III
It started to rain. Big soft drops splashed on George’s hands and cheeks. A great cold shiver went through him, and stayed in his hands and knees. Instinctively, he hastened his steps towards the theatre, but his thoughts turned just as quickly to his shame over how he had kept his comments to himself. George’s guilt intensified. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone, a regret that made him physically uneasy to the point where he almost lost his bearing. And the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to make amends intensified his hurt. Why didn’t he speak up….? Why did he hide his convictions, and deny his emotions? Was it the Canadian thing to do?
In a perfunctory manner, George purchased his ticket, not knowing what the movie was about. And once inside the theatre, the stale cigarette smoke engulfed him. But it was warm, and he craved this kind of warmth right now; his shivers, which had consumed his body, subsided. To get accustomed to the darkness, he blinked regularly. It was as if he had fallen into a cave with walls of darkness. With the help of an usher’s discreet flashlight, he walked along the front row of the theatre’s upper level to find a seat. Even though the movie had started, George could hear the whispers of the over protective grandparents who had brought the grandkids along. Impatiently, they cautioned them to keep silent, finish their popcorn and focus on the movie.
Instantly, George had a deep inward shock—overwhelmed by the vast expanse of the blue ocean in front of him, with a sole submarine at its centre. It was a scene from a war movie, and from the submarine crew’s stricken faces, George discerned that the submarine had been hit and gone astray in the stormy sea. Lashed relentlessly by the raging sea, its cylindrical body shook violently in all directions. In a state of freefall, it sank deep into the bowels of the agitated ocean. Bubbles rippled upward continuously.
“SS13 where are you?” Over and over again the voice from the radio asked anxiously.
“Calling SS13, are you there?” But the questions remained unanswered and the angry sea displayed indifference for any human suffering. Attempts at communications between the administrative staff on land and the terrified crew continued persistently but unsuccessfully.
Did the SS13 resurface, or did it vanish and rest on the ocean’s bottom? George would never know; he missed the ending. Perhaps the combination of the theatre’s warmth, his hunger and fatigue had weakened George, for he dozed off for the duration of the movie. The shuffling of the other theatre goers as they prepared to leave, and the theatre’s lights, awakened him. George stretched his arms, and watched the movie’s credits roll up in their gold lettering. When the oversized red curtains came together and hid the white screen, he headed towards the exit himself.
The rain had stopped outside and the sun’s rays were struggling to pierce the large clouds. Despite the increased traffic in both directions along Danforth Avenue, the air was refreshing. The sidewalk was bustling with people, and George walked east with an unusual confidence in his steps. Just a few hours ago he had felt tired from his guilt and the gloom over Greece’s recent events. An anxiety had gripped him, which felt as if he had found himself disarmed before an enemy. But now, for some reason, his earlier tenseness had abated. An inexplicable calmness permeated his mind and he sensed an unfolding of his soul. It was comforting, as if he had returned to his house after a very long journey, removed his tight shoes and wore his comfy slippers. At times, George stared downward to avoid any glances of the passersby along Danforth Avenue and he searched for answers that would explain this new and indefinable feeling, this living thing which had stirred inside him.
The more George delved inward, he realized that he empathized with what had happened to his patrida two days ago, but for some strange reason its rawness had dissipated somewhat. The mixture of concern and longing he experienced initially was fading. It almost felt like the thread which bound him to the old country had been cut. Of course the disorderly developments in Greece saddened him, but he had reached an understanding that perhaps he couldn’t change them after all. And he no longer struggled with his conscience.
Yes, George remembered the patrida’s physical beauty and the good times he experienced as a youngster. He enjoyed talking about them with his friends and clients but they were the past. Greece seemed distant and so far away now. This new present was so different from the yesterday, like a gigantic meteor between two worlds. Was that country a piece of land or a dream, a vision? Now, George was no longer conflicted, his sense of separation had changed. It gave him a new feeling of loss, but a new sense of belonging too. Canada had been so kind and inviting.
As George waited at the corner of Danforth and Pape Avenue for the traffic light to change so that he could walk towards Pape’s subway station, he remembered his parents and their enthusiasm for the old country. In a strange way, he perceived that the significance of patrida was taking on new forms, as many forms as the mouths who pronounced the word. To George’s parents this Greek word for homeland came alive from their entire being. It could be found in their manner of dress, their olive skin, deeply furrowed foreheads and calloused hands, and in their passion for Greece’s history and culture. It spread around them like the light and the heat from the sun. Incessantly, George’s dad talked about Greece’s history and heroes, her brilliant sun and its clear blue skies, its open horizons and the vastness of its olive groves. He dreamed of returning to his old country to witness the fog again, that early morning fog which covered the rugged mountains and appeared to have come from the Creator’s hands.
But for George it was different. He, too, had been born in Greece but had lived longer in Canada. It was here in Toronto where he met and married his dear Anna. Most of his memories had been created in this country; it was here where he fulfilled his dreams. He treasured his fate and wanted to look to the future. And he cherished his barbershop. It provided him with a good living, a living that earned him many friends, a living that he wanted to celebrate today. And he would celebrate it! He glanced at his watch; there was still time for him to go home, change and go out with his beloved Anna. They would commemorate his shop’s tenth anniversary and rejoice on his Name-Day, too. Extravagantly!
No Price So High
Past midnight and dark, the grinding rasping street life was at its lowest. Bare and strange, without the oppression of its congested traffic, everything stared and glittered along Toronto’s College Street. Philip Lagis paused as he opened the door of the Olympic Flame Restaurant; his son Teddy stepped out, then Philip locked the door and joined him. They both felt March’s nippy wind on their faces and hands.
Father and son walked slowly towards Teddy’s white Chevy, parked half a block from the Olympic Flame. Philip had made this walk, either by himself or with a member of his family, around the same hour, for more than twenty years. The old man’s heavy gait was the same, his head – with its receding white hairline – sunk a little between the shoulders; the red crease of his neck was visible above the collar of his grey overcoat. Philip’s weary appearance and his seventy years belied his good spirits, and his delightful tiredness which comes from being the proud owner of his beloved restaurant.
At his side, his strapping son Teddy, keys in hand, stepped on the road and walked in front of the car towards the driver’s door. As he was about to open it, the father exclaimed, “Look Teddy; he done it! Sam Stamkos sold his building!” And with a changed low voice, the old man repeated: “My neighbour did it! He lied to me!”
The four red letters on the ‘SOLD’ sign were bold and visible and the sign was displayed high on the large window pane of the shoe store’s main floor. The three-story building was the fifth one east of the Olympic Flame. Philip Lagis and Sam Stamkos knew each other for two decades.
“They must have put the sign up this afternoon,” said Teddy, “it was not there when I pulled up at noon.”
“Yes, you right,” agreed Philip. “One more gone. All our neighbours sell out and we’re alone my son! Last year Joseph Alvarez sold his, early th
is year, George Ganas! I always believe Sam, my friend would hold out.”
“It’s the children, probably. They always wanted to sell, and I think they brought their father around.”
“Well Teddy, my boy, our whole block gonna go, startin’ from Bathurst Street is done for! All the family businesses, the fine restaurants, shoe stores, clothes and furniture—all go, gobbled up by developers!”
Sombre and silent, Teddy drove east towards Avenue Road and when they reached it, turned left and headed north. The cars far ahead resembled gigantic iron caterpillars as the neon signs pulsed and glowed on their metallic roofs. Close together in rhythmic motions, their bright round eyes illuminated the pavement. Philip stared at their mechanical movements and his heavy heart wanted to forget the ‘SOLD’ sign. If only he hadn’t noticed it; he had to erase it from his mind or else it would be a long, sleepless night for him.
He tried to empty his mind of all thoughts, and before long, his second mind and heart won out, and drifted to the red earth where he was born. How different was this ‘present’ from the ‘past.’ Inside him, was his Canada, and outside, the Greek red earth. He picked a handful and smelled its freshness; years had slipped by but he still marvelled at its rich red colour and he felt it slipping through his fingers just like his memories slipped by at this time. He saw the sea-swept boulders he frequented in his youth, and the white blossoms of the almond trees; the deep red petals of the oleander, and the aroma of oregano leaves reached his nostrils. After a hard day’s work under Greece’s scorching sun, he rested in the shade of a carob tree, closed his eyelids and listened to the incessant chirping of the cicadas.
Philip’s life in those colourful surroundings had a dark vein too. There was the pain and anguish, the scarcity and food shortages, and during and after World War II, the uncertainty, hopelessness and fear. In the stupor that had crept over him now, his departure from Greece flashed before his eyes; and he relived the suffocating bear hug his mother gave him, her sobs rang in his ears, as they had done so many times before; he wiped her tears with his lips and promised to write when he arrived in Toronto. He kept his vow and the most exhilarating act of his life was when he enclosed almost his entire first paycheque in her letter and subsequent letters for the dowries of his two sisters.
Imagine the strange leaps my memory makes, thought old Philip, as his clear vision emerged. It takes me wherever it wants. Or maybe I’m taking my memory, without knowing where, at a place where experiences have stamped my soul. How strange…
“OK, Pop, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Teddy mumbled, as he pulled the Chevy in front of a two-storey brick house on Eglinton Avenue. With his half-closed eyes, the old man appeared to have lost his bearings. “Pop, are you alright?” He gave his dad a light poke in the rib with his elbow. “You OK, Pop, you seem a little dazed, did you nap a little?”
“Oh, yes… fine, I’m fine, my boy. Thank you! We’re here. You go on home now to your dear wife.” Teddy lived with his wife a little north from his dad on Fairlawn Avenue. Philip stepped out of the car and with weary steps, the old man set off for the house. He and his wife Olga shared it with their married older son Peter, who had two boys of his own: Philip Junior aged eleven and little Paul, nine. When he stepped indoors, he heard his wife’s slippers scuffing down the floor.
“Why you no sleep?” Philip asked as he removed his overcoat, hung it in the hall closet and walked into the kitchen.
“What you like? What I get you?” Perched on the edge of the kitchen chair, like a tiny Greek angel, Olga kept her hazel eyes fixed on her husband to make sure he had what he wanted. It was the example her mother had set to her. Tapping the table with his right forefinger, Philip responded, “I need nothing. Please do me favour, go to bed.”
With the evening’s turn of events, old Philip sensed the crack in the dam. His beautiful dream of passing his beloved Olympic Flame to his two, hard-working sons, was about to collapse. Sooner or later he thought real estate agents – with a troubling offer – would be knocking on his door. He craved some time alone now. All he could think about was the folly of real estate speculation, and the ubiquitous ‘for sale’ signs that rose across Toronto in 1989. Prices had reached inflated and irrational levels, not based on any real value of the properties, but simply on the perceived future value that may or may not bear out. Sam Stamkos, Philip’s close friend, had betrayed their implied compact which bound the two of them together. Last Sunday, they had chatted at St. George’s recreational hall and Sam never mentioned anything about selling his property. Perhaps it was shame, thought Philip, which made him speechless. It’s been said that conscience of age, like the conscience of childhood, trembles under faults.
Hard-working, pious, Philip Lagis belonged to that old school of believers who have the wisdom to accept religion and live it in its entirety and under the guidance of St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church. There was not a closer and more faithful family than the Lagis folks. Sunday was special for Philip’s clan. In the morning they attended mass in St. George’s Ekklesia, afterwards they assembled downstairs in the recreational hall for coffee and sweets. A Board trustee, a key fundraiser and reliable donor, old Philip was popular and considered the church’s moving spirit—all the worshippers wanted to shake hands with him. After their socializing, Philip, his two sons and daughters-in-law, his wife Olga and their two grandchildren went for lunch at different Toronto restaurants. In the afternoon, Philip and Olga, the doting Papou and Yiayia, entertained little Philip and Paul by taking them to the movies or the local Eglinton Park. They cherished their title of ‘grandparents’ and spent as much time with the little ones as possible.
The Olympic Flame preoccupied Philip and his family the remaining six days which were long and rolled along one after another, consistent and identical. With their head held high, every family member wore different hats – the cook, the dishwasher, the planner, the cashier, the waiter, the buyer, the busboy – there was no end to the myriad of tasks. They handled the restaurant’s ups and downs with dignity, pride and passion. And with Philip at the helm, their coach and mentor, their days were draining, but colourful; their weeks, fatiguing but fulfilling and their years varied but rewarding.
II
Under a clear sky, the fiery heat of summer had ended, and as old Philip rested on his veranda in the heart of autumn, he sensed a deep feeling of well-being. His two sons, Peter and Teddy took it easy beside him. In low tones the women chatted in the other end of the veranda, and Philip Jr. and little Paul were playing hide and seek around the house. Everyone was enjoying the Sunday afternoon hush. The yellow and orange merigolds cheered up the garden and the peppermint plants, in their earthen containers, reminded the Lagis family that the cold weather had not arrived yet; there was no need to close the doors and bundle up in wool sweaters. The big maples here and there reigned over the warm afternoon, their idly swaying leaves starting to wear their fall colours. The traffic on Eglinton Avenue was light and slow, and the blissful noises of children playing leisurely on the grass across the park could be heard.
Suddenly, a long, black Oldsmobile beeped and broke the serenity of the hour; it parked abruptly in front of the Lagis’ house. The driver remained in the car, while two gentlemen in dark suits got out of the back seat hurriedly and walked toward old Philip. One of them, a heavy set man with dark features, ink black hair and black rimmed glasses, handed a business card to old Philip, who had stood up and descended the veranda’s steps to meet them.
“Are you Mr. Philip Lagis? My name is Steinberg, real estate agent. How are you, sir?” Before old Philip had a chance to reply, Steinberg continued, “my partners and I have a considerable sum of money to invest on College Street. We’re interested in your building, sir and are prepared to make you a generous offer. Please understand that I’m serious and I’ll try to answer all your questions.”
Old Philip took a step closer and his chestnut brown eyes met the visitor’s in a sudden shock of incomprehension. “Miste
’, I dono you, I undesten you are serious, but why you no come to my restauran’, why you come to my house on Sunday?”
“I’m truly sorry to encroach upon your family time, Mr. Lagis, I’ve been to your restaurant several times, but you were always so busy every time I stopped by. I wanted to discuss this quietly, with no interruptions…”
“OK, so you don’t wana encroach here and restauran’ busy and so on, etc. So, I neither waste your time, and keep it simple: I no sell my building.”
Steinberg did not seem to have heard or did not want to hear what the old gentleman said. He lighted a cigar, gestured to the old man to join him on a walkabout. He went on as a man who had encountered this kind of resistance often: “I am in a position to give you the best deal, Mr. Lagis, a deal in which the down payment alone would come to quite a sum. This gentleman here, by the way, is my lawyer Mr. Foster, who is ready to explain all the details of the offer to you.”
“Well, nice meet you Mr. Foster, but, again I say, I no sell. As long I live and my sons have their two strong arms and legs, Olympic Flame and the entire building belong to us. Thanks to God and all the Saints all pay for, so we keep it and work as always.”
“Look here, Mr. Lagis, I’m prepared to give you four hundred thousand dollars for your property, so please don’t take a stand on the matter before you hear all the details…”
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 8
