Normal boredom is not so dramatic, of course. I became bored with life when I was about thirty-five. It was then that I recognized that there wasn’t more to it than there’d already been, and that it would go on and on in a similar manner. I took to my bed for a year and then, years later, moved to Greece. I move slowly along the dusty streets, watching my shadow, which is more nimble than I. The sun still holds itself firmly overhead, glaring at us mortals, at me and my shadow. Me and my shadow…Me and my shadow. Fred Astaire, da-da, and my shadow, strolling down the avenue. In my mind’s eye, I wrest the pearl-handled cane from my arthritic fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Wheeler, and stride across the unpaved avenue. No one notices my dashing movements, for this dance is internal, not of this world, and in slow motion. Time moves so slowly here. Time is a tortoise, not a frog. Take my hand, I’m a frog in paradise, just a frog in paradise. Da-da.
The stores close for several hours during the heat of the day. Shopkeepers dawdle as they pull down the shutters. Salespeople dally among themselves, talking in groups. Their bodies are relaxed, planted in the moment; they are not rushing to the next appointment. In cafés the old men—dare I say that, they may be my age—sit at plain wooden card tables, wearing frayed jackets, and play tavoli, their white heads bent in concentration over the board, their fingers jiggling their worry beads. Small glasses of ouzo may be gulped down between moves, yet none of them ever seems to become drunk. It is a marvel to me. Their wives are at home, attending to their small houses or carrying roasts to the baker’s oven. The men have their cafés. The women meet in the tangled alleyways between their houses, and they exchange news. Do they complain about their husbands? Nectaria, who takes care of me and the hotel, Nectaria knows all the town gossip. She is the queen of this part of town as Alicia is the queen of our community.
The covered market is open. It is so grand and plain, so complex and simple, such a home of opposites, of everything and nothing. I could become dizzy merely from the pungent scents and mellifluous rumble of voices. So much life exists here, it bubbles forth from the stalls. Today it excites me, satisfies me, whereas on other days the very same scenes, sounds and smells might bring me to an exhaustion I despair of, to an aggrieved alienation. I love the displays of fruit and vegetables, the range and array of colors any nineteenth-century artist would have envied. Green and purple figs, brown and black olives, ocher nuts, golden raisins, thick white yogurt—some feel it is the best in the world—gray and pink fish. I dislike looking at the various fish, but not as much as looking at octopuses. A cornucopia of delights with none of the razzmatazz of modern life, just a marketplace, just a meeting place, something ordinary to all who live here. Why trade this ordinary beauty, this everyday luxury, for supermarkets. Yet this is how life has gone in the West, and though I am in the West, even in the birthplace of its civilization, as the Greeks love to boast, I am far from its most avid practitioners, far from total modernity, from the city, the sophisticated city I know, love and hare, the city that thrills and repels me. I miss it sometimes but as I grow less agile, I am aware that merely walking down Fifth Avenue would afford so much less of the pleasure it once did. I couldn’t walk it as I did in my youth. Why has life gone as it has?
I sigh deeply, audibly, and buy figs, picking each one carefully. I shop only at the stands that allow one to touch the fruit and vegetables. I prefer yellow figs; they are sweeter than purple ones. The market people know me well. The good ones let me do as I please. I take my time but this is hardly a demand here. I am thankful for their familiarity. I talk with Sultana, who has sold me the figs, about some kittens she has and think to ask Helen if she’d want to adopt another. Yá sas, yá sas, I call out, leaving the market. Yá sou, Horace, kali mera, Sultana calls out in return.
The harbor is quiet at this time of day. I eat my lunch rather late, usually in my rooms, an old habit I can’t or don’t want to break. I look up from the street. Helen’s not on her terrace and her curtains are drawn again. Is she being a naughty girl? I’ll have to pay the piper with Alicia; no doubt she’ll invite me to tea again, which will be more like an inquisition. It is very odd, I’m completely conscious of this, it is odd that I went to visit John, but I could not help myself, and that’s what I’ll tell Alicia. I had a desperate need to know. Then I’ll add, I’m bored and unhappy, and I will complain about Yannis and pluck at the strings of her heart. Then we will discuss men and love and perhaps she will confess her infatuation with John. After all these years—we have in many ways grown up and old or up and down together—she will ultimately forgive me. She must, as our town is too small for petty enmities.
I open the door and find Yannis on the bed, quietly reading, which I like him to do. He may even be studying to please me. I feel a rush of affection for him and walk over to him on the bed and ruffle his hair. He turns and smiles and I believe he may even feel some real affection for me. Would sex now spoil this precious moment? Lust rises in me and my sex responds, rising too. Yannis undoes my zipper and gently strokes me, until I reach a delicious orgasm. I am with Helen’s John. I am a young man with long hair like his. We are lying side by side and I am as beautiful as he is. Yannis doesn’t want me to bring him to orgasm. This may have been an entirely unselfish act or a mercenary one. But I am happy. I have for a moment forgotten myself, what I truly look like, how foolish I may appear to others and myself.
Yannis moves from the bed. He leaps off it, with terrific ease. I feel old. I am old. Yet, and this surprised me, for I did not expect aging to be like this, my desire continues to be and has remained and remains the same as if I were thirty. It may not be the same as it was when, at seventeen, just a ride on a bus produced an erection, when desire always settled in one’s genitals. No, not like that. But with age, desire suffuses one’s whole body, one’s whole being, and is so much more difficult to satisfy. In a way it is more clearly life itself, life itself that is desire, that is as elusive as fantasy, amorphous fantasy.
I pride myself on being an older man who can rise easily on occasion. I must repeat this to Gwen, which reminds me of why I invited her here. How good it will be to discuss the intimate details of life with a true friend who is, in her way, as strange as I. And she is only twenty years younger, not forty years or more younger than I, as is Helen. Gwen has reached the age of truth. I like to think of my forties that way—the age of truth. And what will Gwen’s truth be?
I must ask Nectaria to find a room for her since it won’t do to have her stay here. I have my habits, my routines which are fixed, to some extent, although they can be broken every once in a while. There is not enough space, in any case, and Gwen will want her own room, I’m certain. I hope she is no longer using sleeping pills, for they make her cranky in the mornings. Gwen has dreadful dreams, replete with monsters and odd forms of execution, and years ago she became habituated to sleeping pills and has taken them off and on ever since. I’ve never asked Helen about her drug usage; I assume she partakes now and again. But Helen does not behave as if she uses downers, as Gwen calls them.
As I ruminate on Helen and drugs, I’m struck by a brilliant idea—I could write a crime story based on the alleged suicide of a twin. Pills, of course. The truth of how the twin died will become the object of Stan Green’s quest. He must discern whether or not the twin had a natural unnatural death, a true suicide, or whether it was foul play, and the surviving twin sister—I’ll make them twin brothers, to disguise Helen—actually and cleverly did her—him—in, by mixing up some pills, let’s say.
How can I think like this? I am a grotesque creature.
Chapter 7
I walk to the window and discover Helen standing on her terrace, looking in this direction. I wave and we agree in sign language to meet later for dinner. She seems excited. Could she possibly have found out about my meeting John the other day? How could she? That is paranoia.
Nectaria has set up a shower on the roof for those of us who have been here forever. It is remarkable how being on the roof, on t
op of the world, as Yannis likes to exclaim—his innocence exists in such expressions—on top of the world and naked as a buck, with the sun still strong but not hot, with cool water drizzling down one’s body, how one feels safe and clean, truly clean. Pure. I soap thoroughly and scrub here and there, over and over. A Lady Macbeth I am not, because my hands are clean, there is no blood, not even a stain, no visible sign. I am not, I convince myself, a bad man. And when I towel off and breathe the fragrant Cretan air, air that brilliant ancients also breathed, why I know myself to be in a line of humanity of which I can be proud. I wrap my terry around me and descend to my apartment.
I splash my face with the after-shave Gwen sent me, English Leather, which is, I am sure, one of her subtle jokes. I put on my lemon-yellow Brooks Brothers shirt, my yellow-and-white cravat, my white linen jacket, and I am as good as a Graham Greene character or even Greene himself. I often like to dress for dinner, especially after having been rather solitary. In a sour mood, Yannis will stay home, but he will show up later, as he usually does, I am sure. He ignores me as I leave the apartment, but I am inured to him at the present moment.
Roger is seated at a table far from Helen and me. He seems to be in a pensive mood. He’s reading a Greek newspaper. He is unhappy, poor dear; he supported the junta and its regime, and liked to say that on this he and the Greek people agreed. Both he and they, he will still insist tiresomely, knew the country needed the restoration of order and a strong hand. What battles Roger and I have had about the censorship of news! Roger could be reading about the wreckage of a Bronze Age ship, recently discovered off Hydra; it is thought to be the earliest known ship-wreck ever found. Probably Roger wishes he had gotten there first, to grab the spoils.
He and I barely nod to each other. It’s a mode either of us might adopt which means nothing. Helen has clipped her hair back and seems even younger and more vulnerable. Christos bends over her and takes her order, looking down her shirt, I think. She doesn’t, of course, wear a brassiere. Occasionally Helen glances at Roger, who has also only nodded to her; she is not used to this from him. I explain, not caring if he hears, that this is not unusual for Roger and she must not take his behavior personally. She says nothing.
I ask what has she done today. Helen has taught two English classes. I believe she landed the teaching job by lying; she must have told the school she had a college degree. It’s a real drag, Helen says. Her students have to learn how to write formal business letters; it’s in the syllabus, and she must follow it. Her students are grateful for each bit of information she imparts, Helen thinks, as if one of those bits might transform them into rich Americans. This is how they model themselves upon America. I jocularly suggest that when Ari Onassis and Jackie Kennedy married, they were anointed the king and queen of Greece, and, in a sense, they have encouraged this avariciousness. I go on about Onassis’ having an unhappy, jealous daughter; it augurs badly, I say. Helen has compassion for Christina.
I find it hard to be sorry for the very rich, but when I was Helen’s age I was also more generous. I bet Christina kills herself, Helen says knowingly. Suicide? I repeat. She nods and strips her fish off the bone. I could prolong the discussion about suicide, but I am too guilt-ridden to do so. How could I even think about a book based on Helen’s misery, her alleged misery, that of the suicide of her sister or the murder of her sister, her twin? I swallow my wine and pour some more, to wash down my guilt. Helen may be very very rich. I hadn’t seriously considered that before. I know that Roger has. He has a nose for such things.
She is not disturbed by Roger’s impolite behavior. But how does she see him? I wonder. Perhaps she is also undisturbed by John’s near suicide. She seems to be. But how could she be if it may parallel even slightly her sister’s, her twin’s?
In profile Helen’s features are perfect. The blue sky, darkening swiftly now, surrounds her moodily. It is as if she were untouched by the cruelty and meanness of life, by the sailors, by John, by death. Perhaps everyone is until one reaches a certain age. That must be it—at a certain age the burden of everything that has happened to one in life achieves a critical mass; suddenly it collapses upon one and, bearing down heavily, weighs one down, and one experiences the enormity of it all. And then we understand. If we do. And with that, the pungent sensation of aging commences.
Still, Helen’s reticence marks her as special if not unique, like a piece of art. I treasure her though she undoubtedly has a flaw, not unlike the golden bowl. I’m not sure what her flaw is or how to judge it. Yet I know she has one, perhaps many. These will deepen with age. But she has time, a great deal of time. It is pleasant to sit with her, to let time drift. I am spending her time. I look with her toward the sea. We are silent for long periods. She respects silence. She may be mulling things over or thinking of absolutely nothing. I do find her reticence akin to art, as art makes order out of chaos, and I think there must be a great deal of it in her life—chaos, that is.
The sea stretches before us. I meditate upon the artists, like Turner and Monet, who painted sky and sea, who were bewitched by the grandeur of nature, its unfathomability, its mystery. Nature hides the sea’s deeper life from us; normally we see only a watery surface. A painting reflects that surface, containing the chaos we fear beneath. I rely on art and need order, but I’m not sure that Helen does, in the same way. Or if she does these needs haven’t yet made a definite impression on her character. She never speaks of art, of paintings, just of music, movies and television, and books, occasionally. At least she reads them.
Sometimes I look at her and remind myself: Helen was born when you were past forty, Horace, or she was born after the Korean War, or during the heyday of the abstract expressionists, which would mean nothing to her. Both aspects of the thought interest me—how old I was when she was born and that she wouldn’t care about that art movement or even the Korean War. I was moderately opposed to the Korean War. I was not indifferent to the abstract expressionists, though I was not convinced by them, either. They were so male, for one thing, and I distrusted their blatant masculinity. I admired the surrealists, Duchamp especially; he broke new ground. One saw the surrealists about New York in the forties, during the Second World War. In my heart of hearts, I have to confess a preference for Caravaggio, Matisse, Edward Hopper, and Cézanne. Where would the cubists have been without Cézanne!
In some ways I am in favor of what is new, almost on principle. I will argue this principle to the death, especially with Roger. Pop art was a welcome change—it leapt out when life was so dull, during the Eisenhower years, but it blossomed a little later, I remember. On a visit to New York in the sixties I saw marvelous art exhibitions. Gwen took me to the Factory, where I felt shy, and hung about awkwardly posing, and never did see Andy Warhol. I don’t think I could have managed it. I would have had to behave reverentially and he wouldn’t have found me attractive. But the boys around the Factory were wonderfully attractive, if somewhat frightening. The ambience was immensely different from that of the Cedar Tavern. Very perverse, but I enjoyed it even if it intimidated me. It was most assuredly a different intimidation from that created by those masculine painters with their burly arms and broad backs, who boldly discussed their paintings and their women—but mostly their paintings—over shots of Scotch and chasers of beer.
I assume Helen appreciates Andy Warhol, though she has mentioned only the group he spawned, the Velvet Underground, not that she ever saw them live, she explained to me. I am used not to seeing things live. Helen has never been to the Cedar Tavern. She has a dim recollection of hearing about it either when she was posing or when she took an art class from a bearded man who wore work shirts, a costume she found funny. By funny I think she means many things, but I’m afraid to pry too much.
It was the beginning of the time when Helen abjured any kind of naturalness and had dyed her hair and pierced her nose, for a nose ring. The nose ring, a stud, horrified Alicia. Smitty wears it less often these days, but when she does, it’s worn indifferen
tly, almost as if it were meaningless, and perhaps it is to her. How Alicia went on about it! It fits Helen, though, to transform and mark her body. She is a bold canvas on which everything appears to have landed with abandon, with splatters here and there; and her scars, most invisible to the eye, and marks, tangible and intangible, about these nothing must be said. And no, no explanations will be given.
From her point of view, it may be that we’ve known each other all our lives, but mine is so much longer than hers. Yet this may account for her not needing to reveal herself to me in any specific sense. When Helen does reveal herself, she does it without guile, as if dropping her clothes before an audience of art students meant to study and render the female form. Along with artist’s modeling, she has done go-go dancing and stripping. Do you miss home? I ask her, as the sun dips low, peeking slyly above the horizon.
Helen first left home one summer when she was sixteen; she left it without regret, it seems, and casually mentions having taken up with a couple of guys and having gone on the road with a friend, hitchhiking. It is nearly inconceivable to me that she has actually done these things. Helen stripping and hitchhiking. When she attended college, briefly—and though they were not speaking, I gather—her parents paid her tuition. What did and do her parents think of her? Did John, does he, want to protect her? Do men still want to protect women, if they ever did?
Roger has been joined by a blond Adonis. It is not true that I take Roger’s castoffs. It is nearly opposite to the truth, not apposite to it. The blond may be Manolis, one of those feminine boys who fled to Athens. He’s matured excellently. Roger will take him in for a while, I know, then tire of him. Roger is a coquette, more coquettish than Helen has ever been, I’m sure. She glances from me to Roger several times, but says nothing. She is observing our scene and sometimes I feel queasy about this. She sips her coffee and asks, rather innocently, Does Roger pay him?
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