Tasia was intrigued and decided to look around the schoolyard to find out who Chrisoula was. However, soon after graduation, people’s comments changed. Chrisoula had scandalised the town by refusing to get married.
‘She had dozens of proposals coming her way: two from Athens. One was a doctor, the other a judge. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She wasn’t ready for marriage, she said. Have you ever heard such a thing? Not ready for marriage!’ Maria was startled.
‘And then she went and got herself a job! What for? Didn’t they have enough? If I could only have one tenth of what they have,’ said Katina shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Well, that’s what happens if you get a swollen head. She wanted to prove she was as good as a man,’ said Voula.
‘This job should’ve been given to a man, to support his family. This is no place for a woman to work alone amongst all these men! How her father allowed such a thing I want to know!’ Roula demanded.
‘You’re right,’ agreed Maria. ‘Never before has a woman worked in a bank! And as you’ve said, if women take up men’s positions, where are the men supposed to find work?’
‘Don’t you think we’re stretching it a bit too far? The girl only wanted to work. She didn’t commit a crime? She didn’t become a prostitute!’ Maria tried to make amends.
‘And after all, the bank manager is not some stranger. He’s her uncle. Her mother’s brother,’ agreed Voula, as an afterthought.
As if she had no mind of her own, Tasia swayed this way and that with the ideas of one and then another. It was true. If women could fill positions traditionally occupied by men, where were men supposed to find work? On the other hand it would have been a blessing for her to have a bank-manager-uncle like Chrisoula did. He could give her a job after she finished school, and who would care what people said? If only, she could get a job, any job.
The sky was dark and cloudy when they left the classroom to stand by the roadside as the funeral cortege passed in front of the school. Several teachers and a number of students followed the procession, but Tasia stood there at the side of the road like a pillar of ice, overwhelmed by the mournful music.
The black clouds covering her sun all summer long became enormous, enveloping her completely. An unending stream of people — perhaps the entire town population — followed the white coffin passing in front of her, as if people were trying to expiate their guilt for the unkind words they had uttered against the departed girl, to pay their respects and to say their last goodbyes.
Chisoula, a young woman close to Tasia’s age, was taken to her grave. She hardly had time to live and to find out what life was all about. She was farewelled like a princess: with bishops, funeral music and tons of flowers. Death had no respect for the young, the pretty and the brainy. Tasia could not explain why death had chosen to take that exceptional young person and leave her: a loser. She thought society would have been better off if she were dead instead of Chrisoula, as she was worthless, confused and lost. She stood there bewildered and shaken, having the feeling she was at the brink of the abyss, tempted to jump into its bottomless void.
The shock about Chrisoula’s sudden death had everybody talking.
‘What a shame. Poor girl!’ people were saying to each other.
‘And what a girl! The good ones die young.’
‘That’s how nature retaliates,’ said Maria.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Froso.
‘Well, didn’t you hear? Her kidneys gave up because at work she was too modest to go to the toilet. What do you expect? If you don’t respond to nature’s demands, you pay the price. Her modesty killed her,’ Maria responded.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Roula butted in. ‘A woman’s place is in the home. A woman shouldn’t compete with men. It’s against her nature.’
‘Well, what about all of us working on the farms? Aren’t we doing a man’s work?’ protested Katina.
‘You can’t say that’s the same. That’s altogether different,’ insisted Roula.
People kept on talking about Chrisoula as if trying to get the horrible event out of their system. Tasia’s mind was caught in the circular act of asking the same question: why does one have to be born? What was the purpose of all that? Why does one have to be separated from the shapeless infinity to become a separate and conscious unit floating in the vastness of chaos? Ματαιότης ματαιοτήτων, τα πάντα ματαιότης (Futility, futility, everything is futile). This ancient saying about life dominated Tasia’s thinking.
They buried Chrisoula with music and flowers. So what? Tasia thought. If it had been her funeral it’s doubtful if there would have been more than ten persons attending. So what? There wouldn’t have been music or exotic flowers. So what? When you’re dead, you’re dead. In a few years time nobody will talk about you any more. Only your own people will remember you now and then.
Look at Chrisoula. She graduated from high school, had all her life in front of her and suddenly, she had died. But, let’s say she lived to be a hundred. So what? She’d still die. Everybody dies: rich and poor, beautiful and ugly, good and bad, clever and stupid, all have the same fate; all are marching in the same direction. And after the body is buried, the soil doesn’t discriminate between traitors and heroes, friends and foes. If the coffin is draped in the national flag and the gravestone chiselled by the best sculptor, or if the corpse is abandoned in some ditch, the final result is the same: decay, putrefaction, disintegration and oblivion. In a generation’s time, no one will remember what you looked like; no one will know you ever existed.
Such thoughts, fragmented and incoherent, kept Tasia moving restlessly around her room unable to focus on anything. The chaos inside her, was becoming progressively larger: a frozen chaos, full of loneliness. Now and then she’d walk with purpose to the window, to sit and wait for God knew what or whom.
Meantime, the streets of Ptolemais were teeming with soldiers. The battle in Grammos and Vitsi was progressing well for the government forces. The local people were feeling more secure; many returned to their abodes. Life was finding its familiar rhythms. On Wednesday the marketplace was again full of people even though there wasn’t much to buy or on sale.
Two new teachers arrived at the high school. The bank had reopened. The ploughmen returned to the fields. The school lessons ran smoothly and without interruptions.
Like an automaton Tasia went to school every morning, languid and tired because she couldn’t sleep well. She’d go tired to bed early in the evening and immediately fall asleep, only to wake an hour later and remain so for the rest of the night. She had no appetite and no interest in looking after herself. She was quivering deep inside her heart like a small sparrow left all alone out in the snow. And she kept on waiting and hoping for a helping hand to prevent her from slipping into the bottomless abyss inside her.
C
oming home from school one afternoon she found Eleni waiting at her front door. Ever since Eleni had returned from Kozani where she had learnt dressmaking, the two girls very rarely saw each other. Now Eleni waited for Tasia because she wanted to ask her a great favour.
‘You’re the only one who can help me. It’s almost a matter of life and death,’ she said when Tasia arrived. ‘I’ve fallen in love with a reservist army officer from Kavala who is leaving tomorrow morning. I must meet him tonight to arrange how we can keep in touch.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Tasia.
‘Nothing much. I can’t go alone to the coffee shop where we’ll meet. You must come with me. I have nobody else I can trust.’
Less than five hundred metres separated her home from the main street, the central street that divided the town into two sections: the upper and the lower. During daytime the street was very busy with cars, carts, animals and people passing through. But after sunset, the authorities closed the street to traffic, allowing the trendy young people to leisurely promenade up and down, talking, while chewing mastic, roasted chickpeas or pum
pkin seeds. Many a time Tasia had heard her classmates referring to the people they met while promenading — something she had never done, not only because she was obeying the school’s and her landlady’s rules, but mainly because of the restrictions she had imposed on herself.
That was why she was feeling so out of place now, as the two of them walked on the dusty road meeting and bypassing many other strollers. Many people sat at tables arranged along the street, eating, drinking and watching the passers-by. A sweet melody muffled the murmuring of the crowd and the other noises of the street.
‘Verdi,’ Eleni whispered. ‘They play it frequently on the radio and that’s why I know it.’
‘Verdi? What do you mean?’
‘I mean the music. It’s an Italian opera. The composer is Verdi.’
Well! That was something new for Tasia. How many more things had she no idea about? How lucky Eleni was, to have a radio!
The evening was warm and pleasant. The lit street was full of people: young, noisy and full of life. Like an automaton, she kept up with Eleni, numb but taking in everything. She thought of how naive and innocent she was: a seventeen year-old girl who had no idea about almost anything. She had built strong and impermeable walls around herself and shut herself inside in order to feel safe. In the process she had prevented herself from learning about the ways of the world, from developing social skills, from learning how to face up to life’s broader challenges. Whatever she had learnt until now was by watching people in her immediate environment and imitating their ways. That’s why Eleni’s present confidence — the ease with which she moved between the tables of the coffee shop, and her commanding voice in ordering cakes and coffee — seemed so audacious to her.
Tasia felt very embarrassed, as she was unused to eating in public. She watched Eleni very closely and imitated her eating and drinking. At the same time she was confronted by an internal conflict not to surrender to indulgence and debauchery. She had tried to subdue primitive urges all her life because, as she had understood Plato’s ideas, as a human being she ought to control her instincts in order to transcend to a higher level. And in her effort to reach that level she had learnt to ignore the signals she was receiving from her young body till they became silent. That’s why she went into a state of panic the moment they reminded her of their existence: like now, urging her to enjoy the divine taste of the cake she was eating.
She was intrigued to see Eleni’s plan in action, how to meet the man in her life in front of all these people, without anybody noticing. In the meantime, she watched the crowds — several of her classmates among them — as they passed close to their table. Her initial response to so many of her classmates promenading was anger. Most students didn’t give a damn about the school’s rules and regulations. She was the only loyal and obedient one with deep respect for the schoolmaster and the teachers. If this evening she broke her principles, it was only because she wanted to help a friend in need. For no other reason would she be out there, eating and drinking publicly and ambling aimlessly up and down.
Eleni gave her a nudge with her foot under the table, interrupting her thoughts. Looking to her left, she saw two young officers walking between the tables. They came and sat at a nearby table as if by chance. They arranged themselves in such a manner so as to enable Eleni and her man to converse, while at the same time giving the impression they were speaking to each other.
What were they saying? Tasia didn’t try to hear. She could see Eleni’s blushing face, her trembling hand holding the cup and her shining eyes full of love. Something like envy invaded Tasia’s heart. She was the sole lonely person on this planet, homeless and alone. She was worthless, invisible, as if she didn’t exist. Not even George noticed her: George, the person she had once thought cared about her.
In that strange and unsettling night, the thought of George became dominant in her mind. Quite out of the blue she felt his presence close by, and lifted her head, ready to see him standing in front of her. But she was sadly mistaken. He wasn’t there but he was surely nearby, promenading with his friends amongst the crowd. Any moment now he’d pass in front of her table and the only problem she’d have would be how to attract his attention.
She started watching the crowd intently, assessing every young man, rejecting immediately the short and those with dark hair. There he was! She’d spotted him But as she was getting ready to jump up in front of him, she found she was wrong. It was only a matter of time though; any moment now he’d be passing in front of her table. But would he remember her?
Time was passing. The crowds thinned out, the music stopped, the lights went dull and the two officers from the adja-cent table got up and left. Soon after, Eleni called the waiter, paid and got up.
‘Let’s go.’ She waved to Tasia to get up, but Tasia didn’t move, forcing Eleni to sit down again. ‘What’s the matter? Are you okay?’ she asked watching Tasia’s distraught face.
‘Yes. I’m fine. Just stay a bit longer. Any time now he’ll be here.’
‘Who will be here? Who will be here?’ demanded Eleni holding Tasia by the shoulder and shaking her.
Startled, she jumped, looked around as if woken from a dream, got up abruptly and took off.
‘Who will be here?’ Eleni asked again, almost running after her. ‘Stop! Stop! I want to tell you that everything worked out fine. I know where I’ll address my letters to him and where I’ll receive his, and all this because of you. You helped me and I’ll never forget that. I’ll always thank you forever from the bottom of my heart.
But Tasia wasn’t walking. She was running. And when they reached her front door she left Eleni without saying a word and slammed the door behind her.
She woke up from a terrifying dream panting and drenched in sweat. The angry voice of the schoolmaster still echoed in her ears. She was on top of the stairs, with the schoolmaster scolding her in front of the entire school, threatening to expel her for bringing the school into disrepute. Maybe it wasn’t the schoolmaster; maybe it was her landlady, or even George. And then the stairs became walls: tall, straight walls, without doors or windows. They started sliding, getting closer, trapping her, suffocating her.
Still panting, she tried to change her position in bed but her body didn’t respond. It was pinned down by a heavy weight, a just punishment for her transgression because it was as clear as the light of day she was a very wicked person: disobedient, malicious, jealous and self-centred. But she knew how to hide, to deceive everyone by appearing humble, magnanimous and good-natured. She was a hypocrite, the scum of the earth. It wasn’t difficult for people with George’s intelligence to see how lowly she was and what dirty tricks she was playing …
She drifted off to sleep again. She woke up very late, feeling dead tired. No students could be seen in the street and everything around was strange and different It was the first time she had been late for school. Her body felt numb and her limbs heavy and sluggish. Her brain was dull and slow. She felt incredibly lazy, bored, with no interest in anything whatsoever. Even the colours around were no longer fresh and bright despite the sunshine, and the people didn’t seem real but misty and ghost-like. Time no longer had any pattern, but had become an unending continuum with no day or night, with no yesterday and no tomorrow. She had dropped from somewhere else into a place she didn’t know because the streets, the neighbourhood, the buildings, the people, the animals, the trees had all changed. She was looking at them as if for the first time.
She continued going to and from school, simply because her feet took her there, mechanically and automatically. Her brain, very slow and all muddled up, had problems coping with the simplest of problems. There was nothing in the whole world capable of making her happy, not even the fact she was alive. How much better it would have been if she weren’t alive, if she hadn’t been born! How much better it would have been if she could die!
For a while the idea of death took prominence in her mind, as Tasia tried to figure out the easiest way to end it all: throw
herself in the well; hang herself; drink petrol or some other poison? At the same time, she was disgusted with her own cowardliness, knowing she could never find the courage to commit such an act.
When she heard of Agatha’s death Tasia thought of her as a very lucky woman. But not after she heard how she had died. Everybody seemed to want to talk about it again and again, to recover from the shock and to cleanse themselves from the stain, like a piece of soiled cloth you rub and rinse again and again.
Not many people knew Agatha — only a handful of her immediate neighbours. She wasn’t a local person but had come from Crete with her husband, a policeman who had been appointed deputy chief of police two years ago in Ptolemais. For the past two years they had lived in a small rented house, very close to the football oval. Their two children were very young and not yet going to school, but kept running out in the streets all day, hungry and dirty, waiting for their father to come home from work and take care of them. Her neighbours very rarely saw Agatha leave the house, and she never spoke to any of them because she was very uppity and haughty. As for her housekeeping, it was better not to ask. Nothing but filth and stench!
‘Just imagine. Her husband is always the one hanging out the clothes and collecting the washing. Maybe he’s doing the washing as well. Who knows?’ one of Agatha’s neighbours said.
‘Holy Virgin! Who ever heard such a thing! How can he stand it!’ asked a second.
‘Women like her have their ways. They are not dumb like us, running after our men, giving them everything they demand and putting up with their abuse,’ commented a third.
‘I don’t understand. Why don’t they employ a woman to help with the housework?’ asked the first.
‘I can tell you: she didn’t want that. She didn’t want a strange woman around her house to spoil her loafing,’ answered a fourth.
The Lace Tablecloth Page 15
