Read Online One Cretan Evening and Other Stories by Victoria Hislop - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Ads: Link
had been freshly cleaned with strongly smelling disinfectant, and Mitsos held his breath as they slowly climbed the flight of stairs that led to his grandparents’ door.
The stairwell was brightly lit compared with the apartment itself. Whenever they went out, the shutters were always closed, but Katerina would throw them open on her return to try and let in the breeze. The net curtains across the windows allowed little light to penetrate. It was always dusk here, but this was how Katerina and Dimitri liked it. Direct sunlight made all the fabrics fade and bleached their wooden furniture, so they preferred to live with pale light filtered through gauze and the dim glow of low-wattage bulbs to guide them around their home.
Mitsos placed the shopping bag on the kitchen table, and his grandmother quickly unpacked their purchases and began chopping and slicing. Her grandson sat watching, mesmerised by the neatness of the tiny cubes of onion and the evenness of the aubergine slices. Having performed these same tasks ten thousand times, Katerina was as accurate as a machine. Not one shred of onion strayed from her board on to theflowery plastic tablecloth. To the last atom they travelled without wastage into the frying pan, where steam rose into the air as they met the oil. She had the dexterity of a woman half her age when she cooked, moving with the speed and nimbleness of a dancer around the kitchen. She glided about on the vinyl flooring moving between an ancient fridge that regularly rattled and back again to her electric cooker, whose ill-fitting door had to be banged hard to make it shut.
Mitsos was completely absorbed, but when he looked up he saw his grandfather was standing in the doorway.
‘Are you nearly done, my sweet?’
‘Five more minutes, and everything will be cooking,’ replied Katerina. ‘The boy has to eat!’
‘Of course he does. Come, Mitsos, leave your grandmother a moment.’
The young man followed his grandfather into the gloomy living room and sat down opposite him on an upholstered wooden-framed chair. Every chair had an embroidered antimacassar, and every other surface was dressed with a white crocheted cloth. In front of the electric fire was a small screen on which was a finely appliquéd vase of flowers. All his life, Mitsos had been watching his grandmother sew, and he knew that every item was a product of her handiwork. The only sound was the low rhythmic thud of the ticking clock.
On the shelf behind his grandfather there was a row of framed photographs. Most of them were of himself, or his cousins in America, but there were also wedding pictures – his parents’, and his aunt and uncle’s too. And one other framed photograph, a very formal portrait of his grandparents.It was impossible to tell how old they had been when it was taken.
‘We must wait for your grandmother before we begin,’ Dimitri said.
‘Yes, of course. It’s Yia-yia who would forego a sack of diamonds to live here, isn’t it? She seemed so angry at the thought of ever leaving. I didn’t mean to offend her!’
‘You didn’t offend her,’ said his grandfather. ‘She just feels very strongly, that’s all.’
Soon enough Katerina came into the room, suffused with the aroma of the slowly baking vegetables. Removing her apron she sat down on the sofa and smiled at both her Dimitris.
‘You have waited for me, haven’t you?’
‘Of course,’ replied her husband lovingly. ‘It’s your story as much as mine.’
And in the dim filtered light of the apartment, where it could have been dawn or dusk, they began.
Chapter One
Thessaloniki, May 1917
T HROUGH A PALE gossamer haze, the sea shimmered. Onshore, the most vibrant and cosmopolitan city in Greece went about its business. Thessaloniki was a place of dazzling cultural variety, where an almost evenly balanced population of Christians, Muslims and Jews coexisted and complemented each other like the interwoven threads of an oriental rug. Five years
The stairwell was brightly lit compared with the apartment itself. Whenever they went out, the shutters were always closed, but Katerina would throw them open on her return to try and let in the breeze. The net curtains across the windows allowed little light to penetrate. It was always dusk here, but this was how Katerina and Dimitri liked it. Direct sunlight made all the fabrics fade and bleached their wooden furniture, so they preferred to live with pale light filtered through gauze and the dim glow of low-wattage bulbs to guide them around their home.
Mitsos placed the shopping bag on the kitchen table, and his grandmother quickly unpacked their purchases and began chopping and slicing. Her grandson sat watching, mesmerised by the neatness of the tiny cubes of onion and the evenness of the aubergine slices. Having performed these same tasks ten thousand times, Katerina was as accurate as a machine. Not one shred of onion strayed from her board on to theflowery plastic tablecloth. To the last atom they travelled without wastage into the frying pan, where steam rose into the air as they met the oil. She had the dexterity of a woman half her age when she cooked, moving with the speed and nimbleness of a dancer around the kitchen. She glided about on the vinyl flooring moving between an ancient fridge that regularly rattled and back again to her electric cooker, whose ill-fitting door had to be banged hard to make it shut.
Mitsos was completely absorbed, but when he looked up he saw his grandfather was standing in the doorway.
‘Are you nearly done, my sweet?’
‘Five more minutes, and everything will be cooking,’ replied Katerina. ‘The boy has to eat!’
‘Of course he does. Come, Mitsos, leave your grandmother a moment.’
The young man followed his grandfather into the gloomy living room and sat down opposite him on an upholstered wooden-framed chair. Every chair had an embroidered antimacassar, and every other surface was dressed with a white crocheted cloth. In front of the electric fire was a small screen on which was a finely appliquéd vase of flowers. All his life, Mitsos had been watching his grandmother sew, and he knew that every item was a product of her handiwork. The only sound was the low rhythmic thud of the ticking clock.
On the shelf behind his grandfather there was a row of framed photographs. Most of them were of himself, or his cousins in America, but there were also wedding pictures – his parents’, and his aunt and uncle’s too. And one other framed photograph, a very formal portrait of his grandparents.It was impossible to tell how old they had been when it was taken.
‘We must wait for your grandmother before we begin,’ Dimitri said.
‘Yes, of course. It’s Yia-yia who would forego a sack of diamonds to live here, isn’t it? She seemed so angry at the thought of ever leaving. I didn’t mean to offend her!’
‘You didn’t offend her,’ said his grandfather. ‘She just feels very strongly, that’s all.’
Soon enough Katerina came into the room, suffused with the aroma of the slowly baking vegetables. Removing her apron she sat down on the sofa and smiled at both her Dimitris.
‘You have waited for me, haven’t you?’
‘Of course,’ replied her husband lovingly. ‘It’s your story as much as mine.’
And in the dim filtered light of the apartment, where it could have been dawn or dusk, they began.
Chapter One
Thessaloniki, May 1917
T HROUGH A PALE gossamer haze, the sea shimmered. Onshore, the most vibrant and cosmopolitan city in Greece went about its business. Thessaloniki was a place of dazzling cultural variety, where an almost evenly balanced population of Christians, Muslims and Jews coexisted and complemented each other like the interwoven threads of an oriental rug. Five years
Similar Books
