And the pouch? One day, quite unexpectedly, as I was kissing her: “Do you want to find out what’s inside?” And she raised the pouch close to me and said, “Bend down, come closer, closer so no one will hear us. I have money and my train fare. These will help me to leave from here, maybe today, or tomorrow, that’s why I’m saving all this. It’s for my departure, I’ll take the train and go to New York to bring back my grandson and then I’ll go to London to bring back my granddaughter. I’ll look after them…you’ll see, they will not be lonely anymore because I’ll be with them forever and ever.”
She was losing weight every day. Her arms and hands were transparent, one could almost see the tendons clinging to her bones, her voice weaker, and her forehead brighter; it was as if her entire life had gathered there, as if her elderly heart palpitated there on her forehead. I loved her. As for my aunt Christina and her friends who pursued happiness with a passion, the lucky ones, I was losing my patience, because they engaged in idle talk about themselves and their interests. They had arrived and would leave without their soul having been touched by any difficulty, adversity or hardship; they knew no pain and like the unripened fruit fall on the earth.
Perhaps this was a hard thing to feel on my part, but I was drawn to Sophie Petakis. In her remaining days, the flame of her soul remained inextinguishable. She still wanted to give of herself, to make others feel wanted and comfortable, happy, because she was still alive. But more than this, she commended my admiration because she cried when others weren’t able to see her; she kept her tears to herself and throughout her life scattered the reserves of joy to others around her. Isn’t this what people of enormous strength do? Don’t they lift their own weight rather than place it on the shoulders of others?
Eventually, I was not spending too much time with my mother’s friend. I was mostly interested in the familiar old lady who was leaving day by day. Sophie was not sitting in the armchair anymore. She clung to her bed, her eyes had a distant look and she held onto her pouch close to her chest. Occasionally, she became aware of my presence and said, “You’ve come.” Then she would engage in disjointed utterances. Besides the medical staff, and me she had no other visitors. All the others in the building, at least the ones I met, removed themselves from the truth, far from the end. They sat in the garden, near a window, in the light, in life itself. They pursued happiness, whereas happiness must ensue—and Sophie Petakis had discovered this truth: it is the very pursuit of happiness that thwarts happiness.
One Sunday, I found her bed empty. Her journey on earth had ended, but no one told me about it; the fact that three days earlier Father Gregory had come and performed her last rites consoled me. I did hear though that she had a beautiful funeral, many wreaths, many flowers; her two children in attendance but not the grandchildren. There were some stylish cars and a number of people from the surrounding houses looked on from their windows and balconies. Mrs. Souris with her two grandchildren watched and counted the cars going by and admired all the flowers. She told me that it was an unusually warm and bright day; even the birds honoured Mrs. Petakis, yes, their singing resembled an elegy. Impressed, Mrs. Souris said at one point, “Oh, my goodness even in death, some people are lucky.” And maybe, maybe she was a little envious, but poor Mrs. Souris had no time to think it over seriously. Those noisy brats clung to her skirt again.
Fatal News
A sensitive and kind man, Costa Papadopoulos suffered from a weak heart. His relatives and friends knew about it, and they agreed that he had to be told of his wife’s tragic death as discreetly as possible.
In halting sentences, his sister Penelope at Costa’s house went over the dreadful details of the gas explosion on St. Clair Avenue, as she heard them from Toronto’s CBC Radio. Three buildings blew up, one was Anna’s Hair Salon, and Demitra, Costa’s wife who was there early in the morning, was one of the five victims. Demitra’s sister Arianna was also at Costa’s house, and confirmed that she had talked to her sister just before the latter left for the hairdresser around nine that morning. The explosion occurred an hour later. It was now three o’clock and the police planned to announce the names of the victims during a press conference at six o’clock.
On hearing the news, Costa felt the floor failing him under his feet. Instinctively, he covered his mouth with both hands. A tall broad-shouldered man, he seemed inert without resolve, he turned slightly and faced the three pairs of eyes, fixed on him, full of concern. He rested his head on Basil’s shoulder, his younger brother who was standing next to him. Impulsively, they entwined their bodies and swayed as one figure, wept and muffled their cries on each other’s shoulder.
When they loosened their embrace, Penelope extended her arms to Costa, but he raised an entreating hand indicating a need to be alone. He dragged his numb feet and headed towards his office next to the living room. Once inside, he locked the door and sank his leaden body in his black leather chair. The room wavered and darkened, but eventually his vision cleared. Every detail of his surroundings pressed upon Costa: the clock’s tick, the statue of the bronze discus thrower and the alabaster Aphrodite, the slant of sunlight on the wall, the hardness of his wooden desk on which he leaned, his oversized calendar opened to Friday, October 24, 1975 in bold black letters. Each was a separate wound to each sense. He sank further into his chair, and was overcome by a strange weakness, lethargic-like. Time passed slowly, idly like a prolonged summer day.
But strangely, the more Costa’s soft brown eyes wandered the familiar room, his sluggishness began to wane somewhat; he didn’t know why this was happening, or what it was exactly but a change of some kind was all-encompassing. The ache in his powerless limbs and the sorrow in the depths of his soul diminished slowly but steadily and his overall anaemic state subsided.
Costa continued to survey his setting: the quiet-coloured walls which accentuated the dark bookcase with all his real estate folders, just like his silver hair emphasized his sun-tanned face; the subdued coloured Greek vases scattered here and there; the black leather sofa where he sat and closed so many deals and the chunky amber beads which decorated the wall above it. All the items were chosen by him, he had made all the decisions here… everything about the room comforted him. It warmed and relaxed him. It was the kind of warmth that comes from affection, from the knowledge that he was in a special relationship with this room, it belonged to him—he was one with his surroundings.
He felt the blood coursing in his veins and his thoughts moved beyond this room to the rest of the house—he couldn’t keep up with the wild marching of his emotions and the endless questions. Did he own anything outside this room? To whom did he belong? Was he ever one with his wife Demitra… did he experience the special relationship with the requirements that love creates… being loved as well as loving?
Courageously, he half parted his lips and answered, “No” and repeated, “no, no, no!” He halted briefly and felt warm around his bare neck; the warmth then swept up his throat and burst into flame into his cheeks… he lost his concentration momentarily.
Where was he? He struggled to grasp his uprooted thoughts… No, he had never known tenderness, that deep sense of well-being that the hug of one’s partner can give. Sometimes during the past two decades he loved Demitra, but mostly he did not. But why should he care about this now when… when? He couldn’t finish the thought; he couldn’t admit the fact that he was his own man now! There were no children and both his parents had passed away, so Costa was free to do as he wished.
To do as he wished… If only that was possible years ago. He could still hear his true Greek patriarch father Petros, “Father knows what’s right.” A heavy-set man, with a swarthy complexion, Petros did not come across as a friendly man. His moustache like the warrior of old shading the heavy lips, his bushy eyebrows and his black-olive eyes spoke of severity. Both Costa and Basil knew that their father was ferociously loyal to the old ways, and they never contradicted him.
“You boys can run around and enjoy you
rselves,” he would say, “but when it comes to marriage, you don’t know anything. I will find a nice Greek girl for you.”
And his father made all the arrangements for Costa to marry Demitra. She would give birth to the first grandson and name the little one ‘Petros’ after his Papou. And Costa, always the obedient son, complied. Why? Costa could not account for his lack of resistance. Perhaps it was just another obligation to his family, the reverence (which bordered on fear) he always showed his father; his bottomless love for his mother, who had no opinions other than those of her husband. Perhaps he blindly followed the tradition, and the meaningless traditions are usually the hardest of all to break.
But Costa could not go on thinking of the past, it was colourless and emptied of life, and if he dwelt on it too long, it would devour him. He had to concentrate on the present and wondered what he meant to do next… Of course he would do his duty once more and mourn his wife when she lay in her coffin with her hands folded on her chest. But after that! All those years ahead of him! The joys of youth had passed. Was there enough time left to accumulate new stores of happiness? There was more than enough time, he was forty-five years old. There were many years to come; he had courage, friends and money. All the trumps were on his side.
Shrouded in a state of elation, like the child who has been denied the toy for so long and finally gets it, Costa vowed that the years before him would belong to him.
A whole world waited for him; he would celebrate his release and follow his dreams. He closed his eyes and savoured his own presence. For the first time, he felt energetic, self-sufficient, almost invincible, complete and ready for anything; he would seek happiness, pursue it, find it and yield anything to keep it. Costa slapped his right thigh, swivelled his chair and dashed toward the locked door.
When he opened it, he bumped into Penelope who was standing behind it, looking around dolefully and biting her fingernails. “Oops! Sorry, my dear,” Costa slipped his arm around his sister’s waist and practically carried her along the narrow hallway to the foyer where his brother Basil and his sister-in-law Arianna were chatting.
Just as Costa was about to guide them into the living room, they heard the screen door open. Then, the main door’s latchkey turned and together with a gust of wind, Demitra flung the door open and stepped into the foyer. A plump woman with dark features, she looked bulky in her black coat with all the shopping bags full of delicacies from Toronto’s Greektown. She had gone to Anna’s Hair Salon just after nine that morning, but her hairdresser had accepted some unexpected clients and would be about an hour late. Rather than wait and flip through magazines, Demitra rebooked her appointment for the next day and went shopping on the Danforth. She actually welcomed the change, because in two days it would be Saint Demitrios Feast Day and she would be celebrating her Name-Day. She was unaware of the accident that had occurred that morning.
Amazed at Penelope’s scream, Demitra stood dumbfounded with her eyes wide open and mouth agape. Instinctively, Basil stepped in front of Costa to hold him as his body convulsed. But Basil’s intervention was too late. Costa collapsed. The ambulance crew which arrived within minutes could not revive him. According to the doctor, the thrill of seeing his wife alive was too much for Costa’s weak heart.
Something Greater Than Love
My two younger sisters acted thoughtfully when they placed the icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary in my mother’s (mana to my sisters and me), white satin lined coffin. Tastefully arranged to the right of mana’s body, its upper half rested on the casket’s edge giving us a good view.
The icon depicted Her Holiness in the gilded, multi-folded burgundy cape and Christ perched at the centre of her lap. Drawn to this colourful and appealing image, I remembered it and mana’s attachment to it well. This icon was the first item mana had packed when we crossed the Atlantic Ocean from Greece on our way to Canada more than four decades ago. She loved enunciating the icon’s name: Pa- na-yia Pla- ty- te- ra, (All-holy Lady, more spacious than the heavens), and explaining its simple message of love: “Her outstretched hands, palms up in supplication, show that the Mother of God is praying for us, and she’s extending an invitation for us to be hugged, my children. She says to us ‘come and be embraced by perfect love.’” Either to praise Her Holiness on happy occasions or to seek comfort during troubled times, mana, bent on prayer, always genuflected in front of the Panayia Platytera. It was the source of true peace for mana, and it had become her absorbing ritual, as she crossed herself constantly, stretched her hands and whispered inaudible entreaties. Her monotonous voice generated goose bumps on my flesh.
Now, in hushed steps, as if they entered a hospital room, hundreds of mana’s friends, neighbours, former co-workers and relatives lined up to the side of the casket, bowed their heads before Her Holiness, crossed themselves and lighted a candle nearby. What comfort did I derive from this scene, as mana lay peacefully in her navy suit with a white blouse underneath, her clasped hands resting on her chest. She seemed younger than her eighty-six years. A small woman, her striking face was a reminder of how pretty she must have been. Her wrinkle-free, transparent complexion, the shine of her steel grey hair (not snow white as one would expect), and her elegant slim hands gave her a younger appearance. Always active and curious in life, with a smile and a lively spirit, her goodness mushroomed around her. There was something pure and totally natural the way she spread her infinite compassion. Many called her a ‘true saintly soul.’
At her waist the oak casket was closed and covered with an oversized arrangement of white roses. Colourful wreaths – despite requests for memorial donations to the Heart and Stroke Foundation instead of flowers – decorated the walls of the visiting hall. The smoke from the burning incense ascended in circles unhurriedly towards the high ceiling and the candles’ flames flickered slowly near the coffin. A faint wind lifted and beat the tree branches against the panes of the two upper windows. Then it crept round the Funeral Home, moaning drearily.
The attendees who came to pay their respects had the same expression, sat so still, and stared in front of them or downward at the burgundy carpet. They appeared to be breathing in unison. With the exception of my sisters’ occasional sniffles (they had kept their promise to mana not to wear black but to dress in lighter colours), there were no loud lamentations. Surprisingly, given the packed hall, tranquility reigned. There was no real grief, as we waited for Father Gregory to pray with us for the redemption of mana’s soul before her internment—and that was the big mystery, a puzzling mystery. Where were the tears? My tears? I was her son, her firstborn who loved her dearly. I could see mana, now in the deepest of all slumbers in front of me, but for some strange reason I was not pulled into the vortex of grief and anguish; the impulse to bury my head in my hands and shed some tears eluded me. Overt suffering was allowed within the etiquette of the Greek Orthodox culture, if not encouraged. And the lack of any visible signs of distress on my part was baffling, and gave me restless thoughts of self-reproach.
It was odd, for the past three days there were not enough hours in the day to make all the funeral arrangements, and now it was as if time had reached a standstill. Even the minutes seemed endless while we waited for the priest. From the brass candle holder the smoke continued to creep upwards, and the wind had dropped as suddenly as it sprung. The entire hall was still, terribly still. A cough, the clearing of one’s throat and rustling of people moving in the oak pews disturbed the room’s reverent peace occasionally, but for the most part, a shroud of silence hung over, profound and eerie. Though persistent, the rain fell silently. It felt chilly and a light mist on the windows, combined with the rain, paled the hall, which was suffused with the candle-wax scent. I shuddered. A strange sentiment possessed me, an inexplicable feeling, something smothering like I was fighting my way through a stifling fog.
On the windowpane, the droplets trickled like delicate tears on the misty glass forming something intricate like embroidery; I gazed fixedly and oddly enough, foll
owed the rainfall outside the window. It gave me a full view of the drenched day, where the rain soaked the grass and the flower beds, the endless rows of cars in the parking lot and beyond the fence, the sluggish traffic on the gleaming road. While I was inside, I was outside. I could hear the water dripping from the eaves, but what a struggle it was in the dimness to see any of North Toronto’s actual houses. Turning here and there, I tried to distinguish things, and it seemed that it must be raining everywhere.
Originally soft sounding, the rain’s patter turned into a drumbeat, and it quickly became a torrential flood. Flashes of lightening lit up the landscape; the sky was aflame at all sides and the heavenly cannonade was deafening. When it eventually receded somewhat, there was spattering, something like playful feet splashing on the wet earth. Suddenly I was in a strange place, a strange field really, with clumps of bright wild flowers growing in abundance, and I was running from the rain. Hurriedly passing between olive, orange and fig trees, huge plantations of reddening tomatoes and ripening grapes encircled me as I scrambled towards an all-white chapel. I jumped over puddles and a fragrant whiff of thyme reached my nostrils; an elderly woman, black-clad and riding side-saddle, urged her weary looking donkey onwards. A tall, lean shepherd ambled behind his flock—huddled together, a tossing woolly mass the sheep appeared to be frightened of the rain. Then I heard laughter, someone in front of me, mana and behind me, my two sisters giggling, running and the cypress trees were swaying, swaying. “Take care my darlings, guard the fruit we’ve gathered,” mana said breathlessly. And with my right hand, I covered the cluster of grapes, pomegranates and figs inside the wicker basket swinging on my left arm.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 5
