by Gary Cleaver
“Take my arm, George, your leg is giving you pain?”
He kissed her cheek. “Yes, my dear, but it’s alright, I can cope.”
The Day Before Easter
The last day of lent. An end to fasting and austerity. Time to celebrate. Time for song and for dancing, time for slaughtering and spit-roasting the lambs, time for thyme, rosemary, garlic and dill for the salads and the dips, time for potatoes, vegetables and fresh bread, time for the wine, oh don’t forget the wine, white light and sweet, red dark and dry, time for the family to re-unite, joke and argue and find delight in one and others company again. Time to celebrate. Time to remember.
Sofia Katselos opened her eyes. The clock on the table beside her bed told her it was a little before six, it was still dark. Since childhood she had always been able to wake in the morning at exactly the time she needed to, “No cock-crowing needed for little Sofia” her mother had often said. She rose, showered, donned underwear and went to the single large wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom. She selected a simple, straight black dress and put it on.
“Widows attire,” she whispered to herself. In the kitchen she prepared her usual breakfast, toast, yoghurt and orange juice, while she ate she listened to the early morning news on the radio. She had continued this habit even after her working life had ended, it was necessary for a schoolteacher to keep up with current events. The announcer spoke first of a minor earth tremor in Lamia, two hundred kilometres north of Athens, there had been some damage to buildings, but no injuries had been reported. Sofia smiled faintly, it was obviously what the journalists called a ‘Slow news day’. When she had finished, it was surprising how little food it took to fill her these days, she washed up and then drew from a cupboard a blue plastic shopping bag and began piling into it the things she would need for that morning’s special task. That done she pinned up her iron grey hair and covered it with a plain, white headscarf. She looked at herself in the speckled mirror above the sink.
“Oh God” she said “Sofia you look like a nun.” She stepped into flat black shoes, picked up the bag and left the house.
As she made her way along the street, the sun began to rise over the sea, it was the same colour as the oranges in the orchards, it was going to be a fine day. At the main road she turned right and began walking uphill toward the outskirts of the village, the hill was not steep, but it was long. Every year, she thought to herself, this journey gets a little harder, but maybe that was the way it should be. As she passed the last of the houses before the village gave way to farmland and brush, an old green pick-up truck passed her on its way in, the horn tooted and the driver grinned and waved. Sofia smiled and waved back, Christo seemed so much happier these days she thought, for years he had gone around as if he carried the whole world on his shoulders, like Atlas. For a moment, her heart felt lighter.
After a few minutes more she suddenly stopped, she was standing by a dry stone wall, something had caught her eye. Between the stones wild herbs were growing, thyme and oregano, this was a good find, in such a public place it was amazing that no one had picked the bushes clean days ago. She placed her bag on the ground and searched inside. Finding a small polythene bag she opened it and began to pick the fragrant leaves. When the bag was full she held it up to the light, what a piece of luck, she would take them with her on Sunday and present them to her sister with the rosemary that she would pick from her own garden.
Sofia’s younger sister, Pavlou, lived in the nearby village of Kalloni. She had three children, seven grandchildren and was married, in Sofia’s opinion, to the dullest man in the country. Thanos was not a bad person, he had always been a loving father and a good provider, but he had a terrible habit of telling interminable stories, which he delivered in a flat monotone voice. The stories were neither interesting nor funny and usually petered out after going nowhere. He also had the nasty habit of constantly picking his nose, Sofia found the latter more entertaining. They invited her every year and she always went, more out of love for her sister than anything else, she still owned and drove her own car so it was easy to take herself there and back. The alternative, two twenty minute trips in a car with the dreaded Thanos did not bear thinking about.
She put the herbs in the bag and continued up the hill; she now approached a place where the road veered of to the right. On the crown of this bend, rising to a height of almost twenty metres was a Cyprus tree, in front of which stood a white stone shrine, her destination. There are many roadside shrines in Greece, some are placed by farmers, to bring blessings on their land, others are markers indicating the presence nearby of one of the country’s many churches. The third, and tragically most common, are those placed by families to mark the place where a loved one has perished in a road accident; the kind in front of which, Sofia now stood.
It stood nearly two metres high, much taller than she and was ornate without being ostentatious. Made of stone, painted white and open on three sides near the top, roughly at her eye level, there were Perspex panels protecting the contents and enabling any visitor to see in. Inside was an oil lamp, a packet of “Karelia” cigarettes, a box of matches, a small bottle of Ouzo, three tea lights and two photographs in plain wood frames. One was a sepia toned image of the crucifixion, the other, in faded colour, was of a young man, smiling, confident and handsome. Sofia’s only son, Andreas. She set her bag on the ground beside a spray of poppies which grew at the base of the thorn bushes and looked in at the picture.
“Hello my dear one” she said. “ The time has come once again.” Andreas smiled out at her, as he had done for the last nineteen years.
Sofia had been twenty two when she arrived in Katsimila, it was an exciting time for her, newly qualified, she was to take up her first post at the tiny local school. She had found the stark little room that she was to share with her thirty or so young charges on the following Monday in total chaos. Chairs and tables were piled up in one corner and the floor was littered with paint pots, brushes and various tools. Cables hung randomly from the ceiling panels, which, in places, were missing entirely. In the middle of the floor was a step ladder, at the top of which were the legs and torso of a young man, his head, shoulders and arms were out of sight inside the ceiling. She demanded to know why her classroom was such a mess and whether or not it would be ready for the start of school on the following Monday. A face appeared from above, it was swarthy and not especially handsome, but it did contain two sleepy brown eyes that had her attention immediately.
“I will tell you everything, but first you must tell me your name.”
She sighed and told him.
”I” he replied grandly “Am Iannis Katselos and I am the finest electrician in Greece” he thought for a moment. “Perhaps the world, who knows?”
At first she hadn’t liked him very much. He was brash, over confident and far too reliant on his charm and easy manner. But the eyes gave him an unfair advantage, she felt she could gaze into them for hours. He had visited the school many times after that, often when his services were not required, he would be “Just passing” and “Thought he might drop in” It was always when she was there but lessons were not taking place. Her affection for him grew, she felt there was a good man behind the loud exterior, and when he asked her to attend a party with him just before Christmas, she had said yes without hesitation. The rest was inevitable, they married two years almost to the day since he had first spoken to her from his stepladder, and six months after that she came home one afternoon with the joyous news that she was pregnant.
Sixty five year old Sofia Katselos rummaged in her shopping bag. She pulled out a slim pack of detergent wipes and cleaned the dusty, fly blown Perspex panels. Then she cleared the items from inside and laid them carefully on the ground. She swept out the match heads, old remnants of candle wax and dead flies, before peeling off another wipe and cleaning the inside thoroughly.
It was a difficult birth, Sofia had nearly died, Iannis by comparison had an easier time until two am when the
midwife came out and told him to run as fast as he could across the village to fetch doctor Achrivos. He never forgot the desperate sprint through the dark streets of Katsimila, but his effort was rewarded. Young Achrivos performed a minor miracle that night, saving both mother and child. He weighed just over three kilogram’s at birth and they used the name they had decided on some months before, the boy was to be named after his grandfather. Iannis’ father Andreas was a big, strong, good humoured man and they both thought that name would bring good fortune. Sofia took a long time to recover, Iannis and his mother nursed her as best they could and gradually she grew stronger, but it was obvious that the damage was severe and when the doctors at the big hospital in Corinth told her she would bear no more children, she was upset but not surprised.
Iannis was very disappointed, he had dreamed of having at least two sons, possibly three and perhaps a daughter so that Sofia would not feel lonely when he and his young men danced together at Easter and family occasions. Instead all his love, pride and most of his attention were channelled into little Andreas, from the start father and son were virtually inseparable. Sofia however decided that there was such a thing as too much love, she was determined that however much she doted on him she would not spoil her boy. When the time came for school, she was his first teacher and she showed him no special favour, in fact, on occasions she would single him out for punishment if he behaved badly and he developed what was for a small boy, a rather odd habit; when Andreas needed comfort, he would always go to his father.
Sofia bent and picked up the picture of the Crucifixion, she wiped off the dust and insect filth before replacing it at the back of the shrine, then she picked up the photograph of Andreas. She stared hard at it for a long time, as if she were trying to draw him, to pull him out of the picture, to make him live again. She cleaned it with slow, loving strokes of another, fresh cleaning cloth then put it next to the picture of Christ.
Despite her best efforts Andreas had been no more than an average student, he had always done his best, but in the end she had to admit that her son was just not cut out for academia. It was Iannis who came through for her, Andreas from an early age found his father’s work fascinating, Sofia guessed correctly that it had much to do with his intense love for the man. It was too dangerous at first for him to help in a practical way, but even something as simple as the wiring of a domestic plug seemed to hold him in a kind of thrall. As he reached his teens he was able to become more involved and, perhaps predictably showed a natural aptitude for the work. For her part Sofia had been entirely content, if her son wished to follow his beloved father, so be it, the world needed such men and respected them too, she would say with pride.
“Whenever the light goes out I am spoilt for choice, I have in my house the two best electricians in Greece, perhaps the world, who knows”.
She picked up the oil lamp, lit it, and replaced it; she repeated this task with the tea lights. It was now past eight o’clock and the road was becoming busy, invariably each car that passed sounded its horn and the driver would give a brief wave, as she had either taught them, their children and possibly their grandchildren, this was not a surprise, in a village like Katsimila a schoolteacher was a real celebrity.
At nineteen Andreas had fallen in love, twice. His first love was Calliope, a tall girl with chestnut hair, grey eyes and a ready smile, she came from the neighbouring village of Driopi. The other focus of his affections that year was a large, powerful Honda motorcycle, Sofia had loathed the machine as much as she liked the girl but she had reasoned that it was not for her to control her son’s life, as much as she had wanted to, he was happy and that was the important thing. Also, as with the work he now did with his father, Andreas was a skilled and cautious rider.
On the big religious holiday of August 15th he and Calliope were preparing to leave and join the celebration of a school friend’s twentieth birthday. In spite of the early evening heat they had donned helmets and leather jackets, as they went through the door they met Iannis coming home.
After jokingly kissing Calliope on the side of her full face crash helmet he turned to his son, “be careful boy” he said.
Andreas gave his father a solemn salute. “On my honour sir, orange juice the whole night and nothing but.” Iannis smiled and waved them off, it was the last time he saw his son alive.
The party had been an uninspiring affair and at eleven thirty Calliope had kissed his cheek and told him it was time to go. As they approached the last tight bend in the road before Katsimila, Andreas, already not going especially quickly, saw headlights washing the tarmac, a vehicle coming up the hill form the village, he changed down a gear and slowed still further. The headlights belonged to a white, mid-sized Fiat van, having stayed to long at a bar in the harbour the driver was drunk, travelling too fast to take the corner and had not even noticed the single light coming down towards him.
The van swung wildly around the bend, slewing across the white line, Andreas swerved and almost made it. The rear corner of the van struck the back wheel of the Honda a few millimetres behind Calliope’s left foot, the bike instantly turned traitor in his hands, wobbled and then jack-knifed to the right. There was a good sized boulder, where the shrine would be placed two months later, the front wheel hit it square on and they were both flung over the top toward the undergrowth. Calliope described a full, neat somersault before landing on her back in a thorn bush, the helmet and jacket gave her good protection, but her legs and hands were badly scratched, otherwise she was unharmed. Andreas hit the Cyprus tree, broke his neck, and died at once. The van had carried on, neither it, nor its driver, were ever found.
The awful torrent of grief and shock that flooded in on Sofia left her walking in a stupefied daze for three weeks, through the nightmare of the funeral and the inevitable coming and going of friends and family, trying vainly to provide comfort and support. But as terrible as her ordeal was, it was nothing compared that of Iannis. Their son’s death completely destroyed her husband, it was as if some malevolent parasite had taken residence inside and was consuming him from within, he was an empty husk of a man, staring into space for seemingly hours at a time. Sofia thought that eventually his heart would simply break apart and he would die too, sat in his chair, mourning his boy.
Life went on, they both returned to work and tried to pick up the pieces of their fractured existence. In late October of that endless year on a wet, windy day, the boulder had been removed from the crown of the bend and the shrine took its place. Sofia hated the thing, it seemed to mock her, keeping the image of her son hostage behind plastic glass for all time. In spite of her feelings she had steeled herself to return each year on the day before Easter to clean it and make it presentable. Andreas had been laid to rest in the small cemetery on the hill at the northern end of the village, his father had joined him twelve years later.
Iannis had been working in the garden behind their little house on a beautiful early spring day, he had knelt beside a terracotta pot to remove some small weeds from around a hydrangea. He suddenly clutched the left side of his chest and without further sound or drama crumpled to the ground. Sofia found him several minutes later, she called an ambulance, but he was dead long before it arrived. He was fifty nine. Father and son now lay side by side, next to a vacant plot.
Sofia went back to her bag and brought out a crucifix made of red glass, as she was putting it inside, a medium sized four by four came up the hill from the village, this time instead of blipping the horn the driver pulled in to the side and got out. The tall man with a black moustache strode across the tarmac and joined her. She smiled, this one had been amongst the first of her pupils, a real rascal and far too clever for his own good, but seeing him lightened her a little.
“Good morning, Dimitri”, she said, he smiled back and bent to kiss her cheek.
“Good morning Sofia, I knew you would be here, so I brought you these” he handed her a small spray of bright, spring flowers, she thanked him and placed them on
the ground in front of the shrine.
Lambakis looked in at the photograph. “It must be twenty years now.”
“Nineteen” she corrected. “But what is a year, and anyway, Master Lambakis, your arithmetic was never good.”
They both allowed themselves to laugh a little. They passed the time of day as old friends do, eventually he excused himself.
“I must be going, I need to get to Nafplio to buy supplies and be back in time to open the shop, it’s a busy day today.”
He made to leave then stopped and returned to her side, her took her hand for a moment and held it tightly.
“They were both fine men Sofia.”
“Yes,” she said. “They were.”
He got back in his car and drove away, up the hill.
Sofia Katselos took of her headscarf and used it to mop her brow before stuffing it into her dress pocket, then she bent and picked up the blue shopping bag, she gazed in at the still smiling Andreas.
“Goodbye, my only one” she said softly. “Your mummy loves you, and she always will.”
She turned and began to walk down the hill toward the village. As always at this time, her eyes were dry, and her heart in a thousand pieces.
A View From The Sea
Nikos Kelesidou leaned forward and allowed the soft pencil to hover just above the canvas, there was no look of intense concentration on his even features, his face like his mind, was almost a blank. It was the way he had worked for more than twenty years, at times he was barely conscious and the pencil or brush would race across the surface as if propelled by some invisible will. For a moment he was completely motionless, the only movement came from a light breeze flowing through the ground floor basement of his house, which gently ruffled the wiry, greying hair on his head, then the pencil began swaying back and forth in mid air a few centimetres at a time, it stopped, and then lowered itself slowly to the rough surface and began to sketch. At first the lines he drew made little sense, but as he continued shapes started to appear; of houses and trees, mountains and in the foreground, hotels and bars, a harbour with many boats, big yachts rubbing shoulders with tiny fishing craft. And people, little representations of ordinary life in an unremarkable but somehow timelessly beautiful place, it was the latest version of his favourite subject, a view of Katsimila as seen from the sea. He had done this many times, he no longer derived any aesthetic pleasure from the work or the result, it did however have one great advantage over everything else he created, it sold well.
