncle.

  —Are you finally with child?

  How she wished she could nod and have him spread his arms around her, have him lift her into the starry night and twirl her around the square. She could watch the envy in every woman’s face. She could laugh, she could sing, she could dance. She could dance all night till her feet bled.

  —With God’s grace it will not be much longer, Uncle.

  His face screwed up into sad, intoxicated pity. She stretched out her hand and ripped a remaining meagre piece of flesh from a pig’s carcass.

  —It’s good to taste meat again, isn’t it child?

  She didn’t answer her uncle.

  —It’s God’s will, he called out to her retreating back.

  She did not return to her father-in-law’s table, but she stepped into the darkness and walked past the churchyard. Inside, she could hear the priest maintaining his solitary lament for the four assassinated men. You’re a fool, she muttered to herself. What good are your prayers to anyone? The men are dead and your stomach will be empty in the morning. Even their families dance and eat, even your wife has had her fill. But she made the sign of the Cross on passing.

  Lucia walked up the hill to her home. It was a new moon and there was barely any light. She did not cross the yard into her own cottage, but instead maintained her steady climb.

  The smell of pine was sharp in her nostrils as she entered the dark forest; almost immediately a chill descended around her. The forest was never warm: even in high summer, the dense canopy formed a shield against the sun. An owl hooted and she started and willed herself to keep walking. She made her way through the black night by listening for the murmur of the rivulet flowing down the mountain. She prayed as she walked, warding off the demons and the wolves. Her greatest fear was that the wolves would take her. If her blood were to join with theirs, she was condemned to Hell for eternity.

  She gave a bitter laugh, loud in the still forest. With a clamorous flapping of its wings, the owl soared into the night. Aren’t we in Hell already, dear God? The rare feast had hardly satisfied her hunger. It was as if she had been hungry all her life, and she could now not remember what it was to feel satisfaction after a meal, could not imagine living without the gnawing pain in her belly. She stopped and raised the bread she was carrying to her mouth. But she recalled the desperate eyes of the youth on her last visit and did not take a bite.

  I am in Hell, she thought. I am in Hell and I am feeding the demons.

  She was breathless when she reached the peak and, even in the cold wind, her face was wet with sweat. She stood at the cliff’s edge and looked towards the shrouded villages across the valley. The music from the carnival had died away as soon as she had entered the forest, but now, at the top of the world, she could hear the sweet lament of the gypsy’s clarino. Damn them all, she whispered into the night. Damn them all and the devils they are breeding in their wombs. She stood at the edge of the cliff and she jumped.

  Falling on her fours like a cat, she straightened herself immediately so as not to tumble into the void before her. Turning, she faced the abandoned church. The Germans had removed the weathered timber doors. They had taken everything; they had razed the church as well as the village.

  When she had seen the blue doors loaded onto the grey military truck, she had stopped breathing for a moment. Her heart had faltered. She had known immediately what she would do. She would deny all knowledge of the Christ Killer, she would throw herself at the feet of the enemy and she would betray her husband. Let that bastard son of the imbecile, that son of the Albanian bitch, that impotent eunuch Michaelis that God had sent to punish her, let him take the blame. But the occupiers had asked no questions and the hidden youth had not been discovered.

  Lucia crossed herself as she bowed under the low archway and entered the church. The stench of ratshit was overpowering and she clapped her scarf to h
er mouth. She could hear vermin scurrying in the dark. She was glad for the lack of moonlight. The severe, judging faces of the saints painted on the walls terrified her. Their censure seemed even more intense now that the rain seeped down the walls and stained and deformed their portraits.

  Slowly, edging her foot along the dirt floor, she made her way to the old altar. She knelt, scraped away dirt and dung and felt for the groove of the cellar door. With a grunt she pulled at the wooden frame and held her breath as dust and dirt flew around her. She could hear the boy scrabbling in the darkness below, and his frightened whimpering.

  —Don’t piss yourself. It’s only me.

  —Have you brought food?

  His voice had deepened. It was almost a growl.

  —Aren’t the rats enough?

  —Have you brought food?

  Lucia sat on the edge of the opening to the cellar and then dropped herself onto the earth below.

  She watched silently as the youth lit a fire. The dry wood crackled, then caught alight and the cave was filled with a warm glow. She thought she would gag: all she was aware of was the putrid stench of excrement. In the first year of his exile, the Hebrew had used the immediate world outside the church as a toilet, but with the coming of the enemy, none of them could afford that risk. Michaelis had ordered the youth to relieve himself in a hole at the end of the cavern. But as the fire began its roar, and smoke slowly filled her nostrils, she found that her stomach had stilled.

  —You must take care, she admonished the youth, the smoke will suffocate you.

  The boy smiled.

  —God protects me. He pointed to the damp clay ceiling above. Don’t concern yourself with my wellbeing, the smoke escapes. It always escapes and God ensures that fresh air finds its way even into this prison. Everything is God’s will.

  —It is the Devil that protects you.

  She held out the food and he snatched it from her hands.

  His hair, knotted and thick, had grown to his shoulders and his face was now bearded. The bristles, however, were soft, almost a down, and they were fair, not black.

  He had not bitten into the morsels immediately, but instead held them in his hands and chanted over them in a language she could not understand.

  —Is that how Satan speaks?

  —And God as well.

  She sat on her haunches and watched him. He ate the bread ravenously, but hesitated over the meat. He forced it into his mouth and seemed to swallow it without chewing. She feared he would choke.

  —Careful, she warned.

  He ignored her and swallowed the last mouthfuls of the meal. They sat in silence.

  His clothes had become rags and she could see the white skin of his torso through the rips in his shirt. His arms were like twigs. His legs appeared abominably long and slender. It seemed a miracle they could support him. The skin on his face was stretched tight across his hideous skull. You don’t know hunger, Lucia, this is what death looks like, this is what hunger truly is. She reached out a hand to caress him.

  He recoiled from her as if he was a frightened dog. She smiled to herself. She rarely ventured into the cave—it was Michaelis who usually brought food to the youth—but the few times she had entered, he always avoided her touch. But she was also aware every time of the fierce longing in his eyes. She slowly moved closer to him. He watched her warily.

  Nausea overcame her. She smelt the filth on him, she smelt death on him. She fought back her bile and rose to her feet. She moved along the wall and examined the thick lines and hieroglyphics the boy had carved onto its face.

  —They are the words of God, he said quietly but emphatically. I have to believe that even in here God is with me.

  The surge of tenderness that rushed through her almost made her faint. She turned from him and bit into the flesh of her hand so he would not see her tears. She went to him and again he moved away. As he did so, he clumsily kicked over a small clay pot in which they brought water for him and as the pot tumbled, the spindly, charred remains of a rat fell onto the dirt floor. The boy hid his head in his hands. Lucia rose and, taking the clay pot, pulled herself up through the cellar opening into the church and ran into the world outside. She nearly swooned as she breathed in the sweet, cool air of night.

  She did not dare ask herself why she felt such pity for the filthy Hebrew. It was as if her emotions and her very body were no longer her own to will: some spirit was compelling her. Was that spirit evil, or from God? She did not care. She made her way into the forest and listened for the gurgle of the rushing creek. She made her way to the spring, and at its edge she sat and ripped the bottom of her skirt until she had four thin strips of hessian. She dragged them through the freezing water and then, after lightly wringing them, she stuffed them into her skirt pocket. She filled the pot with water to take back to the Hebrew. Her shoes and her skirt now drenched, she made her way back to the cave.

  The youth was facing away from her. He was rocking backwards and forwards and she understood he was in prayer.

  —Come here.

  He fell silent but did not move.

  She walked up behind him and grabbed him by the shoulder. He squirmed from her touch but it was as if the spirit that was guiding her was stronger than the boy, that she was made powerful by it. She raised the youth to his feet and turned him to face her. She began by washing his face, his neck, his hands, his terribly thin arms. Throughout he had his eyes closed. She wrung out the first cloth and began with another. She pulled the ragged shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the dirt floor. She washed his chest, under his arms: each rib was clearly visible. She wiped his pale belly. He shivered at her touch. She wrung out the cloth and pulled another one out of her pocket. She pulled at his belt, heard him groan, and his trousers fell to his feet.

  He was erect. The lush clump of hair on his groin shocked her and she moved away from him. The youth’s cock was thick and full and alive. She found herself whimpering as the boy took the cloth from her hand. She watched, her breaths short and deep, as he washed his sex. When he was finished he squeezed the cloth over the fire and it sizzled harshly. He dropped the wet cloth into the fire. The flames disappeared and the cave was full of darkness and acrid smoke. She felt his hands on her, then felt him lifting her skirts, pulling her pantaloons to her knees, felt his soft beard on her face as they fell to the floor. As he entered her, their tears were joined. On the dirt floor of the cave, with the sounds of the rats above them scampering on the church floor, they rutted like dogs: quick, ferocious. When he was done he immediately threw himself off her.

  —Go, he whispered, crying, leave me.

  He was crouching in the far shadows of the cave. She could barely make out his demonic shape in the shadows.

  Lucia did not return to the carnival. She ran all the way to her barren cottage, stripped off her skirts and climbed into bed, biting into the corner of her blanket. She wanted to scream. To laugh and cry and scream. She knew that it would be hours before Michaelis returned, and that when he did he would be drunk and would want to mate with her. She wanted to be asleep when he came home—all she could think of was sleep but she was terrified of asking for this from God. Could she ask God for anything ever again? She rocked herself in her bed, wishing for sleep, but all she could hear was the wail of the gypsy’s clarino.

  Mulan was seized by great joy as he played on the dais. The rest of the musicians laid down their instruments and listened. The crowd cheered him. It was as if his instrument had never before made such a sweet sound. As long as those notes played, everyone’s hunger could be forgotten. It was as if they had never known hunger at all. The note that Mulan blew danced through the square and up along the mountains, through the trees, and soared as high as the moon. It was a sound full of ecstasy and promise and eternity. Even deep in his pit, alone in the dark and the stink, even there the boy heard the music. He closed his eyes, wiped the tears from his face and fell asleep smiling.

  THE BUS THAT took me away from the s
ea and deep into the mountains was decorated with the faces of the Virgin and her Son, the saints of Orthodox Europe, and the football heroes of Olympiakos. As the driver pulled out of the terminal and began the slow, convoluted journey out of Athens, he looked at the saints and crossed himself, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Around me the passengers too began to cross themselves. My still hands betrayed me as a stranger.

  The rusting blue vehicle looked as if it belonged in a black and white film from the 1950s. These buses were built to transport Greeks, not tourists, and they were in need of a paint job and repanelling, and spewed out a constant stream of black carbon. The roads we took were skinny and mean, and as we ascended into the hilltops, the bus teetered from side to side, as if eager to leave behind its asphalt routine and dive into the craggy ravines below. The driver sped cheerfully along the precarious terrain, singing to the radio. I spent my time looking outside at the yellowing, dry world. Goats and fields of olives, gypsy encampments and the roadside dotted with memorials to the dead. The bus driver pushed hard on his horn and the automobiles screamed back; but always the bus found a way to navigate the tight lanes and streets, and continued its way up the mountains.