Read Online One Cretan Evening and Other Stories by Victoria Hislop - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Hislop
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tears of passion that rolled down her cheeks.
They sat there for a while in silence, Mitsos absolutely still, aware only of his grandmother’s firm grip on his hand. Noone spoke or moved. He looked into his grandmother’s eyes, seeking further explanation. He would never have guessed that she was capable of such an outburst, having never thought of her as anything other than a kind elderly lady with a gentle disposition. Like most Greek women of her age, she usually let her husband speak first.
Eventually his grandfather broke the silence.
‘We encouraged our children to go elsewhere for their education,’ he said. ‘It was the right thing to do at the time, but we assumed that they would eventually return. Instead, they stayed away for good.’
‘I didn’t realise . . .’ Mitsos said, squeezing his grandmother’s hand. ‘I didn’t realise how you felt. Dad did once talk a bit about why you sent him and Aunt Olga away, but I don’t know the full story. Something to do with a civil war?’
‘Yes, that was part of it,’ said his grandfather. ‘Perhaps it’s time we told you more. If you are interested, that is?’
‘Of course I’m interested!’ said Mitsos. ‘I’ve spent my whole life half-knowing things about my father’s background and not being given answers. I think I’m old enough now, aren’t I?’
His grandparents looked at each other, as Mitsos continued, ‘There were two words banned in our house: “Communists” and “Colonels”.’
His grandmother winced slightly.
‘What do you think, Katerina?’ asked the old man.
‘I think he should help us carry some vegetables back home, so that I can cook his favourite gemista for lunch,’ said Katerina brightly. ‘How about that, Mitsos?’
They took the street that led away from the sea, and founda shortcut through some of the narrow old streets towards the Kapani Market.
‘Careful, Yia-yia,’ Mitsos said as they found themselves in front of the stalls, where the road was carpeted with pieces of rotten fruit and stray vegetables.
They shopped for shiny crimson peppers, ruby-coloured tomatoes as spherical as tennis balls, dense white onions and dark purple aubergines. On top of the shopping bag, the vendor laid a bunch of coriander, and its fragrance seemed to fill the street. All these ingredients looked good enough to eat raw, but Mitsos knew that his grandmother would transform them into the rich, savoury stuffed vegetables that had been his favourite dish for as long as he could remember coming to Greece. His stomach began to rumble.
In the area where meat was sold, the floor was slimy with blood that had dripped from the cutting blocks. They were greeted like family by their usual butcher, and Katerina was quickly served with one of the sheep’s heads that stared at them from a bucket.
‘Why are you buying that, Yia-yia?’
‘For stock,’ she replied. ‘And a kilo of tripe, please.’
She would be making patsas later. For a few euros she could feed all of them for days. Nothing was wasted here.
‘It’s a guaranteed cure for hangovers, Mitsos!’ said his grandfather, winking at his grandson. ‘So your grandmother has your best interests at heart!’
A ten-minute walk through the dilapidated streets of old Thessaloniki brought them to where his grandparents lived. Just outside the entrance, on the corner, they stopped to greet Dimitri’s best friend, his koumbaros, at the periptero. The twomen had known each other for more than seventy years and no day went by without a heated discussion on the latest news. Sitting in his kiosk all day, surrounded by the papers, Lefteris was better informed about the city’s politics than anyone else in Thessaloniki.
The apartment building was an ugly four-storey block built some time during the 1950s. The communal hall was bright enough, with yellow walls and a row of fourteen lock-up boxes for post, one for each apartment. The pale stone floor, speckled like a hen’s egg,
They sat there for a while in silence, Mitsos absolutely still, aware only of his grandmother’s firm grip on his hand. Noone spoke or moved. He looked into his grandmother’s eyes, seeking further explanation. He would never have guessed that she was capable of such an outburst, having never thought of her as anything other than a kind elderly lady with a gentle disposition. Like most Greek women of her age, she usually let her husband speak first.
Eventually his grandfather broke the silence.
‘We encouraged our children to go elsewhere for their education,’ he said. ‘It was the right thing to do at the time, but we assumed that they would eventually return. Instead, they stayed away for good.’
‘I didn’t realise . . .’ Mitsos said, squeezing his grandmother’s hand. ‘I didn’t realise how you felt. Dad did once talk a bit about why you sent him and Aunt Olga away, but I don’t know the full story. Something to do with a civil war?’
‘Yes, that was part of it,’ said his grandfather. ‘Perhaps it’s time we told you more. If you are interested, that is?’
‘Of course I’m interested!’ said Mitsos. ‘I’ve spent my whole life half-knowing things about my father’s background and not being given answers. I think I’m old enough now, aren’t I?’
His grandparents looked at each other, as Mitsos continued, ‘There were two words banned in our house: “Communists” and “Colonels”.’
His grandmother winced slightly.
‘What do you think, Katerina?’ asked the old man.
‘I think he should help us carry some vegetables back home, so that I can cook his favourite gemista for lunch,’ said Katerina brightly. ‘How about that, Mitsos?’
They took the street that led away from the sea, and founda shortcut through some of the narrow old streets towards the Kapani Market.
‘Careful, Yia-yia,’ Mitsos said as they found themselves in front of the stalls, where the road was carpeted with pieces of rotten fruit and stray vegetables.
They shopped for shiny crimson peppers, ruby-coloured tomatoes as spherical as tennis balls, dense white onions and dark purple aubergines. On top of the shopping bag, the vendor laid a bunch of coriander, and its fragrance seemed to fill the street. All these ingredients looked good enough to eat raw, but Mitsos knew that his grandmother would transform them into the rich, savoury stuffed vegetables that had been his favourite dish for as long as he could remember coming to Greece. His stomach began to rumble.
In the area where meat was sold, the floor was slimy with blood that had dripped from the cutting blocks. They were greeted like family by their usual butcher, and Katerina was quickly served with one of the sheep’s heads that stared at them from a bucket.
‘Why are you buying that, Yia-yia?’
‘For stock,’ she replied. ‘And a kilo of tripe, please.’
She would be making patsas later. For a few euros she could feed all of them for days. Nothing was wasted here.
‘It’s a guaranteed cure for hangovers, Mitsos!’ said his grandfather, winking at his grandson. ‘So your grandmother has your best interests at heart!’
A ten-minute walk through the dilapidated streets of old Thessaloniki brought them to where his grandparents lived. Just outside the entrance, on the corner, they stopped to greet Dimitri’s best friend, his koumbaros, at the periptero. The twomen had known each other for more than seventy years and no day went by without a heated discussion on the latest news. Sitting in his kiosk all day, surrounded by the papers, Lefteris was better informed about the city’s politics than anyone else in Thessaloniki.
The apartment building was an ugly four-storey block built some time during the 1950s. The communal hall was bright enough, with yellow walls and a row of fourteen lock-up boxes for post, one for each apartment. The pale stone floor, speckled like a hen’s egg,
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