The Buses and Other Short Stories

by Dora Drivas-Avramis

  Katerina stood on Seaton Street for a moment to take in the morning scene. It was mid-October and the enormous, evenly lined trees on both sides of the street stood majestic in their bright colours. Their motley leaves, the translucent yellow and dark red, were particularly appealing, and Katerina craned her neck as far as possible to see the peaks. At times, the leaves yielded softly to the light breeze, stirred and touched one another; they whispered uneasily and waited for something. Was it the rain or the smile of the sun? Katerina walked some more and remembered the shorter and ever-present olive and fig trees which she encountered daily during her five kilometre trek to Molae. Those trees, together with the quintessential flame-shaped cypress, did not lose their leaves in winter; constancy pervaded all year long, both in colour and shape, throughout the Greek countryside. Her feet welcomed the paved sidewalk, as opposed to the rough gravel road back home.

  Katerina’s soul opened its eyes and pricked its ears to take in all of Toronto’s colours and sounds. Attached to each other, all the houses had the same structure, there was a unity to them in shape and size, and the well kept lawns, tended with loving precision, delighted her; there was something enduring about the orderly arrangement of these houses that gave the street an enviable harmony.

  As she admired the exterior features of Seaton Street, Katerina’s soul, like a sponge, had absorbed all the details her uncle had told her about the people living inside these houses: who had come from all over the world. Their neighbours spoke English, German, Italian, Portuguese and many other languages unknown to her. At first she thought she had come to the tower of Babel. Only, and this was the strange part, there was no confusion in her neighbours’ voices. Their language, music, food and religions were different, but they could communicate with each other, a common thread tied them together, the thread which sewed the same dreams, the aspirations and the hopes for a better future. Some worked during the day and slept at night, but others slept throughout the day and worked at night. A quiet reigned in the street, as if there was some unwritten rule to respect the neighbour’s peace.

  When the sun broke the clouds, its rays glinted on the numerous oil paints of the houses and the metallic roof-tops of the cars. A month in Toronto, Katerina was still impressed with all the cars, in an assortment of colours and sizes. Before she left Greece, her uncle George had made arrangements for her to stay in Athens for a month to finalize her immigration papers and do some shopping. This gave her an opportunity to see plenty of cars and she found them much smaller and run down than the ones in Toronto. During a trip to Omonia Square around lunch time, she recalled the chaotic traffic and the sea of people rushing in a dizzying pace to find a cab or to get in a tram. People of all ages jostled to make it on time; Katerina saw the hardness in their faces, she rushed as well and panted.

  At the corner of Seaton and Dundas Streets, she smiled at the elderly man in the middle of the road, in the orange and yellow vest, holding the red sign with the word ‘stop’ in the middle, as a group of school children crossed Dundas Street. Their giggles made Katerina feel as light as a girl again, in love with the simple sensation of living. She crossed the road and headed towards the streetcar stop where a number of people were waiting. The students huddled together, smoked and whispered incessantly. Similar to the girls, most of the boys’ hair reached their shoulders and they wore bell-bottoms. With their books, held tightly to their chests, and backs slightly stooped, the girls wore colourful beads around their necks, wrists and ankles. Some men with the newspaper in their left hand and the briefcase in their right waited impatiently for the streetcar. Others appeared to have all the time in the world and looked somewhat absent-minded.

  The streetcar arrived, and to Katerina’s surprise, there was no pushing or shoving to get in, the group formed a queue and boarded in an orderly manner. In a leisurely pace, the vehicle was off again and inside, she walked towards the back and made herself comfortable in an empty seat close to the window. The colourful posters in a straight line above the windows caught her attention. Some depicted shiny cars with beautiful girls in full gowns beside them; others displayed handsome men on horseback smoking in front of panoramic backgrounds, or striking athletes enjoying various drinks. Image after image fascinated Katerina and reminded her of the new world before her. All the passengers captivated her and she studied their expressions like someone who has just seen paradise for the first time, and suddenly realizes that she herself is part of this miracle, a member of this strange group. Alone, for the first time in her life she was riding on a vehicle, not walking on isolated roads, and she was surrounded by people—some appeared energetic and jolly; others indolent and drowsy; some were talking or yawning; others had faces buried in books, newspapers or simply stared out of the windows. For the most part, they appeared to be enjoying themselves; it was as if they were able to see life’s human face. The driver, a fair, heavy set man covered with freckles, concentrated on the fare box; as more passengers entered from the front door, he handed out the transfers. Katerina grinned slightly at the thought that the only human being she encountered back home in her remote trek was the odd Shepherd with his sheep and dogs, and other creatures like the lizards, or the grasshoppers as they jumped like mechanical toys. The birds singing, the cicadas’ chirping and the odd dog’s barking were some of the sounds that broke the dead silence. With her eyes half-closed, Katerina vowed that she would be worthy of the honour that was given to her, a newly arrived immigrant eager to learn everything about her new country, while the memory of the old lightened somewhat.

  The tall diverse buildings, some with the Union Jack flapping in the wind impressed Katerina, as the electric vehicle continued west along Dundas towards Jarvis Street. Just before it reached the intersection, a drawn out, piercing fortissimo from a trumpet playing a religious hymn reached her ears. She then noticed a small brass band marching south on Jarvis Street and recognized the blue uniforms and the burgundy band around the caps as belonging to the Salvation Army, the religious organization. With her uncle Katerina had seen a similar band a couple weeks earlier at the Eaton’s department store; he had explained its benevolent mission of feeding the poor and distraught, both physically and spiritually. The entire spectacle created a feeling in her as if she was living a real fairytale. To Katerina, the existence of this religious army personified Canada’s benevolent and inviting nature, which had welcomed her so generously.

  At the corner of Bond Street, Katerina crossed herself because St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church was steps away and it was customary in Greece to cross oneself when passing by a church. The images of the church’s interior re-emerged in her mind and she remembered her surprise with its seating arrangement, where women and men sat together. In row after row in all three sections of the pews, entire groups of families, friends and relatives sat side by side—an unusual but pleasant sight. In Greece, the genders were separated with the women to the left of the aisle in the church’s nave and the men to the right. Katerina had heard so much about Canada’s liberal ways and the desegregated worshippers strengthened her belief that it was a fair and generous nation. The church’s existence in Canada amazed Katerina, as well as the efforts and sacrifices of the Greek immigrants of her uncle’s generation who established the church. How they must have pinched and saved to create this precious building, and how lucky she felt to be able to worship in a familiar and sacred environment. Not only would she attend mass every Sunday, but she had joined the church’s Ladies Auxiliary, Filoptochos, dedicated to feeding and clothing the poor and visiting the sick in Toronto’s hospitals.

  As the streetcar approached Yonge Street, the tracks curved sharply and its wheels squeaked. Katerina covered her ears temporarily, tilted her head towards her left shoulder and noticed a lady, seventy or more, but in full vigour, walking in the opposite direction along Dundas Street. Her smart maroon coat with matching hat, the tufts of white hair covering her ears and neck, and her black patented shoes and purse gave her a pleasin
g appearance. Suddenly, a chill permeated Katerina’s body and scared her to the bone. Out of the blue, a wild youth with long hair flinging sideways, in a dark pants and beige top, leaped like a lion behind the old lady and tried to grab her purse, but its strap entangled on a button around her left wrist. Instinctively, she clutched it with her right hand, but he lunged back and released all his ferocity—he struck her behind her neck with his right hand. The victim dropped on the pavement like a fly that has been swatted in mid air. Collapsed prone on the sidewalk, the old lady’s glasses shattered and blood covered her face. She skinned her knees on the rough pavement, and blood seeped her beige stockings. The thief snatched her purse and vanished.

  The horrific episode occurred in seconds. It sickened Katerina, and some of the other passengers gasped in unison, but no one alerted the driver that they wanted to help the victim. More passengers boarded the vehicle. Jolted, Katerina’s heart pulsed too fast and resembled a berserk bird in a cage. She tried to calm it, but it fluttered to get out. Her breathing became uneven, and she felt trapped. An urge to scream possessed her, but what would she say? Her mind directed her limbs to get up and dash outside, but the passengers by this time had filled the vehicle’s aisle; she couldn’t even see the rear door. Beside her sat a grave gentleman in a dark suit, whose face was buried in the newspaper, his black rimmed glasses were discernable, and the thinning hair glued flat on his skull. In front of Katerina, two women were chatting non-stop, but she couldn’t understand them. One of them was holding a black and white dog with silky waved hair, and long, full ears; and because she kept gesturing at the dog, Katerina assumed the animal was the topic of their conversation. When the traffic light turned green, the streetcar continued its journey. Confused with the unexpected calmness inside the streetcar, Katerina kept thinking that she heard her fellow passengers’ gasps just minutes ago; they saw the gruesome incident—but nobody moved. Some sat so still, others carried on as usual, or stared in front of them. It was a mystery—a maddening mystery.

  Overcome with fear for the old lady, whose curled figure now resembled a marooned coloured skein, Katerina’s limbs felt lethargic and her body bound. She placed her hands against her mouth, pressed hard and suppressed her sobs. Her moistened eyes burned; her head ached and her breathing had partially fogged the window. She tried to compose herself—she had to find her equilibrium, especially today, or else she’d appear puffy-eyed at work. In reality, everything finds its way again she figured; everything finds a balance—even the turbulent ocean. Back home, Katerina remembered her frequent visits to Plitra Beach where she had often noticed how calm the sea became after a storm. She now craved for something that would calm her, something that would lift the unbearable load in her heart and soul—something that would help her experience things in a new light. Prayer used to give her the strength to face the violence and hostilities that had gripped her country during and after the recent civil war; now she searched for the right words, and placed her whole soul into her plea:

  Almighty God you heal people of sickness and affliction through your love and compassion. I pray, Lord, visit that poor lady today and give her strength in her time of suffering. Grant her comfort and a speedy recovery from the injury that besets her. Dear Lord, physician of our souls and bodies, I beseech you to take away any bitterness I may have in my heart against the young assailant. Guide me to see only my own faults and not judge my fellow passengers. Help me to understand them.

  Refreshed from her entreaty, the cool reality was slowly sinking in. All sorts of questions spun in her mind and Katerina tried to place her thoughts in some kind of order like the fish into the net of logic. She felt helpless, but what could she have said to the driver and her fellow passengers? Why didn’t they bolt the vehicle to care for the old lady? Wouldn’t that be charitable and human? Why didn’t the motorists driving in the opposite direction stop to help the victim? But this tragedy—was it real or imagined? Did she witness the entire incident from a reflective mirror nearby? The throbbing in her temples was agonizing. Like the helpless people, blindfolded before a firing squad, who see their entire life in flashes in one minute like a cinematographic reel, Katerina connected all the scattered signs that she did not want to see, and the truth advanced in front of her: Everything is an appearance and nothing more; there’s nothing real and pure. Everything is blurred, a faked reality. Everywhere.

  Weary, Katerina looked intently outside again and saw that the sun’s light had become brighter. She felt unusually warm, unfastened the top button of her jacket and placed her hand on her left temple to shade her eyes. Rigid as marble she sat, as the streetcar rolled west on Dundas Street. Abruptly, everything came to a standstill at the wailing sound of a siren fast approaching from the opposite direction. Nothing moved on the road or the sidewalk, it was as if she was watching a movie and the screen froze momentarily. The deafening sound intensified as the ambulance advanced and roared past the stopped streetcar. Where was it heading? Was it taking someone to the hospital? Or, could it be going…? She hoped… With her wish that help may be going to the victim, Katerina crossed herself, and she sensed the weight lessening in her heart. Just then the corner of her right eye caught sight of a gigantic yellow crane in a construction site. Its projecting arm was raising a heavy load of concrete bricks hundreds of feet into the air. They were huge and must have weighed tons as they moved upward, and occasionally horizontally. Katerina looked closely in awe, and her heart skipped a beat, for she feared the entire structure would tip over. The machine’s entire activity seemed impossible to her, but miraculously its projecting arm lifted the load with ease as if it was moving cardboard boxes.

  The streetcar’s passengers had lessened now. As it closed its doors and continued its westward journey, Katerina redoubled her efforts to muster her strength and restore her earlier enthusiasm for her new job.

  The All White Road

  Everyone agreed that the weather couldn’t be better for Maria’s Name-Day garden party, celebrated every mid-August on the Assumption Day of the Holy Virgin Mary. Not a leaf stirred, warm but not muggy, the vivid blue sky without a cloud. Every flower and bush in the garden sparkled as if to look their best for this joyous festivity. Maria’s husband Costa had seen to it that the grass was mowed yesterday and its fresh scent was still in the air, as it yielded like a carpet.

  Early in the morning, the catering company had set up the buffet table, the bar and the round tables for the guests around the pool. About four in the afternoon the waiters brought the food and the bartender arrived with the liquor and ice. Soon after that the doorbell rang and the relatives, friends and neighbours of Maria and Costa Zouris streamed into the garden. They shook hands and pressed cheeks.

  “Chronia Polla, many years to you, my dear.”

  “Efharisto. Thank you for coming. Lovely to see you.”

  “Congratulations. I wish you all the happiness on your Name-Day.”

  “Welcome. So glad you could make it.”

  In her pleasant demeanor, Maria greeted her guests one by one. A tall woman in her early sixties, she wore a navy summer dress, pearls around her neck and pearl earrings. Her smile and clear complexion made her younger looking. Always by her side, her husband Costa, a tall, silver-haired gentleman, looked distinguished in his dark slacks and white top. Their son Nicholas, in his mother’s likeness, with his dark features and attractive smile, stood beside his sister Margaret, a tall fair girl like her father. They, too, helped their mother with the welcomes.

  Everything ran smoothly. Happy couples walked about, sniffed the flowers, greeted friends and acquaintances, chatted about nothing and everything, munched on a variety of delicacies and sipped, among other drinks, cool ouzo. The waiters circulated discreetly ensuring that the guests were happy. A low-key and infectious melody from the band entertained and added merriment to the occasion.

  Maria was especially happy. Besides all the blessings the Heavenly Queen had bestowed, she was delighted by a special guest
, Thomas Vales, who came from Montreal to spend the weekend with her family. Short and stout, with a bald patch surrounded by a fringe of snow-white hair, Thomas knew Maria for more than thirty-five years. He was sitting with the Zouris family, his features projecting kindness and patience; his hazel eyes reflecting a wisdom that comes from suffering.

  “I can’t tell you what it means to me to have you here with us, Thomas,” Maria said, her features glowing.

  “You’re too kind my dear Maria,” commented Thomas quietly, his cheeks coloured.

  “Oh, it’s not just kindness, Thomas; if it weren’t for you, I probably would not be here today. During a horrendous experience, you proved to me that I could still depend on human goodness, that not only cruelty reigns in our world, but honour, integrity and generosity do feature too,” Maria continued.

  “Mom, you’ve talked about Thomas’s considerate nature, but you’ve been vague about that ‘horrendous experience.’ You never told us what happened exactly,” Margaret said.

  “I agree,” Nicholas added, “we’ve heard of a life-threatening incident, but no further details, even though Thomas has visited in the past.”