The House on Paradise Street

by Sofka Zinovieff

  “Antigonaki mou, are you all right? Siderénia [get strong as iron].”

  “Hello Yiayia.” Never has the word “grandmother” sounded so good.

  Johnny stared intently at my granddaughter. “This girl looks just as you did. It’s like going back in time.” He came over and took Tig’s good hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Antigone.”

  “What’s that?” asked Tig, peering at the box with Markos’ remains. “Is it a head?”

  25

  Forty days and forty nights

  MAUD

  When Tig was born, it was Chryssa, childless and probably a virgin, who told me about the forty days when mother and infant must stay at home.

  “I know you’re a modern girl and times are different.” She began diffidently, even though she was usually forthright. “But to do things properly, you should not leave the house unless you have to, and neither should the baby. At the end, you bring in a priest to do a blessing.” Nikitas was having none of that, but Chryssa’s talk of blood, pollution, unspecified nocturnal dangers and nameless spirits remained with me. I did not take her advice, but I understood the rationale behind the superstition. Long before the advent of baby manuals and childhood experts with all their contradictory teachings on “bonding”, village women had found a way of allowing the mother and new baby to be quiet together and to rest before normal life resumed. The forty days were a time of limbo, like Jesus in the wilderness or Moses on Mount Sinai. The number forty also applied to fasting during Lent and to the period between a person’s death and the first important memorial service.

  The evening before Nikitas’ ‘forty-day’, Chryssa brought wheat, pomegranates and other ingredients for kólyva, just as she had for the memorial three days after Nikitas died.

  “May God forgive him,” she said as she came in, briskly wiping a rheumy eye. “He was like a son to me.” She busied herself, letting practicalities take precedence over emotions. Tig was not able to help because of her arm, but sat and watched, smiling bravely. When Antigone got back from a meeting she had arranged with Johnny, she joined them and, from my study, I heard an animated conversation in the kitchen. The words were unintelligible but I could tell it was largely between grandmother and granddaughter, with a few interjections from Chryssa. When I went to see how the kólyva was progressing, they abruptly stopped talking.

  “Beautiful,” I said, taking in the mound of grains and seeds now covered in icing sugar like a shallow, snow-covered volcano.

  “And tasty,” said Chryssa, friendly but obviously relieved to have found a topic to distract me. “The wheat is good quality and the pomegranates are from a friend’s garden. Only the best for our Nikitas.” Antigone looked at the floor and Tig glanced at me to see how I reacted.

  “I think I’ll go and lie down,” she said. “My arm’s sore. Mum, can I take a Depon?” I went to get her the painkiller and overheard her taking her leave (“Goodnight Chryssa, goodnight Yiayia”). It sounded very cosy. I sat on Tig’s bed and took in the mix of childhood relics – the teddies and picture books – that sat incongruously with the patchwork of posters, concert tickets, banners and assorted mementoes on the walls. One side of the room was a mural painted by Tig and her friends, depicting a girl spraying graffiti. There were slogans I assumed came from Orestes: “Lifestyle is manic depression, gift-wrapped,” and “Buy until you die” (accompanied by the anarchists’ A in a circle). Someone had recently added “Cops, pigs, murderers” and “Alexis, that bullet hit us all”.

  “So, what do you think of your grandmother? You seem to be getting on well.” I heard something in my voice that I hoped wasn’t jealousy.

  “She’s nice,” Tig replied in non-committal fashion.

  * * *

  The winter sun was dazzling. The bitter-orange trees outside the cemetery were laden with ripe fruit, some of which had fallen into the gutters and collected in heaps. The arrangement was that we would meet at the gate and walk to the grave together, locating en route one of the priests who performed memorial rites. I tried to dissuade Tig from coming; it was only the day after her discharge from hospital. But she insisted, walking gingerly alongside her newly acknowledged grandmother. Alexandra proceeded with her head held high, staying next to Johnny, while Orestes (unshaven and in jeans) took my arm on one side and Chryssa’s on the other. It felt as though years had passed since we all walked the same way for the funeral, not even six weeks earlier.

  Nikos the poet came rushing through the gates, hugging us all with relief when he found he was not late.

  “Meet Konstantina,” he said, introducing an attractive, young woman, who looked vaguely familiar. I assumed she was one of the poetry groupies he and Nikitas often joked about, though her straightened, blonde hair and fashionable clothes marked her out from the earnest types who normally pursued the ageing poet.

  “Konstantina is an admirer of Nikitas’ writing and wanted to come along,” Nikos said unconvincingly, as he put an arm around her. I realised she was the television reporter who had interviewed him on the day of the accident.

  Danae was lurking awkwardly in the shadows and I called her over. I had rung her the previous day, wanting to make up for my unwarranted suspicions, and invited her to the memorial. I kissed her and she scrubbed at her eyes with one hand.

  “Sorry,” she tried to smile through watering eyes. “I’ve been up half the night with my daughter. I’m just tired.”

  Orestes waved at her casually. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She gave a small wave back. It was strange how harmless she looked.

  The two ex-wives tfurned up, Kiki draped in a purple scarf and pendants and Yiorgia in a lawyer’s suit and heels. They both kissed me politely, but in a manner that said the time for sharing tears and falling into each other’s arms was over. In any case, all anyone could talk about was the crisis.

  “You can’t even walk down University Avenue,” Kiki said, throwing out her strong potter’s hands in exasperation. “Everywhere is shuttered up and nobody dares go to the centre. You see gangs of “hooded ones” rampaging along like packs of dogs. They’ve been attacking policemen. It’s unbelievable.”

  “They deserve it.” Orestes never agreed with the opinions of his father’s first wife. “The pigs have been beating us up without anyone stopping them for so long, they thought they could start shooting kids in cold blood. The police need to be taught a lesson. This is a war. We’re fighting the state. It’s more than hooliganism.”

  Yiorgia joined the debate, taking her son’s side.

  “I don’t know what’s going on in this country, when our children are chased by gun-toting policemen in gas masks. There’s blood on the pavements in front of the Parliament building. It’s like 1944 all over again. It certainly doesn’t look like the democracy we fought for.” She looked around for support.

  “They’re already calling it the Dekemvriana of 2008,” said Kiki, looking pleased with herself. “You know what I saw painted on a wall in the square, near the burnt Christmas tree? Merry crisis and a happy new fear. At least they have humour.” No one laughed. I saw Antigone listening and watching us, taking in the three wives of the son she didn’t know. Her expression was impossible to interpret, her eyes lowered and her lips set. Johnny was standing by her, leaning on a walking stick and far away in his thoughts. He had obviously given up trying to follow the conversation in Greek.

  During the short service in the chapel the two sisters stood grimly apart, their faces rigid as though each were a Medusa that had petrified the other. Nothing was given away. The past itself seemed to be set in stone. We walked slowly to the grave. The pathways had become familiar in recent weeks: the prominent corner of the archbishops’, the sleeping maiden, and the family tombs with mops and buckets in attendance. Crossing the cemetery’s green heart, we made our way up the slope to the “artists’ area” and the gravestone made by a local stonemason.

  NIKITAS PERIFANIS

  1946–2008

  You co
uld either sum up a person like that or you could investigate, as I had been doing, not knowing whether you’d ever understand them. A priest was found and he performed the short ritual for my husband, jangling his brass censer enthusiastically, and chanting in a melodious voice. I slipped a 50 euro note into his hand at the end and he nodded his thanks, tucking it into his capacious robes.

  The original plan for the reception had been to go to Zonar’s in University Avenue. It would have brought back memories for the old people, and Nikitas had favoured the place when it was a more subtle, lugubrious version of its current incarnation. However, the riots in the centre meant it was virtually a no-go area and we decided instead on Café 13, the slightly seedy establishment on Anapafseos Street, where I had first met Antigone. Most of the friends and relations didn’t stay long after downing coffee and brandy; they had work and appointments. Within half an hour I was alone with the two old Gorgon sisters, Johnny, Chryssa, Tig and Orestes. Alexandra wasn’t exactly flirting with Johnny, but was being as charming as I had ever seen her. When she announced that she had a delicious fish soup and that we should all come home for lunch, it was clearly some kind of challenge to Antigone.

  “The past should stay in the past,” Alexandra pronounced. “We must all get on with our lives.” Her tone was breezy, but she didn’t look at Antigone – rather, she silently dared her to protest. She even repeated her words in English for Johnny, who nodded in agreement, evidently not realising the degree to which the sisters were estranged. There was a surprisingly brief pause, during which Antigone caught my eye, then nodded and answered, “Of course.”

  We sat at the solid mahogany dining-table that Petros and Maria Perifanis had bought for their new house in Paradise Street, over ninety years before. Alexandra was at the head and served the fragrant fish soup, while the filleted white flesh and boiled vegetables were arranged on a platter, next to a jug of ladolémono – whisked oil and lemon. Morena had come to help and fetched and carried from the kitchen. She was prompted by Chryssa who sat with us but had her mind on the practicalities throughout the meal that she had prepared.

  “We must drink to Nikitas,” said Alexandra, raising a glass of wine. We said his name in unison. Orestes downed his glass in one and poured another. Johnny pronounced Nikitas’ name loudly, looking at me and giving a sympathetic smile. Antigone and Tig had mumbled and were concentrating on their drinks.

  “May we remember him,” said Chryssa, for the hundredth time.

  “It’s good that your son grew up here, in the same house as you did,” said Alexandra, addressing her sister in what was obviously a prepared speech. “He may have been left by his mother, but his roots were here. He had his grandmother. You did the right thing.”

  “There was not much choice.” Antigone spoke softly, but Alexandra did not give up.

  “At least he wasn’t turned into a little Russian. He stayed in his homeland. It is important for a boy to have a man around, someone who sets him an example. Spiros was like a father to Nikitas.” I couldn’t tell whether Alexandra was provoking Antigone or whether she believed what she was saying, but it was Orestes who had heard enough.

  “I thought Spiros used to beat him. Babas told us that he was frightened of him as a child.”

  Alexandra didn’t miss a beat. “Those were different times, my boy, and discipline is an important part of bringing up a child. Spiros believed you should take responsibility for your actions. Crime requires punishment. And a little slap never hurt anyone. Children today could do with more backbone.”

  Nobody said anything and Alexandra kept going. “Spiros always stuck to his word, which is why he was a good policeman. When he needed to find a criminal, he kept at it with method until he succeeded. That’s why he rose to such a high position in the Ministry – he knew when to strike. It wasn’t for nothing that his colleagues called him Wasp.” Alexandra looked proud as she said that.

  “Wasp?” I checked to see whether Antigone and Johnny reacted, but they didn’t blink.

  “Then what did Spiros do? What happened when Antigone was in prison?” I blurted it out without really thinking and everyone at the table looked at me as if the question didn’t make sense. If Spiros was Wasp, what had he done that had shocked Johnny back then? And why did Nikitas have his hated uncle’s nickname written on the pad on his desk?

  “What do you mean, Mondouly mou?” Alexandra asked sweetly, tilting her head to one side.

  I should have left it there but I couldn’t. It seemed that everyone knew more than I did; even Tig was in league with Antigone. I wanted to know what was going on.

  “‘Johnny, can’t you tell me?” I asked in English. “What is it about Spiros? What did he do? I know that Nikitas was puzzling over the name Wasp just before he died? I think you must know. He was my husband. Please.” Johnny was embarrassed by my outburst, but I didn’t care.

  “Maud, my dear…” He fumbled for words. “I think that Antigone should… She is the only one who can speak about this. And I imagine she will want to do so in private.” He glanced at Antigone and she nodded with what I now interpret as bleak satisfaction. Tig and Orestes stared at me in bewilderment, as though they were thinking: “Now she really has gone mad.”

  Alexandra looked furious. “I don’t know what you’re all talking about, but there’s no need to go on about Spiros. He did nothing wrong and you should leave him to rest in peace.”

  * * *

  “There are certain things that are better left unsaid. I hoped I wouldn’t have to have to re-open these wounds.” Antigone and I had retreated upstairs to my sitting room, leaving the others with Alexandra. The winter sun had warmed the air and the street sounds formed an incongruously comfortable, quotidian backing to her words.

  “Truth is over-rated as a virtue,” she said. “People say they want honesty, but sometimes that’s much crueller than a lie and far more destructive.” It sounded like a last warning from the oracle: be careful what you wish for.

  I nodded. “Yes, but it’s too late. I need to know.”

  “I never told Nikitas, because I wanted my son to grow up with the idea that his father was a brave and good man, a Kapetánios who gave his life for his country. It would have been too harsh to tell him that he came from an act of violence. There, I’ve said it.”

  “You mean Spiros?”

  Her response was a miserable nod.

  “How? What happened? Does Alexandra know?”

  She gave an empty smile. “Too many questions.”

  “Did Spiros know he was the father?”

  “I don’t know. But he must have had a good idea.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I looked at the shrunken old woman in front of me and tried to picture her sixty-two years before – melting brown eyes like her son’s, rich dark hair, slender limbs. In photographs she was beautiful and alluring. Perhaps irresistible to Spiros.

  “It was not that Spiros wanted me.” Antigone was reading my thoughts. “He detested me. What he did was revenge. He disliked me for my beliefs, but what he could never forgive was my part in his humiliation – the time when he was marched out of Athens by me and my comrades. We had stripped him of his power and he had to pay me back. Rape has nothing to do with attraction or desire. It’s a weapon, a part of war – an act of hatred.”

  “How did it happen?” I didn’t think that Antigone would describe her attack, but she told me quite fluently, as though it referred to someone else.

  “When I was first arrested in 1946, I was kept in the police cells. They beat me frequently. They took me up to the top floor and used a blindfold. I presumed that was so I wouldn’t know who my tormentors were, and to disorient me. I came to know their voices as they taunted and abused me.” Antigone paused, as though realising this was her last chance of not telling me. When she started up again, she spoke quietly and intensely, staring blankly towards the window.

  “One day, instead of removing the mattress from the bed where they beat me, th
ey left it in place. While they bound my limbs, I wondered if they were getting soft. As usual, I had been made to strip down to my underclothes – instructed to lie on my front. As usual, they tied me to the bed-frame. I lay there, spread-eagled. I couldn’t see anything. But I could hear. Someone came into the room. I sensed a frisson run through the men. Their joking stopped. I heard the door open and close, though I could tell that several people were still in the room. Their boots made a noise. Then, without warning, somebody grabbed my hair so hard I let out a scream. Normally I could keep quiet and I felt humiliated when one of the men shouted, ‘Not so brave now, eh?’ The man who was holding my hair laughed. And he slapped me. He didn’t speak. I never saw him. But I recognised his cologne – it had a strong smell… of nutmeg.”

  Antigone’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, looking down at the floor. She rubbed her hand over her forehead, shading her eyes as though she might stop seeing the dreadful images she was conjuring. However, she soon took a breath and kept speaking, her voice dry and almost monotonous. “I was expecting to be beaten. They were shouting… ‘Whore! He’ll show you how real men do it.’ They always called us whores and destroyers of the family… But the irony was that I had never been with a man.

  “My underwear was pulled off. I heard it tear. And then I understood. It hurt. But that’s not important. I knew about pain. It was the disgust that was much worse. His uniform scratched me. There was a belt-buckle digging into my back. The smell… It was like the attack of a wild beast. Noises of an animal – though no animal takes revenge like that. I saw myself as though looking down on the scene – like a dying person is supposed to do. I have no idea how long it lasted.

  “Afterwards, I heard him breathing heavily. He buttoned his clothes. The others congratulated him. ‘Bravo, Wasp. You gave her what she needed.’ They were like hyenas circling the lion’s kill. ‘Wasp taught her a lesson.’ Spiros didn’t speak much, but I heard him mutter that they should take me back to my cell – he didn’t want them to share his victim.”