As the situation worsened, I told Tig we must leave. Others obviously had the same idea and people were pushing behind us. We were now choking from the acrid tear gas and our eyes streamed. A great wave of bodies carried us along, down the marble steps to the centre of the square. It was clear that if anyone fell, they would be trampled. A man carrying a boy who been overcome by the gas tried unsuccessfully to shove past us, shouting in terror, “Please, space, please.”
* * *
The next day, Tig announced she wasn’t going to school (“nobody is”) and I left her to sleep while I went out on some errands. The centre of Athens was quiet and it turned out there was a general strike in support of the young people’s protests. Everything was closed. Shops had been smashed up, buildings burnt and there was hardly a bank in the centre of town that had not had its windows shattered and ATMs destroyed. The huge artificial Christmas tree in the centre of Syntagma Square had been set alight like a pagan sacrifice and was now a blackened metal frame. The place stank of ash and lingering tear gas and there was graffiti sprayed on walls that were normally pristine. The ugly city burns beautifully. And someone had written: My cunt is hotter than your Molotov. I wondered whether that was the modern version of Make love not war.
On the way home, I walked past our local police station. A group of teenagers was shouting at the officers who had barricaded themselves inside. Their orders were to do nothing: the politicians could not afford another dead child. The kids looked like the sort that hang around our local frontistíria cramming classes – well dressed and attractive, but now they were screaming with passionate loathing. I watched as they rocked a patrol car until it turned over onto its roof like an upturned beetle. There was a triumphant roar. It was as if the pent-up frustrations of their generation were coming out all at once and they relished the destruction they were wreaking.
When I got home, I found a note from Tig saying she had gone out and would be back at six. At seven I began to call her, but she didn’t answer. At eight I started feeling worried and called Orestes.
“I’m out, but I’ll come back,” he said, though he had no idea of Tig’s whereabouts. He arrived at nine, by which time I was feeling helpless, with no way of locating Tig in the burnt, apparently lawless city. I heard the motorbike in the back alley, the gate opening and Orestes’ footsteps pounding up the spiral staircase.
“I have an idea where she might be,” he said. “Shall I take you to Exarchia on the bike? I don’t know how else you’ll manage – you won’t find a taxi to go there.” He smiled when I asked about a crash helmet (there was a law but like so many, it was not enforced).
“You can have mine. Don’t worry, Mondy. The police are all in hiding.”
The evening air was chill and damp. I clung to Orestes as strands of his hair whipped my face. He didn’t go as fast as I feared, driving steadily past the stadium, along a surprisingly empty King Constantine Avenue, and into Kolonaki. Streets that were normally filled with smart Athenians having drinks or going out to dinner were eerily quiet. We passed several burning cars and overturned wheelie-bins, and there was a crunch of shattered glass under the motorbike’s wheels. Orestes slowed as we went down Solon Street, hemmed in by the buildings on either side, with only a thin strip of night sky above. A gang of young men in balaclavas emerged from a wrecked mobile phone shop, laden with looted boxes. They ran down the pavement, shouting and behind them came an old woman in a headscarf, carrying her own booty. She glanced around guiltily, before scuttling away in the opposite direction.
We soon arrived in Exarchia, and the streets were darker than elsewhere. Orestes parked the bike and we walked around the corner into Tzavella Street, where a large crowd of young people had gathered. There were candles everywhere and piles of flowers interspersed with mementoes: T-shirts, cigarettes, cans of Coke and personal notes addressed to the dead boy. The walls of the buildings were covered with posters and cards, and banners hung from balconies: “Let beauty bloom from your blood”; “We won’t forget.” Somebody had already got a quasi-official blue street sign made and had stuck in on the wall in place of the former one:
Alexandros Grigoropoulos Street, 15 years old, murdered 06/12/2008 by the police.
I walked around, peering at any girl who looked vaguely like Tig, but it was hard to see. There were groups sitting huddled together, talking quietly, like visitors at a shrine and the place smelled of petrol, hot wax and cigarette smoke. Across the road, I heard raised male voices and saw Orestes talking to a group of youths.
“Mod! Come here.” He beckoned with the curious Greek gesture that flops the hand forward.
“Tig got hurt. She’s gone to hospital.” Orestes introduced one of the men as his fellow student, Yangos. “He can tell you more.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Yangos shook my hand, but I wasn’t in the mood for social niceties.
“What happened to my daughter? Where is she?”
“There was some action earlier, down towards the Polytechnic. The police were chasing a group of us and Tig got knocked over. I think that was when she cut her arm. She might have hit her head. But she was OK.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“I think she lost her mobile. Our friend, Lena, decided to take her over to Evangelismos Hospital, to get her checked out.” I felt nauseous from worry.
“Can we leave right now? Can you take me there?” I tried not to make the panic obvious in my voice but could tell from Orestes’ eyes that I was not succeeding. He nodded and we hurried back to the bike. I gripped his leather jacket, digging my nails in hard as we sped straight up the slopes of Lycabettus, then around its pine-filled peripheral road. “Please, God, please,” I found myself whispering, though I don’t pray or believe in God. It didn’t take long to reach the hospital and Orestes parked brazenly on the pavement outside the main entrance.
We found Tig lying on a trolley in A and E, looking tiny and frail, a drip inserted in her hand. A girl in a hippy skirt and floppy hair was standing alongside her – presumably Lena.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you and my phone got lost. They said my arm’s broken. It really hurts.”
I kissed Tig gently and stroked her cheek. “What about your head? What happened?”
“I slipped when the police were chasing us and hit a car. My head was bleeding. There’s a big bump on the back.” She was trying to be brave, just as she used to when she fell over as a young child and fought her tears. I wondered if I would be able to remain calm; after everything that had happened, this felt like too much. Leaving Tig with Orestes and Lena, who both looked unperturbed by the situation, I went in search of someone who could give me some information. Eventually, a harassed-looking doctor appeared, his skin blotchy under the neon lights.
“We’re going to keep her in overnight. We need to do a cranial X-ray and she may need an operation on her arm. The ulna and the radius have multiple fractures and may need plates. You’ll have to speak to the surgeon tomorrow.”
While Tig was being wheeled around between different departments for X-rays and scans, Orestes sat with me and we talked. He was probably trying to distract me when he asked me how I was getting on with my trawl through Nikitas’ office and whether I had uncovered anything interesting about his research. My thoughts went to Danae, and as if wanting to add to my misery, I couldn’t resist asking Orestes his opinion.
“Do you think Babas was involved with her?”
He laughed. “No. Definitely not!”
“Why are you so sure?” I became even more suspicious. Perhaps Orestes was covering for his father.
“First, because I met her at almost the same time he did, a couple of years ago, and I tried to ask her out. She made it clear she wasn’t interested in either of us, and she said she hated older men coming on to her. It was always happening at the newspaper and it had really put her off. Anyway, she was knocked up, and about to get married to another wanker journalist. And after that she was obsesse
d with the baby – Babas told me she was really annoying because she was always late with her work and used the kid as an excuse. He definitely wasn’t involved with her.”
“She’s married and has a child?” I almost smiled. I couldn’t believe how much I had misunderstood the woman on the basis of a lipstick she must have just forgotten at Nikitas’ office. It was another reminder of how hard it is to arrive at “the truth”. So much gets lost, hidden and misinterpreted along the way.
“One less thing to torture yourself with, eh, Mondy?” Orestes must have sensed my train of thought and I felt stupid for having been so suspicious. He laughed again and put his arm around me. “We seem to be making a bad habit of visiting hospitals together. This had better stop.”
I don’t know what time it was when a technician showed me the X-rays of Tig’s skull and explained it was not fractured as they had feared. Orestes kissed me goodnight and left, while a junior doctor put a couple of sutures on the cut, having shaved a portion of the hair. Afterwards, an overly zealous nurse wound bandages all over her head and her right arm. It was the darkest moment before dawn creeps in when Tig was wheeled into a ward. I pulled the flowery curtains round her bed and slumped into an armchair. Tig went straight to sleep and gradually my knees stopped trembling. I watched the drip steadily releasing clear liquid into the plastic tube in Tig’s vein and wept from relief and exhaustion. All around were the unfamiliar sounds of a hospital at night: patients coughing, nurses bringing medication on rattling trolleys and the rubbery squeaks of swing doors. Lorries puffed like dragons as they arrived to unload medical supplies in the street below. The view from the window showed the grounds of the British School – the first place I had stayed in Athens as a student.
As it got light, I went in search of a bathroom and passed a room that had been transformed into a shrine. Inside, a regulation metal-framed bed was surrounded by icons, oil lamps, flowers and the photograph of a saint – an old fellow with a white beard and a benevolent expression, who had apparently worked miraculous cures when he was prayed to. Outside the door was a large icon strung with dozens of votive offerings. Each silver rectangle was stamped with the relief image of a torso, a limb, a baby, a heart – whatever fitted the prayer of the supplicant – and was attached to the icon by a ribbon. They looked endearingly innocent. How could any god resist such pretty, shiny entreaties? I entered the room and stood still and exhausted, ready to light any number of candles if that would help.
* * *
The surgeon, Mr Sadellakis, was a middle-aged Cretan with sleek black hair and eyes that looked as though they winked their way through life’s conspiracies. She required surgery, he confirmed. A plate would be inserted into Tig’s arm or it wouldn’t mend properly. He was reassuring about the injuries and had a gallant air. By the end of the visit I adored the man and had a strong desire to hug him, but, instead, I shook his hand and thanked him.
“Your daughter will soon be back at school and her arm will be even stronger than before.” Addressing Tig, he said:
“And Despinis Antigone, once we’ve operated, you’ll make the airport security bleep whenever you pass through.” Tig grimaced, and then smiled.
“You’ll let me know what the expenses will be,” I said, knowing about the unofficial “little envelope” required in state hospitals. Two thousand euros would cover everything, including the anaesthetist, he explained genially, putting his hand on my shoulder. He would ensure that the operation was given top priority. It should be possible to go ahead today. He opened his diary and mumbled, “Let’s see, Wednesday, December 10th…” As he said the date, I remembered with horror that Johnny was due to arrive that afternoon. I had promised to collect him at the airport.
As soon as the surgeon left, I rang Orestes in the hope that he could go in my place but his mobile was switched off. My next attempt was Antigone; she might be old, but she could take a taxi to the airport. However, Dora’s phone didn’t answer and I left a message explaining the problem without being too alarmist about Tig. After half an hour I had heard nothing, so I rang Alexandra.
“My poor little Mondy,” she cooed soothingly. That made me cry and I hid the tears from Tig by looking at the people playing tennis in the British School.
“Of course I’ll go to meet our old friend,” said Alexandra. “It will be my pleasure. And on the way I’ll come to see Tig. Don’t worry, everything will be all right. What can I bring? Food? Clothes for you?”
I was unable to answer.
“Don’t cry, Mondouly. Our little Antigone is going to be fine.” It was the first time Aunt Alexandra had used my daughter’s name.
“Can you bring a votive offering so I can say a prayer for Tig’s arm?” There was a pause as Alexandra wondered whether I was joking – I wasn’t sure myself. I turned in time to catch Tig’s eye as she furrowed her brow in puzzlement.
“There’s a saint’s room here,” I explained. “A nurse told me the icon really works.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied dubiously. She soon turned up however, en route to the airport, with a package of Chryssa’s little cheese pies, some grapes, and miraculously, a gleaming tin oblong stamped with the imprint of an arm.
No sooner had I got off the phone with Alexandra than two policemen appeared in Tig’s ward.
“Kyria Perifanis?” asked the taller, gum-chewing one. He had acne-scarred cheeks and arms that he held away from his torso like someone emulating a body-builder. “We need to take a statement from your daughter. We have reason to believe that she was involved with an attack on a police bus yesterday.” Tig said nothing, eyeing them in disgust.
“My daughter is injured and about to have an operation. She is a child.”
“She may be a child, but she is old enough to throw Molotov cocktails at the police. Someone could have been killed. We have reason to believe that she was with Orestes Perifanis, who has been arrested this morning. If your daughter can’t speak at the moment, maybe you could answer a few questions about him.” I was so shocked I could barely take in what he was saying. I noticed his pistol – stuffed in a leather holster and wedged against the beginnings of a paunch.
“Arrested?” I said. “What happened?”
They wouldn’t give much away and insisted that I confirm Orestes’ age, address and university department. I refused to name any of his friends and they left, sullenly wishing Tig “Get well soon.”
Before I had time to ask Tig for her version of events, a nurse came with some pills for her (sniffing scandal, I sensed) and Yiorgia, Orestes’ mother rang.
“They’ve detained him in the central station on Alexandra Avenue.” She used her professional tone, though when I told her about the police visit, she sounded more like a frantic mother.
“Oh, my God! I hope you didn’t say anything. You must always say you need a lawyer present – use my name. They’re saying he’s an anarchist leader, the idiots, and that his friends are part of a terrorist cell. The only evidence they have against Orestes is a film of him organising kids to sell cobblestones at 3 euros each for people to throw at the police! Can you believe it?” From the window I could see the two policemen leaning against their patrol car in the sunshine, smoking and drinking coffee from paper cups. On the wall of the British School behind them, someone had sprayed red graffiti: “A bullet shot our democracy.”
24
Anthropos
ANTIGONE
The distant parts of my life are coming ever closer, so that I now remember more about my father and brother than I do about Igor and our decades together in Moscow. My mother’s kitchen at Paradise Street and the smells of Aspasia’s cooking are clearer to me than all the Russian tastes that dominated my adult life. When I heard Mod’s message asking me to meet Johnny at the airport I was surprised, but it made sense to go and see the man I had once loved (I must forget about the hate). He has been in my mind so much recently. Circles are closing. Now, after all these years, I realise that Johnny is just ano
ther human like me, reaching the end of his road. “Anthropos eínai” [he’s human], as they say. What do I expect? Perfection? An angel? Of course we make mistakes, have regrets, let people down, take the wrong road. That is our humanity. It is in our nature to be flawed. People who believe they can be something more end up despots or disappointed. Or plunge to their fate like Icarus. Worst of all, they become ridiculous.
The taxi to the airport went too fast, and I arrived dizzy and disoriented, just before the first people from the London flight emerged. It occurred to me that I might not recognise Johnny. The image I had was from over sixty years ago – a blondish, freckled young man. But it would have been ridiculous to make a sign like the drivers: “Mr Fell.” I stepped back from the throng so I would have time to take a good look before I approached him, but when he appeared through the sliding doors I knew him immediately. Naturally he was old. But he still walked leaning forward, as though he was too tall, though he now had a stick. As I made to go over towards him, I noticed an elderly woman approaching him, holding out her hands in a gesture of welcome. I stopped in shock, squinting over, trying to get a better look. Johnny kissed the woman on both cheeks and she placed her hand on his jacket sleeve. My feet were rooted to the airport floor, my heart hammering and my ears ringing.
As they moved past me, my mother’s diamond roses from Constantinople sparkled at Alexandra’s ears. She was dressed in her Sunday best and her perfume was so strong it almost gave me a headache
“What a lovely surprise.” Johnny’s voice was just the same – those elongated vowels we used to mimic as children. “And still so elegant after all this time.” He was always chivalrous. I looked at the ground, not wanting to meet his eyes or to confront Alexandra. What would I say? “I’m here too?” Alexandra had not seen me since the last time Johnny was in Greece as part of an occupying force – she would not imagine that the unremarkable old woman within spitting distance was her sister. I looked down in angry bewilderment and noticed that Johnny’s trousers were thin at the knees but that his shoes shone.
The House on Paradise Street Page 27
