* During the elections of 1981, the slogan of the Greek Socialist Party was “Our struggle has been vindicated,” while that of the Greek Communist Party was “Our struggle endures.” Trans.
* Populist left-wing daily. Trans.
* Famous Greek soccer star. Trans.
history
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Plasterboard and Fiberglass
An attractive title, for sure, because we have four things joined into two: plaster, board, glass, and fiber. The same way it happens in marriage, where two individuals create a new species: the couple. Thus we say, “the Artemakises,” even though the Artemakis couple consists of Yuli Prokopiou and Pavlos Artemakis. In this case, plasterboard was a new building material that could replace the old rafter or the iron tube or the brick, was serviceable and strong, even quakeproof (insisted Pavlos, who manufactured it in his factory), but which was not preferred by building contractors because they simply were not aware of its existence. But Loukia, the young architect, knew about it from England, where she had attended college. That was how she got to talking with the industrialist who, like most of his kind, was a daddy’s boy.
The other members of the group traveling on Elias’s yacht were listening to the conversation without contributing, since they knew nothing about construction and building materials.
The young industrialist, who until then had presented a stony face, impervious to the moods of this disparate assembly, suddenly became animated and the doctor saw that his face, normally pleasant and indifferent, blazed with an inner flame as he fixed his liquid eyes on the young woman and explained the difficulties he had come across trying to introduce this new product into the market.
“Of course, it’s still a little expensive,” he said, speaking of plasterboard, “but like all products whose price is dictated by demand, as soon as production is increased, its price will tend to go down.”
The yacht, with its permanent crew (the pensioner captain, the new captain, the two stewards, the cook, and the engineer), was moored at the island port, and the passengers had gone ashore to eat fritters. That was when the conversation about plasterboard and the fiberglass insulation that goes with it began. The doctor had observed that, for the past two days they had been on board, the blond young man who was now speaking had not uttered a single word. He and his young wife had behaved like crew members, even though they were guests. The industrialist was only concerned with speargun fishing. At the table he would exchange a few words with the others about the food; he always had a pleasant but impenetrable face. Now this conversation, concerning his line of work, seemed to have awakened him, just as they were eating their fritters.
It was late September, and this long weekend cruise under the sweet light (the sun was warm this time of year, without scorching) had gathered a disparate crew, strangers to one another, on Elias’s yacht, which he had offered them free of charge.
During the summer, Elias would rent out his yacht to tourists. It slept ten, and whenever there was a free place, he would invite friends to come along to keep him company. But this time, perhaps for lack of customers because the season was almost over, he had reserved it entirely for his friends. Among them was the doctor, who, without his wife, became a sort of observer of the others.
It was late Saturday afternoon when they docked at the island. They went ashore for a walk; somebody had suggested they have fritters. They would have dinner later, on the yacht. Having spent all day swimming, they now felt pleasantly tired, worn out by their exposure to the sun and sea.
It was a little chilly. The barbarous waves of summer holiday makers had passed over the island, leaving behind echoes of their money and their humming. The islanders, calmer types, considered themselves lucky that this year not a single pine had been burned. The islanders were Greeks of Albanian descent. Their island, close to Athens, was known as a resort for a certain high society that came and went on hovercrafts each weekend, almost all year round.
The doctor was bored. He found the sea tiring and the others uninteresting. He thought of his abandoned dissertation, his experiments that he would start again on Monday, the little mice he had been working with, and he tried to convince himself he had done well to come on the cruise.
Two social classes were represented on the yacht: on the one hand the workers of the sea, and on the other the bourgeoisie of dry land. The workers were faceless. They wore masks. For them, other peoples entertainment was their job. But they loved their boss, Elias, just as the young captain loved his grandfather. The old captain was on the yacht illegally. He was retired and wasn’t really supposed to be on the vessel. But since that was the only job he knew, and he would surely waste away on dry land, Elias had kept him on, and, to keep the port authorities happy, had hired his young grandson who had just graduated from the Merchant Marine School. The same way one doesn’t put a faithful dog to sleep just because it’s grown old, he kept the old captain on board.
This yacht was an original out of the Hydra shipyards. It had changed with the passage of time, but its principal characteristics remained unaltered: the three masts and the long and narrow frame of a corvette. The captain’s grandfather and great-grandfather had also been sea captains (which was why he called himself “captain, son of a captain, descendant of captains”), on the very same ship, which, or so his ancestors claimed, had taken part in the Greek War of Independence. Later the ship had been used by sponge divers; during the Asia Minor disaster, it had carried refugees from Smyrna. During World War II, it had sailed to the Middle East. It was only after the war, and once it was taken over by the arms manufacturer Bodossakis, that the ship changed considerably and was fitted with modern engines from Sweden. Just before he died, Bodossakis sold it to Elias’s father, and now Elias rented it out to tourists and also used it himself when the opportunity arose. But the old captain was one with the ship’s hull. Just like his forefathers before him, he was part and parcel of the ship, and his grandson was getting ready to succeed him.
“But what have you two been talking about all this time?” Persephone asked the young industrialist and the architect.
“Business,” replied the former, smiling broadly. And he ate the last of his fritters.
Persephone was the only one who had ordered ice cream instead of fritters—she couldn’t bear sympy desserts. The others all stole a little of her whipped cream to put on their fritters. The two flavors complemented perfectly.
A lively conversation brings those engaged in it closer erotically. The words they speak, even if they are of dry and odorless building materials, uttered on a sweet September evening, become the carriers of another conversation that is not expressed openly, yet is implied, moving like a current under the skin, because words are one’s breath modeled into certain sounds that correspond to something more vital, and when it comes to a man and a woman talking passionately and for quite some time, even if they disagree (and especially in that case), desire does not take long to pass into their breath, to moisten their words in such a way, that you, the outsider, the observer, can picture their bodies joined together, still talking fervently about plasterboard and fiberglass. That was what had come to the attention of Persephone, who had her sights set on the young woman from London and of whom she was jealous.
She broke into their conversation at the critical moment. Thalia felt relieved. She was the industrialist’s wife. Sitting at his side, she hadn’t spoken once during the conversation. But she could feel that the architect, even though sitting across from and not next to her husband, separated from him by a wide table, was luring him away with a web of sounds, and she could see them dangerously approaching one another. Thus Persephone’s intervention, coming from the other end of the table, gave her the opportunity to say that she was cold, that she hadn’t brought her cardigan, and to suggest they pay the bill and get going.
“If he’s the plasterboard, his wife is definitely the fiberglass,” thought the doctor, and in the way he had of playing with people like
he did with laboratory animals, he asked her if she worked with her husband.
“Not at all,” Thalia replied. “I work at the Athens Festival. At the Tourist Board.”
She replied in such a tone that the doctor didn’t pursue his inquiry.
“I wonder if you could get me tickets for Peter Brook?” sighed Lulu, a former lover of Elias’s, a plump woman who had invited herself to tag along on the cruise.
The gentle evening enveloped them in its cloak. They were back on the yacht now, having passed by the coffee shops along the sea front, the souvenir shops, and the two kiosks. Aphrodite stopped at one of the kiosks to place a call to Athens. She simply had to speak to the nanny who was looking after her child.
Her maternal instinct, hitherto hibernating inside her, had been awakened by a toddler whose foreign-looking mother was pushing it along in its stroller. Greek women treated their children as if they were their only fortune, as if they supported the home, the solidity of the family. Foreign women were more detached, as if they had been charged with raising them. As if to do so was somewhat of a burden.
She waited in line for the phone. In front of her, two unkempt English women stood: they had run out of money and were calling home. By the time her turn came, the others had reached the yacht. She spoke with the nanny. Everything was fine. She felt relieved, but there was an emptiness inside her. She was moved by the sight of a cat wandering along the quay, and she picked it up and held it in her arms. They were all so alien and indifferent to her on the yacht—except for the doctor. She wanted to have some fun. That night (she had seen a poster while she was waiting to use the phone), the fantastic disc jockey Francisco would be visiting the island, only for that weekend, at the Nafsik discotheque. There was going to be a dance competition.
“Shall we go?” she suggested to the others. “It’ll be good for a laugh.”
Opinions seemed to differ. Some wanted to go, others couldn’t be bothered. Undeniably, all of them together, as a group, were difficult to get going. There were too many of them, all unrelated to each other.
The doctor said nothing. He was playing backgammon with the engineer and waiting for the moon to come out.
Elias had disappeared into his cabin with Madam “tag along.” She had brought with her an American woman, who liked Greece so much she declared she was staying permanently. Out of boredom, once the game was over (he had lost again), the doctor thought of striking up a conversation with her. He had noticed that nobody was talking to her, and he felt a little sorry for her. Besides, it would be a good opportunity for him to polish up his English.
Night had fallen for good. The American woman had to have it, and the doctor, closing his cabin door, offered her a pound of testicles. She saw them, evaluated them, and wanted to try them. They seemed to her like quite a bunch. Muscat. The doctor locked the door, drew the porthole curtains, and watched her undress. Below her worn, inexpensive clothes, her body began to reveal its curves and swells. She had nice legs, though a little on the heavy side, a slim waist, narrow hips, and a wonderful chocolate-colored chest. He didn’t care much for her face. Her eyes were like two holes.
She looked him over. He was quite strong, with a little fat around the waist, but she liked the bulk of his cocoon of caterpillars. They lay down on the narrow bunk.
She told him immediately that it had only been two days since she had last made love. She wasn’t desperate was what that meant. He told her that he had screwed Aphrodite that morning (he indicated which one of the women she was) and that he still had her smell on him. That didn’t seem to bother the American. When in Greece, she would screw as often as possible. And it was possible very often. She used a diaphragm, so he could ejaculate inside her, not to worry.
The doctor lay down next to her and touched her nipple. Right away, she put her hands between his legs and held his eggs as if weighing them. They were much more than two handfuls, and that pleased her. Then she spread her legs and told him that she was ready and wet for him to come inside her if he wanted.
He entered her, and his arms filled with raw meat. A piece of meat wanting another piece of meat in a meaty contact.
“Your friend is still doing it,” he whispered to her.
“Yes,” she replied, “that’s why she came on the cruise.”
She confessed to him that she could not live without the joy of lovemaking. She had been deprived of it when she was younger; in the States it had become a complicated affair. If it wasn’t herpes it was AIDS; people had become terrified. They had become asexual. Whereas in Greece nobody cared about diseases. Like bacchic Gods, they all got drunk on its drunkenness.
Little by little she started tasting his wine. She inhaled it wholeheartedly, spasmodically, making a gift of her inner pulsations, which for her were a routine matter.
As long as he couldn’t see her face, the doctor imagined he was making love to Fiberglass, Plasterboard’s wife, a brunette, Raquel Welch—type temptress. Meanwhile the American had started to pant. She was climbing up the hill. At last she reached the top, and, seeing the hillside covered in flowers down below, she let herself roll down, as happy as a meatball, crying out and declaring her joy. The flowers were crushed as she steamrolled over them. When she reached the bottom of the ravine, she bent down to drink from the stream. She had him in her mouth and she was sucking him.
The doctor suggested she turn around. Not to penetrate her anally but to enter her from behind. She accepted. And she climaxed for a second time, soaking the sheets.
The ship was at sea again by the time they came up on deck. The others were already having dinner. Their plates were waiting for them. A full moon poured its silver light onto the sea. Hungry after their lovemaking, they sat down to dinner.
Persephone had heard the sighs of the American when she had gone downstairs to the rest room, and she had timed their session: it had lasted three quarters of an hour. That evening, she would have the doctor, and she already felt a certain thrill inside her. But why did these foreign leeches latch onto the domestic market like that?
At the table, even though politics was a forbidden subject, Aristotle, who had studied sociology in Paris, had tried to answer Persephone’s question for her. From the time the Greek state was founded, he said, foreign powers had played a decisive role. The indigenous Greeks were nothing but extras in a play where the leading roles were held by the three great powers: the English, the Russians, and the French, whose equivalent nowadays would be the United States, the Europeans, and the Soviets. At that moment, Plasterboard was heard complaining about the reluctance of the Socialist government to embrace somewhat more steadily the private sector. Aristotle, who had just been waiting for an excuse to show off his knowledge, quickly dropped Persephone in order to take up the industrialist’s challenge. It was necessary, unfortunately, and there were no two ways about it, if one were to understand the present, to go back a little in history. Recent history, not ancient or Byzantine. In Greece, after its liberation from Ottoman rule, there was no accumulation of capital, so to speak. The War of Independence took place for ideological and economic reasons, but when in 1854, the sultan conceded to the Greeks of the diaspora the same rights as Ottoman subjects enjoyed, there was no reason anymore for Greeks living abroad to turn toward an independent nation-state that would not have guaranteed them anything more than the Turks had already, very cleverly, given them. Thus, after having helped in the War of Independence, the Greeks abroad, taking the bait of equality that the sultan had thrown them, remained in a state of diaspora. Which is why, after 1854, the Greeks who were thriving in other countries showed no more interest in Greece. Because as we know, concluded Aristotle, capital has no homeland.
The others listened to him with a certain amount of boredom, until Arion picked up his guitar. What could be better on a moonlit evening?
The islands, like tortoise shells, were sleeping blissfully, islands that had once played an historic role in the War of 1821 and that nowadays were pockets
of tourism, beehives of foreigners, collecting the pollen of foreign currency to make honey and wax for the winter. These islands slipped by like a vision of huge sea turtles. Soon, the ghosts of pirates and mermaids would appear.
“I don’t feel very well,” Pavlos said. “Something’s upset my stomach.” He went to the restroom and threw up. After that, he felt better.
“The yacht is transferring its waste,” observed Nikos, leaning over the ship’s rail and watching Pavlos’s vomit being emptied into the sea.
Horn fish shimmered. Further off, some lantern-lit fishing boats. The group’s songs reached the ears of the doctor, who had gone back down to his cabin with Persephone.
Persephone was lepidopterous. She made love like a butterfly that is pinned down by the collector and keeps fluttering until it surrenders its soul, that is to say its entire being. And she surrendered by bringing her inner world out, by turning inside out the lining of her purse and pouring onto the male all her gold coins. For Persephone, that constituted giving herself totally. Her jealousy of the American increased her potential. The doctor noticed that and was glad: her jealousy was like his testicles, which got heavier with each consecutive woman who passed from his bed. Only one made them shrink. But unlike the butterfly, which, after surrendering its soul in one flutter, becomes a dead thing, Persephone, after a time of silence and stillness, returned to her drunkenness like the phoenix that is reborn from its ashes.
“Now I understand,” she said, “why all the women want you.”
She had forgotten about her husband and child. (In any case, even though they still shared an apartment, she and her husband had long been separated.) And she felt happy with the doctor, whose very profession gave her a sense of security. But the air-conditioning annoyed her.
... and Dreams Are Dreams Page 5
