The Lace Tablecloth

by Anastasia Gessa-Liveriadis

  She couldn’t have imagined the grandeur of the scenery that greeted her. The tip of the sun had just appeared from behind a huge mountain opposite, and the sunrays shining straight into her eyes dazzled her. In the early morning twilight the huge valley looked misty and ethereal The shadow of massive mountains on the east side covered the plain, an enormous expanse surrounded by mountains and hills. On her left, the distant hillslopes had taken on a pale purple colour and the mountaintops seemed to blend with the horizon and melt into nothingness. White smoke in straight lines was ascending here and there. It took her some time to realise that the dangling straight black shadows in the distance were lines of tall trees, most likely poplars.

  Tasia remained standing at the top of the hill, staring with wide eyes and trembling knees. In her chest, her heart was leaping like a bird trapped in a cage, longing to break free and fly to the end of the world. The immensity of the valley humbled her, made her feel small and insignificant. Full of anxiety, she turned back to look at her familiar signposts, the hills and the line of successive mountaintops around her village, a sight that was imprinted on her mind. They appeared now as tempting sirens, majestic and beautiful, smiling coquettishly in the embrace of the morning sun. It was the first time she had looked at her familiar mountaintops from this side and it occurred to her that things change if one looked at them from a different angle. She felt vaguely uneasy, thinking that perhaps nothing remained steady and unalterable. How was she to trust this vast plateau changing shape and colour rapidly, as the rays of the ascending sun hit it from different angles?

  As she stood transfixed for what felt like an eternity she couldn’t find the right words to express the emotions that flooded her being. Intuitively, she knew she was at the start of something new and different, on the brink of a new life. An unbearable load of responsibility overpowered her. If she were to take the first step on these strange paths stretching in front of her, maybe she would get lost and never find her way back. A voice from inside was prompting her to turn back, to return to the security of her home, to the protection of the haughty mountain towering above her village, the security of the humdrum, the everyday. But natural curiosity was pushing her to open her wings and fly above the clouds, to face new horizons, to meet new people and to get to know enchanting new worlds.

  Tasia imagined herself as a little bird breaking out of its eggshell, attempting to stand on tiny feet, stretching still-wet wings in a tragicomical effort to fly. But then she lapsed back to reality: her father hurrying along the flat dirt road with the two loaded mules leaving a cloud of dust behind them. With a great sense of obligation she took a deep breath of resignation and ran to join him. The sunrays were shining straight into her eyes, forcing her to keep her gaze low. With perfect mastery her father guided the mules along.

  In a frenzied show of one-upmanship the field birds were trying to compete with their piercing twitter. Now totally exposed to the sunlight the huge valley looked like a patchwork quilt with large green, red, brown and violet splodges spread here and there.

  ‘There is Kailaria!’ her father said, pointing towards an indistinguishable space in the distance.

  It was difficult to see the houses as they were small and they blended with the colour of the soil, with the exception of some red rooftops. They walked briskly on the dirt road that ran though harvested fields and twisted a bit to the right, ascending slightly, then descending to the bank of a dry river. They passed a swamp with bulrushes, shady willows and straight poplars.

  Sometimes they pulled to the side to let a cart pass. They greeted the few people they met. Many wheat fields had already been reaped and the wheat stacks were standing next to the prepared threshing floors.

  ‘We’ve reached the red soil,’ muttered her father between his teeth. ‘It’s impossible to pass through here when it’s raining. The mud gets thick, like dough. I stopped counting the times I had my boots slip off my feet.’

  She turned and looked at the sunburnt profile of her father and it was as if she saw him for the first time. How many times had this man crossed this road? How many hundreds of mule-loads of firewood, vegetables, eggs, cheeses, potatoes, wheat, corn and knitted things had he transported? How did he endure it? Where did he get all this determination, courage and strength?

  The nearer they got to the town the greater the piles of animal dung along the side of the road. They were now steaming under the hot sun, composting into manure in order to become next year’s fertiliser.

  On entering the town Tasia’s first impression was of utter disappointment. The mud-brick houses were small and low, most either frayed plaster or unplastered. Some had boards or tin sheets nailed to the windows. The gardens around the houses were large, with several shabby sheds and barns here and there, broken fences, piles of animal dung, broken carts, logs and free-ranging chickens clucking and rummaging in the dry earth. With every step their feet sank into fine, flour-like dust from broken-down dry soil on the road that had been trotted up by hundreds of feet and cartwheels.

  ‘We’ll go to the market first so you’ll know where to find me after you finish,’ her father said and she followed silently, trying to imprint on her mind the streets they were passing, scared she may not find her way amongst all these crowds that were increasing rapidly.

  Animals and carts were being steered the same way into a big open space where some people started setting up their display stands while others arranged their wares and vegetables on straw mats on the ground.

  ‘I’m going to set up my stand in this spot,’ her father said. ‘If I’m not here you’ll find me at the animal market behind those sheds. Be careful because it’ll soon be so crowded you won’t be able to walk around here. I’ll be looking for you too, of course, and I’ll wait for you to come back.’

  At a broad, gravelled, central road her father directed her.

  ‘That’s the main street that takes you straight to the Gymnasium (High School). You’ll bypass some shops and coffee houses, a pharmacy to the right, the police station, after that the church of the Holy Trinity, the Court House and then the Gymnasium. You’ll see ‘Gymnasium’ over the door. You won’t have any problem finding it. Go then, and good luck!’

  Tired, dizzy and scared to death Tasia took the street her father had shown her where many other girls and boys of her age — most carrying an inkwell in their hand or inside a knitted net — were walking. She had never seen so many children. Most likely they had the same purpose: gaining entrance into high school.

  Tasia wasn’t sure if she really wanted to attend high school. Until yesterday the idea had never crossed her mind — quite the opposite: she too, had come to believe education was not good for girls, as nature had dictated girls were incapable of learning. The fact she had finished primary school, making her more educated than the village mayor, was proof she was an oddity, a freak of nature. No wonder nobody wanted to befriend her, and no father would permit his daughters to have any dealings with her.

  But, if girls were incapable of higher learning, then where were all these girls going? It was obvious they too were going to sit the entrance exam. So what really was the truth? Was it possible the things she had heard all her life were untrue? Could it be that girls were also capable of learning?

  In any case, irrespective of how things developed, even if she managed to pass the exam, there was no way she could attend high school. Her parents wouldn’t be able to spare her. They needed her at home because she was doing most of the housework, allowing her mother to work the land next to her father. They all worked hard and just managed to survive. There was no way her parents could afford to send her to high school. After all where was she going to stay?

  When she found herself sitting at a desk in a big room with all the other children, she followed the instructions and did whatever they asked her to do. She wrote all she knew and left the examination room feeling drained and with no sense of time and place.

  The sun had reached the highest poi
nt in the sky and the heat was unbearable. The frenzied song of the cicadas was drilling deep into her brain, entering the marrow of her bones. The rest of the day passed as in a dream, a bizarre nightmare. By the time they returned to the village the sun was already down. Feeling utterly exhausted and having a severe headache, Tasia went straight to bed.

  S

  he worked like a slave all summer. Some days she'd stay behind to tidy up the house, to take care of her brother, to fetch water and to cook. When the meal was ready she'd wrap it in a rug, take Kosta by the hand, and walk to the fields to eat lunch with her parents. But mostly they all went to the fields together, particularly when it was time to collect the tobacco leaves. They would leave the house very early when the stars had almost faded in the milky, morning sky. Her father carried Kosta, still asleep, in his arms, and lit the way with a hurricane lamp. Tasia followed, barefoot and half-asleep, and somehow always managed to stumble on a stone sticking out of the pavement and hit the same sore toe, making her scream with pain.

  'Whoops! You've woken up the poor stone again!' her father would tease her, and tell her stories to make her laugh.

  By then she'd be wide awake as her teeth chattered and her body trembled in the coolness of the early morning.

  They would gather the matured leaves one by one, starting at the lower part of the tobacco plant. They'd come back later, progressing up the plant till they reached the flowering tuft on the top. They had to start work early when it was still cool to avoid the sap of the plant drying in the heat which made their fingers stiff and hard and difficult to bend. Soon after sunrise, they'd collect the mules from their grazing nearby and load them with large, heavy baskets full of tobacco leaves. They'd carry the smaller baskets on their own backs and return home not to rest, but to continue working until late in the afternoon.

  They'd pierce the leaves and string them one by one with enormous flat needles. The long strands were then stretched on big frames leaning against the walls at a slight angle, and left out in the sun to dry. The position of the frames was changed several times during the day depending on the position of the sun. At night, or when there was a hint of rain, they took the frames under cover because even a single drop of rain could spoil the quality of the tobacco, reducing its price, even destroying it altogether, leaving them with nothing after all their hard effort.

  During this period there was no way of enjoying even a mouthful of bread because their fingers reeked of the bitterness from the sap of the tobacco leaves, even though they washed their hands frequently, rubbing them vigorously with ash or soap. As for their clothes, they turned shiny and rubbery from the hardened sap. The whole village had a strange, sweet tobacco smell and everyone's attention was directed towards the special requirements of the enterprise. They all waited anxiously for the tobacco inspector to come and classify their product to determine its quality, and consequently the price they would get. There were always rumours circulating, of course, that you had to grease the palm of some inspectors to avoid their classifying your tobacco as worthless.

  Summer village life was incredibly busy and demanding. Only Sundays and some religious holidays offered some light relief, giving people the opportunity to relax, to celebrate and to recuperate. Weddings and christenings also took place on Sundays. These were big family affairs but also involved the whole village population. The people in the village knew each other regardless of their origin. They went to the same church and breathed the same air. It was imperative to know each other's background; only families with similar backgrounds became related through marriage.

  When Kotsos' son, Panos twenty-seven years old and still single (almost unheard of in the village at that time) was getting married, the usual comment and gossip took place. He was from a good, noble family, the wealthiest in the village although some mean tongues suggested he was spoiled, lazy and abrupt in his manner.

  His wife to be, Vasilikoula the seventeen-year-old daughter of Pavlos was pure, innocent like a dove, and beautiful. Tall, slender, soft and tender, and as virtuous as her mother, everybody admired her industriousness. But that's how all the Slavic-speaking women were: loyal, hard-working, good wives and mothers, and good breeders, too. People agreed the two young people were well suited to each other. The blending of the two families was ideal.

  Panos and Pavlos, the future fathers-in-law, were close friends from childhood. They were authentic Greeks whose fathers had dealings with the freedom fighter, Iona Dragoumy. When Pavlos married Genou, from a Slavic background, their friendship took a bad turn. But soon it was restored because Genou proved to be a really good wife. Even her mother-in-law praised her!

  'She respects us and takes care of us. She has a mouth but has no voice. She has never said a bad word.'

  'Her daughter was brought up to be exactly like her: demure, shy, modest. As for her housekeeping skills, she is going to surpass her mother,' the neighbours said.

  Vasilikoula's glory box was opened a month before the wedding and her dowry was put on show as was the custom. There was no end to women's comments.

  'Just look how perfect her handwork is! Look at her embroidery! How fine, how meticulous it is! Hard to figure out which one is the good side!' said Dora, who never missed a beat.

  'I'm green with envy. Where did she find those beautiful designs?' asked Eleni.

  'I stopped counting how many large and small tablecloths there are. And as for sheets and pillowcases, there are more than enough to last her a lifetime,' said Effy, the birthmark on her upper lip standing out even more than usual.

  'And all of them embroidered by hand. Where did she find the time?' wondered Fani.

  'I'm mad about her laces. Did she crochet all those by herself?' Eleni wanted to know.

  'Certainly not. She has a whole team of aunts and first cousins who helped her. They say that from the day she was born, both her grandmothers competed with each other to produce the best pieces for Vasilikoula's glory box,' said Babou Yanna.

  'And I was wondering how she managed to do all these knitted and woven things by herself.'

  Eleni appeared satisfied.

  'Look, you can pay someone to do things for you. If you have money, you can have everything,' Dora stated.

  'Well, we all know they're not short of money. She was also given for a dowry twenty hectares of land, one hundred head of sheep, two mules and one hundred and twenty gold pounds,' Effy volunteered.

  'That's how it is. Money goes to money. It doesn't go to poor people like us!' lamented Fani.

  'Oh, stop that! You're not far behind. Stop complaining,' Dora reprimanded her.

  'Come! Move to the side. The groom's men are coming to take the bride,' someone said.

  'My, my! She has so many first cousins guarding the door, the groomsmen will have to pay a fortune if they want to get the bride,' exclaimed Yanna.

  Following marriage services the people would hurry to the tables in the village square under the huge plain and linden trees, to eat, drink and dance till the following morning. They'd drink to the happiness of the bride and the groom, wishing them a long and happy life together and many, many children. They'd drink to the health and good fortune of the in-laws. They'd wish a good match to all the unmarried folk, and health and serenity to the old people, peace in their remaining years.

  Soon the musicians would start playing their violins, clarinets, oboes, bagpipes and drums, with the bride leading the first dance, followed by her husband, the members of her new family including aunts, uncles and cousins, and all the members of her old family, all of them competing to see which one could make the musicians play longer with more gusto depending on the amount of money thrown at them. The boisterous music would bring the blood of old and young alike to boiling point. Midst all this merriment the young girls had the opportunity to observe the unmarried boys, even look them straight in the eye, to hold a boy's hand and dance, to be witty, exchange a word or two secretly with the boy of their heart. They also had the chance to demonstrat
e their wealth with chains of gold coins hanging around their necks, and their good taste with their new embroidered aprons. They hoped to create a favourable impression on possible future parents in-law and cause the envy of others.

  In earlier years Tasia had loved to stand by the side of the road as a bridal party walked to the church to the sound of music. The bride was always dressed in white with a tulle veil on her head and crossed the streets of the village with small steps and downcast eyes, all prim and proper. Occasionally, Tasia would get inside the church to follow the service and then run to find a spot by the low fence to watch the celebrations, often staying there till the end. Sometimes she would even hold the hand of the last person in the dancing line, usually some other child, and learn the steps of the dance.

  However, this summer she found all these things stupid and meaningless. She felt unrelated to people and life in general, and swamped by a strong feeling of envy. She was jealous of girls like Vasilikoula who had grandparents and dozens of other close relatives to love and take care of her. Vasialikoula was surrounded by family members, and knew from very early in life who she was, where she was going and why she was born. She knew her mission in life.

  But Tasia's situation was completely different. Her hardworking mother took good care of them, but she was lost in a world where no one else could enter. Her father was also very shy with words even though he had a lovely velvety voice Tasia adored. It would have been better for Tasia to have a father like Marika's: strict and definite. She would know then what to do and how far she could go. The way things were, Tasia had to decide for herself, to some extent, what she could and couldn't do.

  On her return from the fields late in the afternoon she'd pass girls her age sitting in groups on the front steps of a house chatting and doing embroidery and she'd feel jealous to the core. If it had been possible at all to have the appropriate materials and coloured threads, she could have been the best embroiderer in the whole universe!