‘‘Will you go to Natalie’s house tonight after all?’’
‘‘Yes. I want to close her mouth.’’
‘‘This sounds a bit erotic to me…’’ Ioannis smiles cunningly, however no one could discern any cunning at all in Dima’s look.
‘‘I’m curious if you’ll manage it. She seemed a tough woman to me.’’
‘‘She is just spoilt, Nektarios, nothing more. She’s the type of person who has it all, have solved their problems and enjoy causing trouble to others.’’
‘‘But she clearly showed her interest in you.’’
‘‘From this girl, I don’t even want compassion,’’ he shouts, and his eyes sparkle.
‘‘Why do you dislike her so much? It was expectable that someone would recognize you,’’ the singer insists, stroking the leather texture of his jacket.
‘‘Ioannis it isn’t that simple. Have you realized we are talking about Nomikos’s daughter? Do you know what power she and her father have?’’ Nektarios clarifies to him.
Dima blinks looking high. He hates this emotional overload. ‘‘Well, let’s put aside the discussion about her. Tonight, I will go to her house and I will silence her in every way.’’
‘‘Just don’t kill her…’’ Ioannis teases him, trying to make him smile again.
‘‘Let’s talk about the song. When is your dancer from Russia coming?’’
‘‘On Wednesday. He will also do the choreography. He is top, trust me.’’
‘‘I hope he matches with Victoria. I’m so eager about it. It will be my first trip abroad!’’
Ioannis’s face shines with the characteristic excitement of a small child. Dima is trying to steal some of the glow that he himself lost in an afternoon. It was the dissolution of a long-term relationship. He and his audience. The applause. The glory. The recognition. He left it all that afternoon in the neurologist’s office.
He takes a deep breath. ‘‘I want to ask you a favor. I have decided we claim Nektarios has written the music. Both the music and the lyrics.’’
‘‘What?’’ The question is impressed on the lyricist’s square face.
‘‘No, I can’t accept it! Don’t start over, Dima! I believe we clarified this some months ago. I’m not going to lie!’’ As expected by Ioannis.
‘‘I also disagree, Dima.’’
‘‘Nektarios, it doesn’t make sense anymore… What matters is our song to be listened to. Can you imagine what a fuss will take place around my name again? You can’t hide as easily abroad as here. Don’t you say we are a team? I will always be beside you. I want us to win. This will be my greatest reward.’’
Ioannis’s petite figure comes and goes in the living room, unable to accept the great composer’s proposal. He hates lies. One could say he has never lied in his life. He was annoyingly conscientious, as Dima had stressed to him at the beginning of their acquaintance.
‘‘No one will believe Nektarios wrote it. Your compositions stand out!’’
‘‘People won’t be there to find out who wrote the song. Everybody will look at you,’’ Dima stresses to him.
‘‘Dima are you absolutely sure? What if we win?’’
‘‘We will win, Nektarios.’’
‘‘And the applause?’’
Two eyes full of guilt meet two eyes that hurt.
Nektarios - Dima.
‘‘It’s your turn now, Nektarios. This music is yours.’’ He turns to the page with the lyrics and notes on the top of it in capital letters:
LYRICS-MUSIC: NEKTARIOS GIANNATOS
He hands it to his friend and gives him a disguised grimace of satisfaction. ‘‘When everyone will be applauding you, I will have known that for once more I did the right thing.’’
The lyricist rests his hand reassuringly on the composer’s shoulder, trying to hold the emotions imprinted on his face. Mixed. Various. ‘‘I will never stop admiring you, Dima!’’ Nektarios claims emotionally.
‘‘But you know to own his music!’’
Ioannis’s outburst creates the first rift in their team. ‘‘Ioannis calm down, I asked him to.’’
‘‘At the beginning, you asked me as well for my album, but I refused. It’s immoral!’’
Nektarios observes his partner’s anger, without making the slightest comment. He straightens his body and raises his chin. He could never be convinced of the innocence Ioannis serves with that great easiness. He thinks he is pretending in order to be likeable to his associates, to the girls, to the fans… In no case does he believe people who are governed by selfless love exist.
‘‘This is my decision and you must accept it. After all, it is something that doesn’t concern you.’’
‘‘Doesn’t it? We are talking about the song that will represent Greece, Dima! I can’t accept the fact that it will be based on a lie! You are the composer! You!’’
Dima approaches his shaken friend, knowing that it is difficult to calm him down. ‘‘Please don’t insist. I know that you despise lies, but that takes me out of a lot of unpleasant situations. Do you believe that it’s easy for me to pretend? I want to shout and tell everyone that I write these songs for you, but it is in vain. When you have to choose between two unpleasant options, you follow the one that hurts you the least. This is why I am here, far away from my family. Far away from all the people I love.’’
Ioannis cannot hold back his tears. Nor will he ever be able to.
Like the first time.
Six months ago…
He is lying on a bed. He opens his eyes and distinguishes a cold, grey ceiling. He understands he is not at home, as the ceiling of his room has a red wallpaper. He is used to being lost in red while lying on his back in his bed and getting inspired by it. It is his favorite color.
Airport. Forest. Red suitcase. Mother. Haircut. Julia. White robe. Road. Asphalt.
‘‘Good evening.’’
His eyes are trying to respond to the sound-call. He lifts his body a little. An unspecified pain from every part of his body makes him wrinkle his eyebrows and look exasperatingly at the young doctor standing at the entrance.
‘‘My name is Ioannis Vasilikos and I am doing the practice for my specialty.’’
The petite figured doctor is holding a list and is standing hesitantly at the doorstep with a stitched smile on the lips. Dima is trying to move the pillow on his back, but the sharp pain prevents him.
‘‘Do you want me to help you?’’ the smiling figure is asking him, without leaving his place.
The great composer wonders if he needs to wind him up to move. ‘‘Did you come here to look at me?’’
Dima’s reaction makes the doctor hide as quickly as a lightning his white denture. ‘‘I am sorry…’’ he apologizes with a guilty look and approaches him. ‘‘I am glad to meet you,’’ he extends his hand to the composer, while his interlocutor wonders if he is indeed a doctor. Even a trainee.
He responds to the handshake feeling a spiritual ascension. He is sorry he can’t feel the same for his physical fatigue. ‘‘How did I get here?’’
‘‘The nurses told me you stumbled on the road and hit on a car, which was fortunately passing at a low speed.’’ His shiny smile is again placed with mathematical accuracy on his lips, at the same exact position, as if he has calculated it with a ruler.
The words of the tuned doll sound completely indifferent to Dima’s ears. He knows why he stumbled. He remembers now. He remembers that he was in Stadiou street when he was looking for a hotel, carrying his red suitcase. ‘‘May I leave?’’ he asks him hurriedly, longing for a positive answer. He hates hospitals. He hates doctors. OK, one day he might be able to like this trainee, but definitely not now.
‘‘First, we must examine you, Mr. Vladimirov. I was standing at the door, waiting for you to wake up and I was very anxious if you would speak Greek. Are you from Russia?’’
Is he surely a doctor?
The question is insistently spinning in Dima’s mind. ‘�
�Yes. But my mother is Greek, and I speak Greek,’’ he gives a sharp answer, although he would really like to express himself with greater familiarity. Finally, the young doctor won his sympathy.
‘‘Greek woman in love with a Russian?’’ His big brown eyes flutter momentarily, revealing his big lashes. Dima is polishing up his face. He would not characterize him as a handsome man, but surely this puppy style along with the mechanical smile, make him special. Memorable. ‘‘I adore such stories. How did they meet?’’
The composer’s left eyebrow reaches the upper limit allowed. ‘‘Are you surely a doctor?’’ the rotating question escapes his mind and reaches his lips, just after a sharp smile.
The young man does not look offended at all by this question; on the contrary, his face relaxes as if he agrees with his patient. ‘‘Trainee… But at some point, the practice will end…’’
And I must become a regular doctor, Dima adds mentally. ‘‘What specialty will you get?’’
‘‘Cytologist.’’
‘‘Unusual…’’ he confesses, but as he observes him, he believes it suits him. In no case could he imagine this delicate figure as a cardiologist or pulmonologist. Specifically, his imagination presents him as a mad painter, lost in his studio, surrounded by paintings whose interpretation only he would understand.
‘‘This is the purpose… You know, I tried to find the rarer specialty so that I won’t have many patients in the future,’’ he confesses to him with a low voice, leaning on the bed.
‘‘Maybe it was your dream to become a painter?’’ Second unfiltered question.
The trainee reveals again the white denture, which seems a little scary from nearby, and offers to the musician a relaxed smile. ‘‘Painter, no… Since I was young, I wanted to become a singer! My dream was to release platinum records, to hold concerts, have fans, sign autographs…’’
Dima, hearing this statement, makes a great effort not to scream with laughter. He cannot imagine that the person in front of him - who gives him the impression of being too shy to speak to an audience of more than two people - may rock hanging from the stand of a microphone with the crowd below going crazy. OK, surely rock music is not the most appropriate choice for the particular image, but anyway he can’t believe that with any processing such an image may stand.
‘‘And why did you study medicine?’’
‘‘My parents…’’ he hesitates to continue. ‘‘Maybe sometimes they know better than us.’’
‘‘If they have heard you singing and they urged you to follow medicine, then they are right.’’
‘‘No, I have a good voice’’ he states with self-confidence. ‘‘I am sure I have a good voice.’’
The composer stares at him with half closed eyes. For a moment he is dragged into the young man’s dream trap, however he comes to his senses immediately and returns to his own reality. ‘‘I am not particularly interested…’’ he discourages him and lifts himself on the uncomfortable bed. His pain worsens, but it doesn’t attract his attention.
The doctor retreats and straightens the uniform on his knee embarrassingly. ‘‘Of course, I never said anything like that… Sorry if I tired you. I will immediately call the nurse to carry out the necessary examinations.’’
‘‘There is no need for examinations. I was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis and I have minimum years of life left. Please don’t make my daily life even more difficult than it already is and let me go.’’ He wants to disappear from this room. He wants to go back to his own, with the red wallpaper on the ceiling.
He wants to return home.
The cute miniature permanently loses all forms of joy from his face. He even loses the mechanical smile. He looks at Dima in pain, which neither he had felt for himself. ‘‘I am very sorry. Really, I am very sorry.’’
Dima notices the young man has brimmed with tears when the first of them go down the doctor’s pale cheek. He wonders if this image is a fake mask or if it for real that this man is so sensitive and easily moved. Do people like him really exist? People expressing such empathy, especially when it comes to strangers? In his thirty-nine years of life, he has concluded that this category does not exist. This remark arms him with rage, feeling that his interlocutor is laughing at him.
‘‘If you are crying, then what should I do? Commit suicide?’’ he mocks him.
The doctor hastily wipes away the tears by turning his palm, revealing again his dry childish face. Dima believes that this childlike innocence is definitely false. He considers the young trainee is candidate for an Oscar.
‘‘Forgive me, I didn’t want to make you feel embarrassed… I just know firsthand what it is like to be deprived of your dreams and be left with no choices… Forgive me…’’ he lowers his head and disappears from the room.
He mixes the two spoons of honey in the coffee and tastes it. This time she did not succeed in it, but he doesn’t have the time to have her make another. The man is already sitting opposite to him.
‘‘It is just a matter of days. The people I approached will force him to leave Voice Record.’’
Marinakis passes his hand through his short hair. He smiles at him stealthily and drinks another sip of coffee. It does not seem so bad to him now. ‘‘I knew I could rely on you. If you need more money…’’
‘‘Not yet. The course has been launched. Nothing can change now. Once he has signed a contract here, you will give me the rest,’’ he utters the last words with such stability that offers security to his interlocutor. ‘‘Is the real reason you want him here your admiration of him or the money he will bring you?’’
The boss’s gaze wanders on in the room’s space. On the expensive office, on the expensive ashtray, which is about to be filled with cigarette butts, on the collected paintings adorning the upholstered walls of his office, on the glass window that stretches from the floor to the high ceiling offering him a view of the Acropolis. He gets up and goes around the office to feel that this room belongs to him, that he belongs here; in wealth. He does not want to think that he is in danger of losing all these. This is not going to happen. With this composer on his side, nothing bad will happen. He will never go back to where he started from.
‘‘I really admire him!’’ he states looking at the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds. ‘‘If he was not so good, he wouldn’t be of a value to me…’’ he focuses on the composer’s abilities. ‘‘What about you? Don’t you admire him?’’
The man has his back turned to the businessman and is preparing his answer. ‘‘To be sincere, I am only interested in what you are also interested.’’
The honest impudence of the man makes the boss turn sharply towards him. He looks at him interrogatively for a few seconds. ‘‘I am glad we understand each other.’’
The man throws a look at the cigarette butts in the ashtray. He may be counting them. He may be matching them with the hours left until darkness.
The countdown has already begun.
The sun is planning its setting. I am sitting patiently in the living room watching my seven year old daughter. I try to see on her the years I lost, the years she was not next to me. I will never forgive Stephen for what he did to me. I catch myself thinking about how she looked like when she was a baby. One, two years old. Three. A shiver runs through my woolen cardigan and I tighten it on my body. I am grateful she is next to me now, but the five years’ gap will never be covered. Every form of loss is never covered.
She is lying face down on the carpet. She loves rolling on it and feeling its soft, fluffy texture. This is the reason why I make Peter take off his shoes when he enters the house. Hypochondriac, hysterical, and other critical adjectives have their honor next to my name, every time I remind him of this rule. He does not stand obeying the orders of others. I believed that our marriage would change him. I believed I would change him.
The subconscious is glad I did not succeed.
‘‘Mommy look! Barbie master chef! I want you to bu
y it for me!’’
My daughter’s new order takes me out of my syllogisms. ‘‘Yes, of course. On your birthday.’’
‘‘My birthday is in five months. Forget it! I want it now.’’
I am trying to find out where I went wrong with her. She is demanding, stubborn, individualistic, but with the tenderest heart. Peter in a female version. Unbearable thought. It It’s the point where the family environment overcomes the genes.
‘‘What do you want Barbie master chef for, my star?’’ My husband’s voice comes from the kitchen to save or destroy the situation. ‘‘Do you want to cook with her?’’ he asks her in a disparaging tone as if he is underestimating the art of cooking. ‘‘To help your mother as well, who doesn’t have much to do with cooking?’’ he continues, and I feel my ears burning.
‘‘Well, I don’t intend to become a housemaid!’’ she exclaims. ‘‘I don’t want it, you’re right Peter.’’ I exhale relieved and inhale angrily, as I note that Mr. Deligiannis can handle Violeta better than me. ‘‘Grandma is here!’’ she shouts and runs to the door, leaving me behind with the dynast of my mind.
He scans me with pleasure. I hate him. ‘‘Diplomatic manipulations are not for you, Mrs. Iliopoulou. I think it would be better if you indulge in cooking.’’
I approach him with self-confidence. ‘‘I believe it would be better if I became an author! I would get very famous if I wrote a book entitled: How to exterminate your husband in ten simple steps.’’
‘‘Ten? You would have changed your mind from the first one,’’ he states with his well-known irritating confidence.
‘‘How are you so sure, Mr. Deligiannis?’’
‘‘Because, as I said earlier, you are lagging behind in diplomacy and can’t confront the unpredictable factors.’’
I love mind games, but at times like this, they make me angry. He makes me feel weak, recognizing that power lies exclusively in his hands. On his lips. In his eyes. I pass him ostentatiously proceeding to the entrance, when his hands, his lips, and his eyes exhibit their power on me.
The Last Symphony Page 7
