We bumped against each other and mingled in the courtyard of St. Nicholas, an all-white chapel with blue shutters and tall cypress trees around it. All three of us found ourselves in mana’s embrace. She hugged us fiercely. We clung to each other just as our wet clothes – my breeches and mana’s and my sisters’ denim skirts, smothered in red, greasy mud at the bottom – clung to our flesh. As one soaked mass, we rocked to and fro, and more than anything I wanted our wet, tangled bodies to stay in that moment as much and as long as possible. I licked the salty raindrops on mana’s arm, felt her heart pounding and sniffed the familiar jasmine fragrance in her bosom.
What a bountiful and warm affection. In my twelfth year, it gave me a rush of happiness, and that feeling has been neatly folded and stored in my memory like objects that are placed tidily one on top of the other in a drawer. When mana released us, she motioned us to place our fruit baskets on the white windowsill. “Isn’t this lovely, after the long dry summer? We needed this first September rain my angels or rather mother earth needs it. Enjoy the delicious smell of the leaves and wet earth mingled with the salty smell of the nearby sea.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and a few wet strands of her dark hair covered her cheeks. It was true. After the intensity of the summer’s heat, with its furnace-strong temperatures, this rainfall was welcoming. And as it dripped from the chapel’s rooftop onto the fruit, mana caressed the soaked baskets. I reached out and offered her a fig, my sister Georgia, a cluster of grapes and young Penelope, a pear. Mana thanked us for the earth’s gifts and said, “Greece’s fruits, my children, are scarce but delicious! Especially here in the southern part of the Peloponnese peninsula where I believe the incomparable brilliant sun and the winter’s rainfall yield the tastiest crops. Where else could you taste such sweet grapes, which have been intrinsically linked to Greece since the time of Homer? Where else could you find pears with this rosy down, figs with such a compact flesh, or the scorned cactus pears with their unique flavour between a cantaloupe and a banana?”
Mana smiled, hugged us again and continued, “The more humans toil and water the earth with their sweat, the more they are presented with the sweetest crops.” Two black ants on the sun-baked earth struggled as they dragged a black raisin to their nest, repeatedly stopped, turned sideways and around all the obstacles, but never lost sight of their destination. “Take a good look, my children and learn to enjoy all that is beautiful around you, because everything is all one miracle, one fleeting miracle which fades by the time we realize it.”
II
After we lighted some candles and kissed the icons in St. Nicholas, in my mind we left the building and welcomed the luminous sunshine, as it was now streaming through the gaps of the passing dark clouds. Everything glittered. A kindly warmth enveloped us and we could distinguish even the tiniest pebble on the red dusty road. The shadows of the olive trees adorned the thirsty earth and I couldn’t get enough of the light and the ethereal colour of the clear sky. An urge to sing possessed me and made the three-kilometre trek back to our house a thrill. At the base of the mountain, which commended a grand view of the valley below and the blinding glare of the sea further out, sat our small whitewashed house.
That we were to take off our wet and dirty clothes, wash up, rest awhile and do some homework before supper were the litany of instructions from mana, way before we entered our house. In her velvety voice, she implored us to take care, and she never had to repeat her commands. When my sisters disappeared into their room, and I was about to part the embroidered curtain, which divided our tiny kitchen and our humble living room, someone tapped the front door. Mana walked towards it and I slipped in the kitchen.
“Tasos! Welcome,” she whispered and then lowered her head. She then led him to the round table with the laced tablecloth in the centre of our living room. Multi-coloured flowers in a vase had been placed in the centre, a small detail on mana’s part, but one which tastefully transformed the modest room.
“Good afternoon, Maria and forgive me for coming at this time when you probably want to rest…”
“Oh, no, there’s plenty for me to do, but…”
“Are you alone? I have to talk to you.” Mana must have gestured to him that we were upstairs because Kyrio Tasos continued to talk in a low tone, almost inaudible. At first I hesitated, but curiosity overcame me and I turned to my side, and parted the curtain slightly to be within earshot.
“Please listen to me, Maria. You know that I’ve made more money in America than I need for myself. It’s impossible for me to see you struggling to raise three children on your own…”
“Tasos…”
“No, no, let me continue, you know that I’ve always loved you. When you married Demitri, I couldn’t bear it and immigrated to America. Now I’ve come back because my feelings for you have not changed. If you don’t love me, accept me for your children’s sake. They need a father, and I promise to do everything possible for their future. They’ll attend the best schools and I’ll love them as if they were my own, Maria. I promise you.”
His voice sounded sincere, but mana remained silent as if she was struggling to find a balanced answer. During the silent moments, I found it hard to breathe, and my body was clammy and cold; my head throbbed and my heart pounded. A weakness took hold of me, especially my limbs to the point where I needed to kneel.
“Well…? Kyrio Tasos asked in a low tone, full of agony.
“You’re a good man, Tasos, and I thank you for your kind feelings, but I cannot accept your proposal. Please let me explain. You loved me when I was a pretty teenager and you probably remember all the fun we had. Perhaps you continue to see me as I was then Tasos, I’m not a young girl anymore, but a tired old woman!”
“You’re not an old woman. To me you’re more beautiful now.”
“My dear Tasos, I’m delighted to have an admirer like you, but I must decline. I’m not just a weary woman, but also a mana. I would not be worthy of this title if I gave a stepfather to my children. A stepfather – no matter how good he is – can never replace the father. And even if he truly loves the other’s children, the children themselves won’t love him.”
“Your children love me. You should have seen Pete yesterday, how well we hit it off during the fishing trip.”
“My children love you as a relative or a true friend, as someone who gave them a little happiness by reminding them of the father they worshipped. But when they become aware that you’ve taken his place, they will resent you. And the worst part, they will hate me, the unworthy mana who forsook their father. I may have regrets and loathe myself.”
“Maria, you are complicating a very simple situation. The children are mature enough to face a new reality. You must see that it is troubling for them to see you struggling to raise them by yourself. It saddens them to see you get up every morning before dawn for olive picking during the freezing rain and cold winds; how long can you endure it? What if something happens to you? What will become of the children?”
“Life’s trials are for humans, Tasos; with courage we’ll find our way. Up to now my loneliness has given me a kind of pride which has been my strength. Besides, everything is in God’s hands. Is there anyone in this world who knows whether he’ll be alive tomorrow? Your proposal, my good friend, moves me; it gives me comfort in my difficult journey since Demitri’s passing five years ago. Oh, I know what I’m losing by declining your offer, but I’ll win the serenity of my soul and the love of my children…”
“Think about it carefully, Maria. Your journey will be long and tough. America has a lot more to offer your children than Greece.”
“No, Tasos, I will not think about it. Please understand that I’ve made up my mind. For a few weeks now I was wondering what I would say to you; I had suspected the reason for your visits. And if I find that the obstacles to my journey become unbearable, I’ll consider immigrating to Toronto, Canada, where Demitri’s cousin lives as he has repeatedly offered to sponsor us. But keep in mind that our ra
ce does not yield easily. We have inherited the capacity to face life boldly, a boldness which I want to pass onto my children. Goodbye, my good friend.”
“Goodbye, Maria. Kiss the children for me and give them my love.”
I heard Kyrio Tasos’ steps, as they faded in our courtyard, I tried to get up but my body’s every fibre was leaden. Glued to the cold tiled floor, it was as if I needed an oversized pulley to lift me. I noticed mana had returned to the table, buried her face in her palms and had a good cry. I don’t know how long I sat there with my eyes fixed on the ochre tiles. But every word of mana’s exchange with Kyrio Tasos remained in my mind. And after I had replayed their conversation, all the previous situations which made mana worthy of motherhood paraded through my thoughts. It’s difficult to find the precise words to describe her nurturing nature in every instance. Suffice to say that when I got hurt, she suffered; when I had a high fever, she burned; when I was upset, she cried; and when I was cold, she shivered. In short, when I was in pain, she was the kind of mana whose unforgettable deep sighs told me, be patient my child, it will pass.
III
A poke in my ribs from my sister Georgia’s elbow jolted me back inside the Funeral Home. Dazed, I stifled a yawn, and saw her crossed dark eyes turning towards Father Gregory who had finally arrived in his black cassock. He stood at the side of the open coffin and started chanting the Trisagion by repeating three times: “Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy and Immortal have mercy on us… May she rest in peace, may the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace…” Standing, with my hands clasped in front of me, I did everything possible to escape my state of semi-awareness; I resolved not to think at all, to erase, and totally escape my memories. But in vain. No sooner had I made the resolution than my thoughts drifted back to the time and place of my twelfth year. It was as if the more I tried to concentrate and participate in the solemn service here in Toronto, the more a curious force dragged me back to that day in Plitra, Greece of long ago. Mana’s overwhelming conversation with Kyrio Tasos, the secret I had not shared with anyone, not even my sisters, gave me a wavelet of happiness. And I found myself inclined to continue to isolate myself from the present event and delve into the past, searching perhaps for some insight that would explain the state of elevation when I looked back.
Wafts of incense billowed from the censor as Father Gregory swung it to and fro towards the coffin and prayed for the forgiveness of sins. Through the smoke’s rising rings, I glanced at the open coffin again and the Panagia Platytera’s icon rekindled the solace I experienced when I first saw it. The scene mesmerized me. It was as if some new, penetrating feeling awakened and simmered in my soul. My heart seemed to loosen and grow larger, filling me with understanding and hope. An inexplicable joy took hold of me, a joy that I used to experience the nights I got up and looked at the stars in the infinite sky. Those clear silent nights when the soft breeze brought the fragrance of the blooming acacia bush in our courtyard. Staring at the Panayia Platytera, at once visible and invisible, her brown, ovoid eyes – holy and human through the smoke – met mine, and the more I gazed at Her, the more I began to accept the fact that it was pointless to resist my memories. And finally the flash of enlightenment came – it was as if Her Holiness had intervened and untied the troubling knots after I had given up tugging at their loose threads. Perhaps the past enthralled me because that day mana had given me the peace of mind that every twelve-year-old craves. That mana loved me totally gave me a rush, a rush of bliss, and I relished it then and treasure it now. Warmth from her affection kept me warm throughout my teens. Even now, though lifeless, mana’s face projected an expression of love, and I could feel it: firm, complete, without regrets or anxieties.
But at this time, slowly but clearly, I also realized mana’s tenacious grip on life which showed me her inner strength – a strength that enabled her to be both a mother and a father and to forsake her dreams and hopes for her children. Resilient and resolute, mana’s stamina illustrated for me that there is, indeed, something greater than love: there’s sacrifice. Mana did what her heart told her to do at the time and she did it gallantly and graciously because her boundless affection made self-sacrifice so much easier. I remember her telling me once that “if there were more people in this world who would give their time, energy and life for others, our world would be a better place.” Throughout her life, she mentioned death often and had convinced my sisters and me that she wasn’t afraid of it. “Life and death are siblings, my children. I’m not afraid of death, but I hope it comes quickly as a friend so that you will not have to suffer.”
And now I know what mana means for me, for you, and for every human being. It stands for the beautiful being who loves us more than anybody else around us. And even if we commit the greatest crime and everyone wants to stone us, our mother will stand firm by our side and will sacrifice herself to save us. Mana means self-sacrifice, something greater than love, something noble and sacred. Her central and singular goal in life is the well-being of her children.
As for my confusion that I had no tears at mana’s funeral, I now know that I had inherited something from mana that not even death could take away from me. I was the only heir to her secret, and with it, I had inherited her tender heart. Her instinct to show compassion towards others, to love nature with all its mystery and beauty, had been bequeathed to me, and I felt indissolubly bound to mana. Affection and spirit have no gender, and a man’s soul can harbour the same treasures. From an early age, I had become aware of the beauty and the power of human love and goodness. As well, my love for animals, birds and insects, so innocent and defenceless, give me so much joy; I inherited that from my mana. Her dedication to volunteerism had been passed on to me, and her passion for gardening flowed in my veins.
Just as I stepped outside with the other five pallbearers, the sun broke through the clouds’ gaps; its warmth seemed to affirm my confidence that mana had not passed away now. She merely left our house and reposed in my heart, in my blood and in my soul. As befitting the sombre occasion though, I walked with a serious expression during the funeral procession. But instead of tears in my eyes, the attendees who looked closely would have noticed a gleam of pride and joy.
“Blessings to the endless love and kindness of your little soul, mana mou,” I whispered under my breath as we proceeded towards the hearse.
At George’s Barbershop
Woe to the one who loves two countries. Often repeated by his blessed father, this saying crossed George Sakis’ mind today. It was April 23, Saint George’s Feast Day and doubly special for George. With the accustomed fanfare, he would be celebrating his Name-Day; also on this day ten years ago, George opened his beloved barbershop. As he walked towards it along Danforth Avenue in Toronto’s Greektown at eight in the morning, the serenity in his heart bordered on elation. There was damp in the air, but the biting winds had receded, all the snow had melted and the sun had already broken through the clouds promising a warm spring day. George felt the breath of spring in the soft chilly air and he quickened his step on his way to the Akropol Bakery first to buy some sweets for his customers.
In his early forties, dressed in a smart tweed jacket and dark pants, with his dark curly hair, George appeared confident and friendly. He imagined the glorious spring in Greece’s countryside, his former homeland, with the sweet fragrance of its wild flowers – vibrant daisies, aromatic freesias and the graceful poppies – making their dazzling appearance everywhere. A wave of tenderness permeated George’s entire body at the thought. In the unforgettable past, he relived the sparkling clean whitewashed house, his ancestral home, with the endless rows of potted flowers on its ledges. The aroma from the freshly baked sweets in the rows of glass containers attracted everyone into the large kitchen. Deep from within, his recollections surged and he pictured the rows of magnificent mountains, covered with shrubs, chestnut and pine trees, with the remote villages perched on their peaks.
Glancing around him now, all he saw were the mul
titude of cars, parked on the sides of the road or streaming east and west, in their metallic colours. The stench from the car fumes was overpowering, and the dreariness of the wet sidewalk dampened his effervescence. From the barrels of salt cod outside Mike’s Fish Store, the saltiness in the breeze was sharp. And between the bars and clubs, displaying both the Greek and Canadian flags, were multiple grocery stores with heaps of fruit and greens. After passing a number of clothes, shoe and coffee shops, George winced when he reached Jason’s Meat Market and saw the lifeless lambs hanging from their hocks on the steel hooks. Although he had passed by them countless times, the shock still lodged in the lambs’ eyes, tormented George.
The miniature ship liners and airplanes featured in the travel agent display windows, transported George once again to Greece’s idyllic surroundings. He remembered hanging out with his friends on sandy beaches that could be on a postcard or in a Disney film. The sea gleamed before them in jewel tones: first a bright band of turquoise, then an expanse of cobalt blue as far as the eye could see. Calm, wrinkle free its flat surface stretched in front of them like a gigantic metal sheet. And how could he forget Greece’s sundown, when the day departed and left a rosy sky?
As he walked toward the bakery at the end of the long block, George envisioned himself in his old countryside at the ‘Panegyri’, a celebration during Saint George’s Feast Day. Icons were taken from their safe sanctuaries and carried in procession by the priests; the town’s band followed them with an almost unholy cacophony of brass and drums. When the relics had been returned to the church, the endless partying started in the town’s square, where people sang and danced fervently. He remembered the vigorous rhythms of the popular bouzouki, and George couldn’t get enough of it. His memories rolled one after another, overlapped and collided. How he longed to see Greece’s blazing sun again. His wish to walk again on that blessed ground and smell the fragrance of myrtle and lavender was unbearably strong.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 6
