by Arnold Zable
I do not recall whether it was the next night or the next week when I returned to Niko’s hovel, but I do recall that I could not wait to hear him resume his tale. And I remember the glasses of wine, our toasts to Poseidon, St Nicholas and St Basil, and gods ancient and new; and to blind Homer and one-eyed beasts, white-breasted Sappho and bards whose words still ring true. And to the Aegean, the Sea of Marmara, the Bosporus and Golden Horn, and to ports I had never heard of encompassing the seven oceans.
The list grew with each visit in keeping with Niko’s unquenchable thirst and ended with a toast to Dimitri, the levendi, the most honourable of men, and Old Niko’s refrain: ‘Arkhe tou paramythiou, kalispera sas. The fairytale begins, good evening to you.’ And again we were voyaging in the rose tinted dawn, well stocked with provisions from Constantinople, with Niko, and my father, and men of the village, some of whom I knew, and others who had died, or gone mad, or vanished long before I was born.
‘Alas, a day or two in Constantinople was all we could afford,’ sighed Niko, ‘before we continued our voyage. We tacked against the river’s currents past homes rising from underwater foundations. We moved past fat men astride wheezing donkeys, and walled mansions shaded by citrus groves. We sailed by the walled fortress of the Genoese Castle, and Joshua’s tomb on the Giant’s Mountain. We sailed until the great inland sea was upon us, a silver glow that disturbed our eyes under the midday sun.
‘The Black Sea intimidated us,’ said Niko, tracing his index finger over yet another map. ‘Unlike the Ionian and Aegean, there are no islands within easy reach. In spring, melting snows swell the rivers of Southern Russia—the Dniester, the Bug, the Don and Donetz—and flush black earth through their deltas, trailing a dark stain out to sea. Currents battle the rising winds, and malevolent forces are let loose, inducing blizzards driven by abrupt wind shifts that can spin a boat like a top, and dash it to pieces.
‘We coasted between anchorages and dared not move far off shore. We clung to the western rim and sailed past ships sagging under sacks bloated with grain. Travellers huddled beneath mosquito nets or squatted on deck dealing cards. Entire families lay prostrate on makeshift sheets or bare boards, worn out by weeks of flight from God knows which embattled kingdom or arid steppe.’
Niko was back on his feet, goaded by his countless toasts into his hop-like dance. He spat out his story as he whirled, and the spittle landed on fabled ports of the Black Sea: Varna, Constanta. ‘The ports swarmed with thieves and dogs. Beggars stretched out their needy hands. Labourers stumbled under the weight of heavy cargoes. In the back streets tailors, shoemakers and jewellers cut and shaped, cloth, leather and diamonds.
‘Mavri Thalassa. The Black Sea,’ Niko recited. ‘In the ports of the Black Sea we realised we were merely ants in search of hard-earned booty to haul back to our impoverished lairs. As we approached the Danube delta, birds and locusts descended on marshlands and swamps. Men in fishing boats cruised the estuaries and coastal waters in search of sturgeon bloated with caviar. Shepherds in sheepskin caps and jackets, cow-skin moccasins and sun-beaten hides drove flocks over muddy passes.
‘Beside them walked women with handkerchiefs woven into their hair, petticoats peeping beneath knee-high dresses. We gazed at these women and imagined what lay beneath their layers of clothing, but we had no time for daydreams. We were impatient to reach our destination, the Danube River ports.
‘If ports are doorways to new worlds,’ exclaimed Niko, ‘then ports on the mouths of deltas are a succession of doors, linked by rivers to landlocked cities, inland civilisations. There are three mouths on the Danube: St George in the south, Kilia in the north, and between them, Sulina, our next port of call.’
Niko retrieved a map of the delta, and guided my finger to the river mouth. ‘Twenty miles east of Sulina,’ he said, ‘we tacked between the shore and the Isle of Serpents, so small it cannot be seen on this map. On the southern shore, within its low-lying cliffs, basking on rocks, lay a mass of black serpents coiled in one tremulous mass.
‘The isle was the home of Achilles, and a temple in his honour once stood there. A Greek historian has written that when he visited the temple, its surrounds were full of goats that sailors had left as votive offerings. Flocks of white seabirds took to the sea every morning, skimmed their wings on the waves, and returned to sprinkle the shrine. But I believe only what I see with my own eyes,’ said Niko, ‘and what I saw was a bare island pointing the way to the river mouth.
‘Autopsy means “that which one sees with ones eyes”. Autopsy is the seaman’s curse. He sees so many gods he becomes godless. He sees so many mysteries he becomes weary. He sees so much he no longer knows what to believe. And I have no more to say. The night is old. The journey is long, but before we go on we need a good night’s sleep. I am going to bed. And tomorrow night the same.’
I stroll home with my feet on the rocky soil of Ithaca, and my mind on other worlds. Niko’s tales bleed into my dreams and I plummet from the skies to a pit of serpents spitting venom. There is nothing to hold onto but black night, black water, black winds and the black silhouette of my father, always beyond reach. He turns and is beside me, lifting me to his height. He places a telescope to my eyes, and the world springs closer, but my father is moving away, receding, dissolving in the dark.
The wine has been poured, the glasses are full, a map of the Danube delta lies on the table—a British admiralty map of course—and the toasts have been drunk, one to each god assembled on Mount Olympus, and to the gods of many nations. And to agnostics and atheists, pagans and idol worshippers, and those who are confused, and to those who believe that all that lives eventually returns to a void.
‘No one should be left out,’ says Niko, placing an arm around my shoulders. ‘Even beggars have a right to be honoured. After all, didn’t Odysseus return to Ithaca in the guise of a beggar, and didn’t the gods disguise themselves as strangers, and when the wind changes and flings us off course, don’t we become strangers?
Old Niko takes one last sip and swipes his jacket sleeve over his lips. ‘Arkhe tou paramythiou, kalispera sas,’ he exclaims and we are entering the mouth of the Danube, sailing against wilful currents to the port of Sulina. Below us submerged banks of silt spread a yellowish tinge out to sea.
‘Not so long ago,’ says Niko, ‘the silted mouth was littered with the hulls and masts of boats that had run aground. Sulina was a hamlet of mud huts built on stilts skirted by reeds, safe only for low draft lighters. One night, in the winter of 1855, twenty-four sailing ships and sixty lighters ran aground in a tempest. Since then dredges have cut a channel twenty-four feet deep, three hundred feet wide.
‘Sulina grew as the channel cut deeper and larger ships sidled against its lengthening quays. Some of the buildings are said to be of Ithacan stone, the ballast of Kioni rocks we carried in the wombs of our boats. Can you imagine it, the foundations of a port spawned by rocks quarried from our own wretched Ithacan soil?’
I nod my head like an automaton, fully captive to Niko’s hypnotic rant. ‘Now that we are in Romania,’ he declares, ‘we must toast each other in the local tongue: . Good health to the Danube delta, its swampy waters and black sands, and to pelicans, ibis and sea eagles, otters, wolves and wild boar. Good health to marshlands and islets of beech, and to flocks of geese that obliterate the skies with their wings. And good health to deltas that shit silt into the sea; each year over one hundred million tons,’ says Niko, twirling the fact on his tongue as he refills his glass.
‘Good health to waterways lined with willows, and to a fisherman’s paradise brimming with mackerel, bream and carp. Good health to flamingoes that have flown here from the Nile, and to marsh dwellers who set fire to reeds to pave the way for new growth. And, lest we forget, to the entire one thousand square miles of delta, even though it broods with intimations of death: In summer, clouds of mosquitoes feasted on our hides. We have lost Ithacan brothers to malaria, tuberculosis, and mysterious plagues. I have known Thiaks to was
te away from nostalgia once the fever has taken hold.’
Niko pauses. The romance fades. The colour drains from his face, and I see that Niko is old and rotting, and drinking himself to death. Yet he is still moving, sailing upstream against currents, past oak forests and swampland to inland river-ports, and I am sailing with him, and my father, and fellow Thiaks. We drop anchor in Tulcea, where the three arms of the delta converge. We pause in Galatz, a river port encircled by forested hills. We fling our ropes onto the wharves of Vraila, and inspect warehouses stacked with freight.
In each port there are Ithacan merchants, shipping agents, river-pilots and entire families who dwell on houseboats. In each port we see them strutting to their offices, Ionian magnates, drawing up contracts, hiring crewmen for their ocean-going fleets. Every port is a homecoming, an Ithacan home to stay in, godfathers to bless us and godchildren to bless, and someone to place food beside us, a kitchen or coffee house to sit down in, to find out who had died, who had been born, who had married and divorced. Who had run off with a mistress, or gambled away his fortune, and who had contracted syphilis, or become wealthy since we last met.
We offload our cargo and put our brig to the river trade. We sail alongside steel barges and steam-powered tugs, built and piloted by Ithacan cartels. We move upriver with Ionian flotillas and return with cargoes of timber and dry goods. There is no shortage of work, no poor soils to restrain us, no backbreaking slopes. For a few blessed months we are masters of the river, at liberty to determine our fate. And when the chance arises we stray from our purpose long enough to sail within striking distance of the great inland city, Bucharest. We drop anchor, draw lots, and leave the loser with the barge groaning under its load of grain.
‘Bucharest was Mikhalis the fiddler’s great love,’ says Niko. ‘He sat day and night in cafes that never closed, ears cocked to Tzigany bands. We left him sitting like a man possessed and set out for the gambling dens. The Romanians are even greater gamblers than the Greeks. Perhaps it is the Greek blood that flows somewhere in their veins.
‘We hailed coaches for the fun of it, drawn by Russian horses, ebony black, with black manes, whipped on by Russian exiles dressed in black velvet tunics embroidered with gold braid. They conveyed wealthy travellers to and from theatres, opera houses, brothels and casinos, back to their hotels where French waiters served French wines and cuisine prepared by French chefs.
says Niko, and swills another glass. ‘After three days in Bucharest, our heads were spinning and our wallets empty. We tore ourselves away from the gambling houses, dragged Mikhalis from his Tzigany bands, staggered to the station and returned to the river trade. After all, this is what had lured us to the Danube, against swells and gales, and silted waters that threatened to run us aground.
‘The pursuit of grain transformed us into salmon leaping over the tides to the wheatfields of the Danube basin, tended by armies of peasants for aristocrats who lorded it over their feudal estates. They spent their leisure hours in Bucharest palaces, while their peasants tilled the soil and battalions of priests kept them in check. At times the currents ran so strong, oxen dragged our boats upstream, pulling on ropes from the riverbanks.
‘We traded our oil, currants and olives for grain, and left before the cold took hold. We filled every space with sacks of grain: stacked it on the decks, stuffed it in the Captain’s cabin, the sleeping quarters and in the holds. We would have swallowed it and shit it out, or shoved it in our underpants if we’d had enough room!’ Niko exclaims.
‘The return journey was faster despite the load. We emerged from the Black Sea into the Bosporus and bypassed Constantinople. The Great Bazaar could no longer entice us, nor the most alluring of brothels tempt us now that we were on our way.
‘Despite the favourable currents, the journey seemed longer as we drew closer, because we finally allowed ourselves to think of our homes. We relived the same illusion each time,’ Niko tells me. ‘The island glowed in our mind’s eye. If the winds dropped we shook our fists at the heavens. If storms impeded our progress, we railed against our fate; and if the grain prices in Zakynthos were high, we detoured to make a quick profit. Each successive sea brought us closer, yet the agony increased.
‘Your father was talking of you,’ says Niko, tapping my shoulder. ‘Dimitri allowed you to return to his thoughts. He could endure months holed up in ports, whittle away days in taverns, or spend weeks loading boats and haggling over the price of grain, but the final hours as he neared home were unbearable. He searched the horizon for the familiar outline of the two islands, Kefallonia and Ithaca.
‘At first, they seemed as one. Only when the mountains of Kefallonia receded, and Ithaca assumed its shape, did he allow his breath to ease. Only when he could make out the shepherds’ huts on the Marmakas, and glimpse Exogi struggling through the clouds, did he allow his spirits to rise.
‘As we drew up to the waterfront, Dimitri had to restrain himself from leaping off before the boat was secured. He set his eyes on the summit like a navigator setting his sights by the North Star. He ascended the familiar path, rucksack stuffed with presents. His heart was filled with expectation, his body light with anticipation. He was about to look upon your face.’
Niko swayed on his feet, as if giddy from the voyage. He leaned on a wall for support. The hovel was his still point, an axis within a chaotic world. ‘We returned home and succumbed to the pleasure of feeling the earth beneath our feet,’ he says, wearily.
‘And, for a while, we were content. Until the weeks became months, and the homecoming was long over, the winter at an end, the vipers back on the prowl, and our coffers running low. We crawled out of our beds, returned to the quay, loaded our boats and prepared to set sail. What choice did we have?
‘Enough! I am tired. My journeys are over and I am not content. New journeys are to be made, and I am too old. I am going to bed. And tomorrow night the same.’
I walked home, confused. I looked down at the hamlets, sprinkles of lamplights on the lower slopes. A sudden clutter of hooves and a goat skittered into the dark. I made out the moonlit trails on the mountain opposite, disappearing into the groves. Above me stood the summit, powerless at yet another departure, another descent to the bay. For the first time I sensed what the women called erimia, desolation. Each year more men set out. We were becoming a village of absent fathers.
I spent my time in the company of women. When I awoke, my mother was long up in the pre-dawn dark. Erasmia had prepared the bread and wine, and loaded the mules. The time of the olive harvest had arrived. When we stepped out we were not alone. Families were making their way to the Marmakas’ groves. They had no time for regret. The mountain took care of that. The energy required to carve and work it, absorbed the sting and bent their backs.
I trudged beside my mother, aunts, and uncles who no longer had the will to tend their boats. They had no need of lamps to light the way. The paths were as familiar as the veins hardening in their arms. We paused at the edge of the groves, built a fire, brewed coffee, and chewed bread before setting to work.
There is nothing more pleasurable than fatigue after a day’s labour. The smells released by the mountain were more pungent when we trudged back. The heat of day was gone, the mountain attuned to the sound of voices. I ran ahead, climbed through gaps in the perimeter wall, and dashed home to the barking of familiar dogs.
‘The best food is when you’re hungry,’ so the saying goes, and after a day on the mountain I was ravenous. As soon as I finished eating, I made for the door. ‘Why do you spend so much time with that syphilitic?’ my mother said, but I was gone. Nothing could hold me back. I climbed beyond St Marina’s to the spur on which Niko’s hovel stood. He was seated outside, smoking, and pointed towards Afales Bay.
‘Who else would call it Afales, Bellybutton Bay,’ he wheezed. ‘We Thiaks think our island is the navel of the universe. From the summit, Exogi lies at our feet, planted by God knows whom. It was wise to build the village on the heights. We can l
ose our heads in the clouds and forget the shit below.’
Niko retrieved a leather-bound volume from the trunk. The pages were thick parchment. Inside the cover lay a foldout map of Ithaca, dated 1806. Lines marked the routes across the narrow channel to Kefallonia.
‘Written not by Greeks, but an Englishman,’ said Niko. ‘The Germans and English come here in search of Odysseus. They love Ithaca more than their own soil. They stumble about in the midday sun with copies of The Odyssey, and comb through the rubble in search of buried cities, lost worlds. They pore over the script as if deciphering a code. They pick over each word and interpret it like a biblical text.
‘And they explore the usual suspects, south to Rock Korax, the Raven’s Crag, and the Spring of Arethusa where, surely, Odysseus’ faithful swineherd, Eumaeus, watched over his pigs. They travel further south, to Marathia, where they are convinced Odysseus met the loyal swineherd soon after his return. They poke around in the vain hope they may find signs of the swineherd’s hut, and the courtyard in which he welcomed and fed the disguised king.
‘They move back north to the cave of Dexia, and are certain they have stepped into the grotto where the nymphs wove purple fabrics on looms of stone. And they inspect the nearby shores of Phorcys Bay where the sleeping Odysseus, on his return, was surely deposited by the noble Phaeacians.
‘They hire mules and inch their way further north, and pause just below us, by the ruins of Homer’s School. They dip their hands in the Melanydros Springs, where they believe Homer cured his blindness when he washed his eyes in its mineral waters.
‘They explore each bay as potential sites for Odysseus’ landings, and scour each hill for the remains of his palace. Each bends the text to suit their case. “Surely the palace stood on Mount Aetos,” says one, and he points to the ruins of the citadel and the excavations of Schliemann, the archaeological dreamer. They spend hours pacing between stones marking out Penelope’s chamber, the servant’s quarters, the Banquet Hall and pillars, and are convinced that it is the exact place where Penelope’s suitors met their bloody deaths.
