But he forced himself to stop his reminiscing; with self-reproach he confronted it and refused to dwell on frivolous desires. As much as possible he tried to erase his recollections from another place and time. This had become an annual impasse, when he was eagerly planning the celebrations of his Name-Day in Toronto; at the same time he recalled the beauty and customs of the other country more than five thousand miles away. It drained him. When would this dilemma end? Today he was overcome with blissfulness; he had plenty to be thankful for, and much to celebrate. Any nostalgia for Greece would not do today; nothing could spoil his special day, he thought, as he stepped into the bakery.
“Yum-yum, Kyria Katina, the aroma of your freshly baked bread and cookies is delectable, and when it’s combined with the cinnamon, it sends me to heaven.”
“Kalimera, George and Chronia Polla, ‘many years’ to you on your Name-Day, my boy,” said the bakery’s tireless proprietor. In her sixties, she cheerfully greeted the barber in her white uniform and the black net on her head.
“Efharisto, Kyria Katina, thank you. I’ve come for your finest sweets, nothing but the best for my customers.”
The baklava, a delicious pastry, its layers of transparent dough alternated with a sugary spiced nut mixture, soaked entirely in fragrant sweet syrup made with honey, lemon and cinnamon, caught his attention.
“Two dozen of these please, and a dozen of those sweet nutty biscuits covered in icing sugar.” George continued to browse the other delicacies behind the glassed counters, and as Kyria Katina eagerly packed his favourites, he reflected on his blessedness. This shopping experience reminded him of his good fortune. The existence of these baked goods – the familiar sweets he grew up with in Greece – could be found here in Toronto, a city across the Atlantic from the place where he was born. This realization generated in him a wave of contentment. Something like a shudder went down his spine. He considered it a kind of holiness in calling Canada home. It was a welcoming country, where he was able to make a good living for himself and his young family and he could still enjoy the traditions of his old country.
That he was known as a ‘Greek-Canadian’ to his neighbours and friends did not humble George, but on the contrary, it was a source of pride for him. It did label him a mixed person, of having one foot in Greece and the other in Canada, but George delighted in his half and half makeup. His boundless passion for Greek music, dance, food and history was familiar to all who knew him. And yet, he adored Canada. Its physical vastness and beauty fascinated him. A loyal Maple Leaf fan, he was glued to the television set on Saturday evenings for the thrilling hockey game. Recently, his young son Demitri had expressed an interest in minor league hockey. And George couldn’t have been more pleased to buy him the required equipment. Every Sunday afternoon his loved ones enjoyed the excursions in Toronto’s parks where they picnicked during the summer and skated in the winter.
Along with his parents, George had come to Canada in his late teens. Not interested in schoolwork, he worked at odd jobs here and there and eventually apprenticed with a barber until he opened his own barbershop. George’s business reinforced his affection for Canada, his adopted country. The material rewards were one aspect of his satisfaction; but this was the least important to him. More than anything he enjoyed his trade and the friendship of his diverse clientele. His customers, from the elderly to the toddlers entering his shop for the first time, and from the progressives to the more traditional—they all added colour and drama to his work. Like troopers full of medals, they strutted in to enjoy the ritual of the trim to both hair and moustache, whose condition helped define their manliness. They trusted George to guide them in formulating their style. Besides his creativity with the comb and scissors, George was a faithful listener; he knew the details of their troubles, successes, ambitions and disappointments. On many occasions he consoled his customers and they in turn comforted him. He learned from them, not just personal facts about themselves and their loved ones, but they informed him about Canadian issues and the latest events from Greece. They walked in with the newspapers in hand or letters they had received from the old country. And their views on the current topics of both countries generated the most heated discussions and added excitement to his days.
II
Overloaded with the white boxes of treats, which were decoratively tied with blue ribbons, George struggled to open his shop; once inside he placed them on the counter and pulled the string of the venetian blind. Sunlight glared in. The entire long and narrow shop sparkled: the lily white walls, the vinyl checkered floor and the burgundy leather barber’s chair. Quickly, he removed his jacket and dressed in his clean, white top; washed his hands and gathered a freshly laundered white towel from a cupboard below the counter. On the counter itself, the base of the oversized mirror, neatly laid the scrupulously cleaned razors, scissors, combs and bottles of eau de Cologne.
It was now half past eight and he looked forward to hearing his customers’ congratulations. Yesterday, he had bought a couple bottles of whiskey and some ouzo and had stayed longer than usual to wash and sterilize his utensils. Everything had been planned to perfection.
Punctual as usual, his first customer, Leon Politis – tall and casually dressed, with long fair hair – entered his shop.
“Kalimera, George.” Leon’s greeting – with head down, and drooped shoulders – was almost inaudible and his steps were heavy and forced, as if his legs were about to buckle beneath him.
“Kalimera, Leon. What’s the matter?” His sorrowful brown eyes reflected George’s anxiety. Opposite him stood a transformed Leon—not the jovial fellow he knew, whose usual good spirits were contagious. Now he seemed like a man who had been hit by a tidal wave of grief; pale, the bags under his eyes betrayed a sleepless night. His reddish eyes revealed that tears had coursed down his face, and now it was as dry as a wrung cloth.
“Greece… it deserves better. Yes, our patrida…, special place, merits something different,” Leon mumbled and turned the silver ring on his pinky incessantly.
“I’m sorry, Leon, but what are you saying?” George’s question was full of concern and desperation, and his unease intensified when Leon did not respond right away.
Slowly, Leon reached for the Toronto Telegram, tucked under his arm. He placed the newspaper on the counter and with his index finger tapped twice on its screaming headline: A COUP! TANKS ROLL IN ATHENS!
“Have you not heard the news, George? Our beloved Greece has been taken over by dictators. Military men took over our little country two days ago. April 21, 1967 will be recorded in Greece’s history!”
“No. I have no clue. I worked very late last night and felt tired, never saw the news. How could something like this happen?”
From sheer exhaustion, Leon gripped the back of the barber’s chair and brought his friend up-to-date. At times quoting from the newspaper’s account, and at others, remembering the latest details he heard on the CBC radio, Leon, in halting sentences, and making every effort to control his anger, described the historic day for his barber: Three military officers, colonels in rank, known as ‘The Junta’, declared martial law in Greece. Hundreds of armoured trucks, tanks and troops were deployed in major urban centres. Led by Colonel Papadopoulos, The Junta claimed that communists were a serious threat to the nation. And as a result, thousands of left-wing activists and leaders were arrested and put in prison camps. Torture was used to extract confessions or to make prisoners name other socialists and communists. Newspapers were shut down. Suppressions of the unions were introduced. Labour strikes and recurring demonstrations of any kind were forbidden. Popular songs were banned. Plays, poetry and prose were all subject to censorship. By all accounts individual freedoms were restricted.
George listened intensely in disbelief; perplexity masked his face. He did not know what to say or do. The unsettling atmosphere in his old country was familiar to him; poverty and exploitation were a perfect breeding ground for instability. In the elections that were to
be held next month, the centrist party was expected to win. The Nationalists felt that the disorder prevalent in the country was not conducive to a democratic process like an election though, and were vehemently hostile to the growing Left. The upcoming election was cancelled by the Colonels. It was definitely a time of brewing resentment and uncertainty. But George was shocked to learn just how badly things had deteriorated.
Leon Politis was not just another customer for George but a dear friend. He felt so sorry for him now, so sorry that he couldn’t bear to see his immeasurable sadness. They saw each other frequently. Leon owned a frodistirio, a local tutorial service in mathematics for Greek-Canadian youngsters requiring extra help on this subject. His passion and genius for math was well known in Toronto’s Greek community and Leon was popular. After graduating from the University of Toronto, he taught math at a nearby collegiate. But his disdain for rules compelled him to leave his position and open his frodistirio, which grew into a rewarding business. His enthusiasm for numbers touched his students like a torch and they excelled in their math classes in Toronto’s schools.
Besides Leon’s zeal for teaching mathematics, politics also engaged him. As a youngster he had grown up in Drapetsona, a poor district in Piraeus harbour, where the refugees from Asia Minor had settled in the early twenties. He had seen poverty head on and had been exposed to all sorts of political ideas. Both his father and his grandfather had been trade union officials and socialist beliefs ran in Leon’s veins. After Greece’s civil war, following World War II, the children of the Left faced a grim future in their country. Encouraged by his father, Leon jumped at the chance to immigrate to Toronto when an aunt offered to sponsor him.
Weary, Leon leaned on the barber’s chair, continued to turn the ring on his pinky and stared in front of him, blinking, vacant. He not only mourned the death of Greece’s democracy, which revolted him beyond belief, but he was concerned about the safety of his elderly parents.
“I tried calling my parents all night, George, but the lines… busy signals, couldn’t get through. Couldn’t connect with my sister either. You see the seven-hour difference between the two countries does not help…”
“Don’t worry, Leon, I’ll phone Anna and ask her to try calling them again today.”
“Efharisto, George. And look, I’m sorry but I won’t be staying for my usual trim today. There are so many things we can do to confront this undemocratic act. I have to call our priest and the Greek community’s president to help us organize a rally at Toronto’s city square to voice our concerns. Perhaps we can draft letters to our provincial and federal members of parliament and ask them to raise their concerns with the Greek dictators. We could even appeal to The Honourable Prime Minister Lester Pearson. There’s so much we can do to resist…”
“Resist? Resist what, my friends?” The familiar, gruff voice belonged to Gus Kardoulis, as he swung the door open, closed it behind him and walked in the barbershop in his usual purposeful manner. The neighbourhood’s successful tailor, Gus, dressed in a dark three-piece suit, was not known for his patience; his prominent ears and hooked nose stood out along with his swarthy complexion. Locals knew him as a man easily moved to anger and for having an eagle’s eye for profit. A shrewd entrepreneur, he understood that formal dress was important to Greek-Canadians, and that they preferred made-to-measure suits, as opposed to buying them off the rack in Toronto’s clothes shops. Their certainty that suits lent people both status and dignity, and well-cut clothes in the old country’s style gave them classiness, had enriched Gus.
The tailor’s glance fell on the Toronto Telegram’s front page and he then turned to Leon. “I see you read the news about Greece,” he continued, and his comment sounded like a taunt. “Well, if you ask me, it was just a matter of time before the brave military intervened. What choice did it have, my friends? Someone had to restore peace and order, given all those demonstrations.”
With his head bowed, Leon turned his ring again on his little finger and tried hard not to be provoked by the tailor. But Gus seemed to take a masochistic pleasure in probing the depths of political differences between himself and other fellow Greeks. “Yes, sir, Greece more than anything needs law and order now. And as far as I’m concerned, the tougher the measures are from the military, the better. Imposed martial law, that’s the answer; it’s the only way, with those sorts of people…”
“Well, neither George nor I asked for your opinion,” snapped Leon, “but what do you mean by ‘those sorts of people?’
“All the rabble rousers of course, the demonstrators, the anarchists and communists…”
“Excuse me!” Leon cried. “Please do not label all the decent and desperate people who were protesting for justice, democracy and equality. There is a link between injustice and unrest; many progressives were seeking political reforms, and thousands hit the streets, because the desire to defy had spread like an epidemic. But don’t dismiss the disillusioned and deprived with one brush stroke as ‘those sorts of people’…
“They were all anarchists and communists and Soviet-backed communists to boot,” interrupted Gus, with a glint in his eyes. “To law and order, let’s hear it for the dictatorship!” he countered.
Leon knew that if he continued this discussion with the arrogant tailor over the rights and wrongs of Greece’s dictatorship, they would be at each other’s throats. To avoid a fight, he decided to leave, but before Leon departed, he confronted Gus again, with a distinctly triumphant edge in his voice: “Don’t ever forget my friend that ‘those sorts of people’ care deeply about participation in the way you and me are governed. It is this participation that has produced the world’s oldest democracy, which has brought freedom and justice to millions of people for more than two and a half thousand years. It is no accident that Canadians and so many other people worldwide consider themselves children of Greece. But two days ago, democracy died in our beloved patrida, so this is a time for mourning, not a time to gloat. We will resist!”
With a huff Leon was about to storm out of the barbershop. Just before he departed, he turned towards George. There was a long sadness in his face, without malice but full of disappointment; his blue, sorrowful eyes appeared to be asking, ‘have you no thoughts on this matter, George?’ In the meantime, as Leon had challenged Gus, other clients had entered George’s barbershop. Half of the people in the room now clapped and cheered Leon on. The other half had sided with Gus and before long, the two factions created a ruckus. The group which had sided with Leon blamed America’s foreign policy and held it responsible for imposing The Junta in Greece. The other side reveled in the idea that stability would result from the dictatorship, bringing prosperity to the old country. Their gesticulations and disorderly conversation could be seen and heard outside, to the point where a passing police officer popped his head in the door and asked, “Everything OK in here, George?”
“Fine, we’re fine, Paul. Thanks,” George replied. Weariness possessed him. Throughout the heated discussion, he never uttered his opinion. Disengaged, alone, he was like a small fishing boat struggling in the rough seas as the waves splashed it on both sides. The idea of taking sides did not sit well with George. The barber’s discretion and tact were the job’s prerequisites. Any comments about clients or their views on any subject he kept tucked away, and produced them when it was safe to do so. Perhaps this was one reason for his popularity.
But now he regretted his silence. And if his shop were empty, he would scold himself openly. Whatever happened to his faithful friendship with Leon? He should have stood up for his friend, for he agreed with him. Yes, democracy had died in his patrida, and what did it matter whether The Junta in Greece would bring peace and prosperity, as some of his clients claimed? Isn’t freedom far more important? Freedom, he reflected, consists in retaining our right to disagree with the state’s purposes and express our objections and goals without fear of retribution. Lost in his thoughts, George failed to notice that one by one, his clients had departed, wi
thout their usual trim. After the bewildering chaos, his barbershop drifted into an unfamiliar silence.
George’s temples pulsed and his stomach grumbled from hunger. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was well past lunchtime, and he regretted the fact that none of his clients congratulated him on his Name-Day. The events in Greece had consumed everyone; the opportunity to toast his ten years in business never came up. The piles of boxes with the sweets, which he had eagerly purchased in the morning, were never opened. And even though his hunger pangs were growing more acute by the minute, he couldn’t bring himself to open one of them. George’s soul had been agitated like the waters when disturbed by a stone. An inclination to be alone took hold of him; it turned into an impulse to close shop. Every time his melancholy swelled inside him, he had a need to go somewhere. And that’s what he would do, depart from his barbershop early and leave everything behind.
On his way out though, he realized that he couldn’t go home right away, and a great long sigh left his dry mouth. He couldn’t face his wife Anna just yet. She would notice and feel his melancholy, and he simply couldn’t bear to discuss the day’s events, especially with someone who had such boundless love for him. Theirs was a special marriage. It was a union of exceptional closeness that could pick up a subtle sign of mood change; the merest hint of distress or ill health was always betrayed in lacklustre hair, sallow skin or gloomy eyes. Anna would detect his sadness, George thought, just as she usually noticed his lingering smile. He had to kill some time; he yearned for something that would make him forget, forget the events in Greece and forget the planned celebrations that never happened. It was now two forty and he remembered that at three o’clock the nearby movie theatre featured a matinee every day. He headed towards it.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 7
