It is true that at the water tap she had repeatedly heard women who never kept their mouths shut say with absolute authority that 'to talk a lot is a sign of bad manners', that 'silence is golden', that 'a good woman keeps her mouth shut' and other such things. So, she had learnt to keep her mouth shut and her mind full of unanswered questions, insecurities and doubts.
She had no idea what her family's financial situation was, believing they were the poorest family in the village. If not, then why did her parents have to work so hard, not only on their own small pieces of land scattered all over the place, but also for other people?
To make ends meet her father was always on the road in all sorts of weather, ferrying goods on his two mules from place to place, and her mother worked at her loom till midnight weaving blankets and rugs commissioned by rich mothers for their daughters' dowries.
In reality they were never paid in cash. They were paid in kind, and consequently very little money ever passed through their hands. As Tasia wasn't given the opportunity to handle real money she wasn't sure about its value. Even here in Ptolemais her rent was going to be paid by wheat, corn, beans and other produce as her father had said. Knowing the year's harvest was barely enough to meet the family needs till the following season, she felt extremely anxious and full of guilt for the ill-afforded extra expense for her benefit.
Everything in her new environment seemed peculiar and unfriendly. She would leave a bright and warm room in the morning to return after school to a dark and cold one, like a dungeon. Just the thought of her cantankerous landlady was enough to bring shivers down her spine, to the point she was scared to leave the room or make the slightest noise. She moved carefully about and tiptoed soundlessly like a cat. She even postponed going to the toilet until the last minute to avoid the cold jitters she felt at the sight of the landlady evaporating like a ghost in the blankness of the dark corridor.
The town's streets were full of potholes and dirty water. Carts loaded with wood and straw pulled by patient donkeys, mules, or buffaloes, were guided by their owners whose sullen faces showed the signs of hardship and worry. Pigs, dogs, chickens and other domestic animals roamed the dirt roads, while small children played their games, screaming and chasing each other. Late in the afternoon she heard the melancholy bellowing of the herd of cows nearing the town as a lamentation for the passing of another day. Everything in Tasia's new environment had the mark of neglect and decay. Everything inside her was a pitch-black void.
Tasia had no appetite and forced herself to eat the food she prepared on her small kerosene cooker. There were times when she almost spewed the warm milk she was given at school, when an undisolved powder lump would reach her mouth or when a piece of grit in the raisin muffin would grind her teeth. Still, when she learnt from the schoolmaster that all the ingredients the milk powder, the cacao, the flour, and the raisins were provided by some international philanthropic organisation to assist all the malnourished children because of the war, she was touched by the generosity of these strangers and felt a moral obligation to eat all she was given, regardless of her stomach's reaction.
She made it a habit to sit late in the afternoon by her open window, knitting and watching the clouds change colour, reflecting the dying rays of the sun. Autumn had set in and the breeze was still warm and full of fragrance, transporting her mind to strange and enchanting new worlds. If she heard steps or voices approaching she would draw back to hide behind the lace curtain.
This was how Tasia preferred to spend her life: hidden and invisible. That's why she was content to sit in the last desk to hide behind the backs of the other girls, even when she was the only one who knew the answer to the teacher's questions. Somewhere within her she longed for the acceptance and the friendship of the other girls, but all the time maintained her distance, because a stubborn pride prevented her from taking the first step.
Very soon she adapted a routine that made her life easy and uncomplicated. She'd get home straight after school, take her water pitcher and go to the water tap to fill up before nightfall. Frequently, she'd also take the landlady's pitcher when it was empty, tiptoeing all the way to and from its storing place. There were times when the flow of water was very slow forcing many women and children to form a line with their water pots and wait their turn. She'd put her pitcher in line with the others and stand there waiting and listening to the women's chatter as they talked about everybody and everything; they'd gossip about their neighbours, criticise the way some people lived, brag about their children and family, exchange recipes, give advice and complain about their in-laws.
One afternoon, Tasia found only two women at the water tap shouting and swearing at each other. They had come to blows and were pulling each other's hair. She had no idea what they were fighting about. The next afternoon two other women were discussing the incident.
'It's well known those two couldn't stand each other from the moment Angela's brother married Cathy's cousin. You were here last night,' they addressed Tasia. 'Tell us, what did you see? What did you hear?'
Tasia shrugged her shoulders, as she didn't want to get involved in other people's affairs.
It seemed to her they whispered to each other 'Leave her alone. She doesn't seem to have it all together'. She felt they looked at her with pity. She was embarrassed.
The first time she planned to go home to the village after school, Tasia couldn't concentrate on lessons, her mind wandering back to the small oven hut in the yard all hot and steamed-up as it always was on Saturdays full of the smell of freshly baked bread. The thought of a bowl of hot chicken soup made her mouth water. Never in her life had food been so prominent in her mind. She dreamed of getting inside the hut, undressing, kneeling in the large rectangular galvanised basin and pouring warm water over her. She almost felt the warm water run down from her hair to her back, her belly, her thighs, soaking and cleansing her. Then she visualised herself dressed in clean clothes and sitting on the ledge of the outside wall, letting the warmth of the sun dry out her hair and warm her deep into her bones. She dreamed of the carefree chickens with fancy plumage scratching at the soil, cackling contentedly, and the air fragrant with familiar and reassuring smells.
As nobody else from the village went to high school and Tasia had no close girlfriends, her absence from her community went unnoticed for a number of weeks. But by month's end, everybody knew. They were all scandalised. Nothing like this had ever happened before. No single girl had ever left her father's house to live somewhere alone, for whatever reason. It was the duty of every father to safeguard the reputation of his daughters and therefore the honour of his family. No man would be willing to marry a girl with a tainted reputation. People criticised Tasia's parents, shaking their heads disapprovingly.
'Who the hell do they think they are? What do they want to prove?' Kaliopi, the obese matriarch from the wealthiest family in the village protested. 'They have no bread to feed themselves, and they want to send their daughter to high school. That's a disgrace!'
'Yes. All these unheard-of things started with the refugees settling here,' Poppy, her spinster sister agreed. 'I blame Olympia, Tasia's mother. Sometimes I wonder where Alekos found her. Instead of marrying a girl from here he brought us a refugee.'
'She isn't even pretty. Did you see how skinny she is?' interjected Kaliopi.
'Yes, but in Pontian families the wife wears the pants. I heard she cheated him into marrying her. That's how it is with most refugee women. They have no dowry and do everything to get themselves a husband to put a roof over their heads,' said Poppy in a spiteful way.
'She got pregnant, and Alekos, a decent man, married her,'
explained Dora.
'No, no! I heard a different story: she got pregnant and had no option but to marry him. She wanted to marry a prince and found Alekos wanting. Just look how stand-offish and snobbish she is. But, she fooled around and got pregnant. That's why she can't stand her daughter,' said Poppy.
Tasia got a taste of their
disapproval one Saturday afternoon as she was catching the bus to go to the village.
'Watch out boys! Here comes the professor!' came the male voices midst whistles and laughter from inside the bus.
'Let's ask her what she's learnt. Let's ask her if she has learnt how to kiss the boys.'
She was dumbfounded. She felt the blood rushing to her head and her eyes became clouded. Taking a quick look inside the bus she recognised several boys from her village, and couldn't believe her eyes. How was it possible for these meek boys she had known all her life to behave in such a vulgar way? Standing at the entrance to the bus she felt queasy, not only from the rudeness of the boys but also from the foul smell coming from inside the bus: a blend of stale cigarette smoke mixed up with the stench of sweat and moist woollen clothes. She was ready to alight the bus and go home on foot but the driver shut the door and the bus took off. Holding her breath in an attempt not to vomit as the bus shook and groaned, she managed eventually to get to the only empty seat at the back. The whistling and teasing continued.
'Leave the poor girl alone,' protested a middle-aged man sitting next to her.
He was a stranger, perhaps from some neighbouring village. But his readiness to speak up on her behalf filled her with gratitude even though she avoided looking directly at him to thank him.
'He is your boyfriend then?' she heard a mocking voice say.
'Don't pay any attention to them, my child. It's not worth it. They are spoilt and uncouth,' he advised her in a gentle voice.
She kept her head buried in her book, all the time trying to control her queasiness. The bus squeaked, rattled and shook wildly on the dirt road full of potholes, while a strong smell of petrol added to the other foul smells made the atmosphere unbearable. That's the last time I go home on the bus, Tasia promised herself.
From then on Tasia would walk to the village straight after school each Saturday afternoon, the sun's rays dazzling her eyes, blinding her. By the time she'd reach the first houses of the village, the sun would have set behind the mountains. In the grey dusk of the evening Tasia would be seized by an irrational fear, a sense she'd done something bad, something she shouldn't have done, an unbearable sense of guilt. She'd speed up her stride, keeping her head low and her eyes downcast, hoping no one would cross her path.
On Sunday afternoons she'd return to Ptolemais on foot, with her father carrying her saddlebag up to the last big hill. They spoke very little to each other but this didn't alter the strong bond and the tenderness that existed between them. Nor did it affect the deep love Tasia had for that gentle, honourable and hard-working man, who was giving all he had of himself for the benefit of his family.
Gradually, she reached the conclusion that even he was not sure about life and the world in general, since he never liked to reprimand or insist on a specific point of view. But he was always there, ready to comfort and support. He respected her decision not to take the bus even though he would have preferred it and Tasia was most grateful for this. They'd stop for a minute or two at the top of the hill. She'd then take the saddlebag and continue down the road alone, knowing her father would be standing there watching till he lost sight of her.
While she had the sun ahead of her on Saturday afternoons, she had it blazing on her from behind on Sunday afternoons. Tasia felt as if she were following her shadow running in front of her, getting progressively thinner and longer, a shadowy part of her, mysterious and ever-changing. From the distance she could see the amber glass windows of the town's first houses fired up by the last rays of the setting sun. She loved the lonely melancholy hour of late afternoon, the warm scented breeze touching her skin and the myriad natural sounds enchanting her. She loved to listen to the chatter of birds, the buzzing of insects, the mooing of cows and the croaking of bullfrogs. With time the sun's path was also changing, its rays revealing new nooks and crannies and making the valley look fresh to Tasia every time she crossed it.
Autumn was moving on, turning the silvery leaves of the poplar trees to brilliant yellow. The branches of the weeping willows drooped further over the banks of the almost dry marsh. Swarms of migratory birds in formation crossed the sky from north to south. Ploughmen with their horses returned home after a day's work preparing the fields for the new sowing. Others returned from pruning the vineyards and orchards, their carts loaded with wood and pruned branches. Occasionally a passing cart would stop to offer her a lift, and she'd accept in order not to offend. She always sat at the back of the cart, her legs dangling, ready to get off where she wanted. Gradually, the days got shorter. By the time Tasia would reach the village on Saturday evening, the darkness was complete.
The days continued to be warm and pleasant, but immediately after sunset the chill was noticeable even inside the houses. The wind, gentle and pleasant during early autumn, was now freezing and strong enough to uproot dried-out shrubs and grasses, collect leaves, straw and sticks, tumbling them down the plains, lodging them into hollows and crevices. The sky was leaden-grey, and the rains, at first light and sporadic, were now heavy and constant. Eager to quench its thirst the parched earth drank the first downpour. The spare water ran down the slopes and filled up every ditch and hollow to form small and large streams, filled up marshes and dry streams, and became torrents flooding the fields. The dirt roads became rivers of loose mud, where feet would sink up to the ankle, making every step protracted and laborious. The fierce north wind, hail and rain were strong enough to flay the skin from people's faces.
One such Saturday night Tasia arrived home wet and frozen to the bone. Her parents hadn't expected her and were shocked to find her on the doorstep.
'For God's sake, what made you come in this weather? You'll get pneumonia! The wolves will eat you,' her mother scolded her.
'The days are very short and night falls early. For pity's sake, don't come on foot again! It's crazy and very, very dangerous,' her father admonished her. 'You stay put in town. In any case, I'll be coming every Wednesday and you'll have all you need. Come only on the bus. Please promise you'll never walk home again. We don't want to worry about you every weekend.'
She returned to town on Sunday afternoon on an empty bus. She had taken with her two extra-thick home-woven blankets tied up in bundles, and had wrapped a long, hand-knitted scarf around her head, leaving only her eyes uncovered. She was wearing a thick jacket and gloves on top of her clothes, all knitted by her mother.
Still, she couldn't control her shivers as she endured the freezing wind from the ill-fitting bus windows and the gaps in its ancient body. The bus engine was cracking and bellowing and the whole thing shook as it laboured slowly against the wind in the thick and sticky mud and over potholes.
Knowing she no longer could go home during weekends made her humble room feel even colder and darker, like a cave. The unbearable void of loneliness made her feel sorry for herself. The winter was gloomy, cold and pitiless. In her room even the water in the pitcher froze. The thick icicles that hung like tapers from the roof tiles reached down to the middle of her window. On several mornings she couldn't open the front door because of the snow piled up against it.
She had no heating in her room and, to keep warm, was forced to put on whatever she could find jackets, socks, gloves, scarves to the point she couldn't bend her arms. She'd lie in bed, pull all the blankets on top of her and watch the mist of her breath turn to icicles over the fringes of the flokati (rug). Eventually she found a way to study in bed, covered up as she was. She even managed to balance her inkwell between the bedclothes and complete her homework. In this state of total immobility she'd occasionally drift off to sleep with a book propped up on a pillow by her side. When she woke hungry and sweaty, she would ask herself why she had to live under such unbearable conditions: hunger, cold and away from home. It looks as if that's how it ought to be, she'd think, without understanding the final result that could justify such loneliness and hardship.
She spent the Christmas break at home with her family. While all othe
r women in the village prepared weeks in advance for the celebration of this, the most important day of Christendom, her mother, as usual, did next to nothing. That had been the pattern ever since Tasia could remember. As the holy days drew closer, her mother would become mute and even more depressed, withdrawing deep into herself. It seemed as if she was in the company of shadows and ghosts, remnants of a life she had lost. After all these years she was probably still grieving over her slain family, her lost home in far-away Pontos, her wasted childhood, her wasted life. It was as if she couldn't forgive herself for having survived while the others perished. She was full of remorse and full of anger against the powerful and the mighty on earth: leaders who, without shame, had allowed the cold-blooded slaughter of so many innocent people. Driven away, and homeless, those who survived, herself included, had arrived starving and with their clothes in tatters in this forsaken land and, despite their emotional scars, they were still trying to survive, to build new homes and to sprout new roots.
'If God existed,' her mother would say, 'he wouldn't have allowed all these terrible things to happen. He would have prevented the hangings, the stabbings, the rapes, the burning, the pogroms, the catastrophes. He wouldn't have left so many souls homeless and so many children orphaned and unprotected.'
As a means of protest her mother never went to church. They didn't have a shrine corner filled with icons of saints with an oil lamp burning all night. And her mother never took Tasia to the church as a child to attend service and take holy communion and pray. Before she went to school, most of what Tasia knew about religion was by watching and listening to the women at the water tap, and to the other children. And of course she had sneaked into the church a few times during a wedding to look at the bride or watch a christening. At school she learnt about Christ and the holy bible, about the Christian faith and orthodoxy: the most important assets of our national legacy, the teacher had called it. In primary school, she had to go with her class to church most Sundays, but she felt confused, uncertain and ambivalent, even though she was listening carefully to the strange words of the chanting and the reading of the gospels, trying to make sense of it. The preaching, usually done in the mother tongue rather than ecclesiastical language, would often keep her awake at night, full of dread about the eternally burning hell-fires awaiting all the unfortunate sinners: herself and her mother included.
The Lace Tablecloth Page 9
