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Authors: Anne Zouroudi
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gave him a little smile. But his face remained somber. He had seen his brother smile at her, from across the nave, and he had seen the way she droppedher eyes, and lifted them, and returned his smile, with a warmth she did not seem to feel for him.
W hen the service was over and Grandpa had been carried up to the cemetery and laid in the ground, the men left the women to it. The women fussed and cried, worriting about oil for the candle glass, bickering about whose flowers would be shown to best advantage where. Grandma, hysterical, lay down in the dirt and declared she would never leave the graveside, never.
The neighbors wandered home. Theo walked slowly with his father and Uncle Janis down to the
kafenion
in the village, old Nikolas and a few others with them. Not Takis: no one had seen Takis since they had left the church. They said little; they were all miserable. Michaelis called for whisky; the waiter brought a bottle.
They drank in silence for a while, but when the whisky began to blur the edges of their sadness, they started to tell stories about Grandpa, of the way he had been, and the things he had done.
“The old fool and his teeth,” said Uncle Janis. “I’ll never forget that day. When his teeth got so bad they just had to come out, he let that idiot Thassis persuade him he knew how to fix them. Down he went to the beach, made a driftwood fire and gathered all the sea snails he could find. He heated the snail shells in the fire until they were hot and then he bit down on the shells with the bad parts of his teeth to burn the rottenness out.”
In chorus, they laughed the refrain, “The old fool!”
“Aye, the old fool! His mouth was ruined! Sore and blistered for days. But he was too proud, or too scared, to go to Kos to see a dentist, so that was that. Pained him ever after, didn’t they? Spent his last years eating wet bread and paps. Bit of fish, sometimes. What did he used to say, Mikey? ‘Nothing that a bit of clove oil won’t cure.’ The old fool.”
There was silence. Above the bar, a caged canary sang. Michaelis picked up the whiskey bottle and splashed spirit into all their glasses.
“A toast to him! A toast to the old fool, wherever he is!”
On into the evening they drank, until they had drunk themselves through cheerfulness and maudlin again. Theo’s head began to ache, and he wanted to leave; and yet, reluctant to go home, he stayed. Through the open doorway, he watched a woman make her way down the street. Her hair was long, and full; he watched her until she turned the corner, out of sight. On and on they sat, keeping company, sharing memories, until they heard the roll of thunder overhead, and it began to rain.
It ’s still raining; it’s pissing down. We’re sitting in the house. We’ve been sitting in the house for three days. Nothing changes. The years all start the same and end the same. This one limped around to another winter just like last winter. Next winter will be no different. These old stone houses are cold as death. The cold gets inside you, under your skin, chills your bones until they ache with it. We wrap ourselves in ourcoats, wear them all day, inside and out. We can’t change our clothes; it’s too cold to undress, and our clean clothes are damp, stinking and rotten with the mildew. There’s nowhere dry enough to air them. Where the bedroom walls back onto the water cistern they’re crawling with fusty gray mold. We all cough from damp-filled lungs. The rain runs in like it owns the place. It comes under the doors; it comes around the window-frames. The carpets are all rolled up in the middle of the room. There are wet towels everywhere, soaking up the water, adding to the damp. Every hour or so, Elpida fetches a bucket and wrings out the towels. Her hands are red from the work, chapped and cracked, split between the fingers. Without the carpets, the wind whistles up through the cracks in the floorboards, rattling the glass in the china cabinet.
In
W hen the service was over and Grandpa had been carried up to the cemetery and laid in the ground, the men left the women to it. The women fussed and cried, worriting about oil for the candle glass, bickering about whose flowers would be shown to best advantage where. Grandma, hysterical, lay down in the dirt and declared she would never leave the graveside, never.
The neighbors wandered home. Theo walked slowly with his father and Uncle Janis down to the
kafenion
in the village, old Nikolas and a few others with them. Not Takis: no one had seen Takis since they had left the church. They said little; they were all miserable. Michaelis called for whisky; the waiter brought a bottle.
They drank in silence for a while, but when the whisky began to blur the edges of their sadness, they started to tell stories about Grandpa, of the way he had been, and the things he had done.
“The old fool and his teeth,” said Uncle Janis. “I’ll never forget that day. When his teeth got so bad they just had to come out, he let that idiot Thassis persuade him he knew how to fix them. Down he went to the beach, made a driftwood fire and gathered all the sea snails he could find. He heated the snail shells in the fire until they were hot and then he bit down on the shells with the bad parts of his teeth to burn the rottenness out.”
In chorus, they laughed the refrain, “The old fool!”
“Aye, the old fool! His mouth was ruined! Sore and blistered for days. But he was too proud, or too scared, to go to Kos to see a dentist, so that was that. Pained him ever after, didn’t they? Spent his last years eating wet bread and paps. Bit of fish, sometimes. What did he used to say, Mikey? ‘Nothing that a bit of clove oil won’t cure.’ The old fool.”
There was silence. Above the bar, a caged canary sang. Michaelis picked up the whiskey bottle and splashed spirit into all their glasses.
“A toast to him! A toast to the old fool, wherever he is!”
On into the evening they drank, until they had drunk themselves through cheerfulness and maudlin again. Theo’s head began to ache, and he wanted to leave; and yet, reluctant to go home, he stayed. Through the open doorway, he watched a woman make her way down the street. Her hair was long, and full; he watched her until she turned the corner, out of sight. On and on they sat, keeping company, sharing memories, until they heard the roll of thunder overhead, and it began to rain.
It ’s still raining; it’s pissing down. We’re sitting in the house. We’ve been sitting in the house for three days. Nothing changes. The years all start the same and end the same. This one limped around to another winter just like last winter. Next winter will be no different. These old stone houses are cold as death. The cold gets inside you, under your skin, chills your bones until they ache with it. We wrap ourselves in ourcoats, wear them all day, inside and out. We can’t change our clothes; it’s too cold to undress, and our clean clothes are damp, stinking and rotten with the mildew. There’s nowhere dry enough to air them. Where the bedroom walls back onto the water cistern they’re crawling with fusty gray mold. We all cough from damp-filled lungs. The rain runs in like it owns the place. It comes under the doors; it comes around the window-frames. The carpets are all rolled up in the middle of the room. There are wet towels everywhere, soaking up the water, adding to the damp. Every hour or so, Elpida fetches a bucket and wrings out the towels. Her hands are red from the work, chapped and cracked, split between the fingers. Without the carpets, the wind whistles up through the cracks in the floorboards, rattling the glass in the china cabinet.
In
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