The Daughter Page 15

  One morning we were playing with Mrs Kanello’s seven kids in front of our houses and I lean against the wall of the church and I feel a kind of dampness on my back. I turn around, there’s a thread of green slime oozing down the wall, from the top of the bell tower all the way down to the ground. And that’s how we discovered that the little partisan’s dead body was still there, all those weeks. Some people climb up to the top, covering their noses with hankies. He’s decomposed, they yell down. Mrs Kanello hands a sheet of muslin up to them, and they haul him down. The body was dripping, nothing was left but this sodden shapeless thing like crushed grapes in the muslin. How can you bury this, this … thing? somebody said. Day after day we scrubbed the street, sprinkled quicklime, nothing doing. The stink was still there when we left Rampartville, probably still there in fact.

  They took him to the graveyard; I didn’t take part because at that very moment the truck came to take Mother away. Mother didn’t put up any resistance. I can’t even remember where our little Fanis disappeared to, but I wanted to follow along, only the vehicle was moving too fast and I couldn’t keep up with it.

  Maybe an hour later it was, I spotted her in the main street, you know, where the nice folks take their evening promenade, she was standing there in the back of the open truck. The sun was hot. The truck was an open truck and the women collaborators were standing there, thirsty, hanging on to each other so they wouldn’t fall over. But they didn’t have to worry; the truck was moving really really slow now, at a slow walking pace so everybody in town could enjoy the public humiliation. All the women’s hair was gone, cut off with sheep shears. Mother’s hair too was cut off. There she was, standing at the back of the truck, not even trying to hide, she wasn’t. Was she looking at something? Don’t know.

  The truck was just crawling along, the driver had his instructions, but there were people everywhere, in front of the vehicle, behind, on all sides, and so the driver was creeping forward, had to be careful not to run down any of the citizens, laughing merrily as he went. The whole crowd was enjoying itself in fact, everybody was laughing and all the windows were full of on lookers and the proper gentlemen stepped out of the coffee-houses to stare at the passing truck. Most of the people in the crowd were carrying goat horns or full animal guts cut open, all free from the municipal slaughterhouse, some others were ringing sheep or goat bells, where did they find all that stuff? Some were carrying flags, and waving them patriotically over their heads. And the goat horns they were waving them in the air too and dancing around and sticking them to the sides of the truck like votive offerings and some people were throwing the guts against the truck. What I mean is, they were trying to hit the sheared women but they were missing mostly and only spattering them with bits of green filth, plus a few of the honourable people standing around, but nobody seemed to mind what with the general Liberation high spirits and they just kept on dancing around and around.

  I got my hands all smeared with the stuff, I was hanging on to the truck like a bunch of grapes, but when the second slug of guts hit me I fell off, and now I had to run, run to catch up, Ma was all the way to the side of the truck now, as if she wanted to climb off and guts were smeared all over her, up climbs another guy, hangs a pair of horns tied together with animal innards around her neck, and a sheep’s bell, and everyone is clapping and cheering and there I was, following along behind in slow march step.

  That went on from ten in the morning till maybe six in the evening, up and down every street we went, downtown and uptown, but I wasn’t going to leave. And lots of people were hammering on empty tin cans with stones. And church bells were ringing. Not at Saint Kyriaki’s, though; Father Dinos refused, locked the church doors tight.

  Come afternoon we passed by the Venice pastry shop, the place where the better families of (Rampartville, used to go for French pastries before the war. During the Occupation, of course, all they served was diluted grape marmalade on tiny little plates. Fortunately for me I fell off right in front of the Venice, seeing as Doc Manolaras’s wife was sitting with some friends of hers right there at one of the tables, and she shouted, Don’t trample the kid! Waiter! And when I came to, the waiter poured a pitcher of water over my head. Mrs Manolaras had a name with a big reputation. So she says, Go home little girl, what are you doing here? Go on home, you shouldn’t be seeing this, you’ll only remember it all your life, go on home and don’t worry, it’s just one day and it will be over soon, this evening they’ll let them go.

  I felt better already. Then I remembered something Mrs Kanello told my mother, So maybe you were a whore for a while, but it was for Christian and moral reasons. Mother never did admit she was a whore because she had two Italians. But she was an illiterate woman and she respected Mrs Kanello’s opinion and since Mrs Kanello said she was a whore, that got Mother really upset, but she accepted it. So when the truck stopped outside our house to pick her up for the public humiliation, Ma climbed right up almost eagerly, never crossed her mind they were wronging her, punishing her the way they did.

  I grab the pitcher out of the waiter’s hands and run off to catch up again and scramble up the side of the truck and pour water over my Ma, standing there all day in the hot sun with her hair cut off, can’t let anything happen to her, I was saying to myself. And the sun was getting hotter even though it was almost afternoon, the sun was getting hotter and I don’t remember anything more.

  Of course she remembers but she won’t talk about it, was what a common street walker told Dr Manolaras about a month after; the woman, who had also been publicly humiliated in the same vehicle, had a certificate as a ‘lewd common woman’, what else did she have to lose?

  Then a virtuous man with a flag in one hand climbed up on to the truck bed and he began cracking rotten eggs on the heads of each of the humiliated women and the crowd was applauding, they hadn’t seen a movie or a travelling theatre company for so long, the whole thing was more like some kind of entertainment. The virtuous man was bowing like a lecturer before his audience, or like a mayor, each time he cracked an egg on a shorn woman’s head. Hey, you been robbing the hen-houses, have you? shouted someone admiringly, and the crowd burst out laughing and, by and large, a good time was had by all at our Liberation: one man was shouting Hurrah! The young girl Meskaris Roubini was running along behind the truck, it was moving faster now, and her mother was standing bolt upright in the back. Roubini was holding the pitcher high over her head, trying to hand it to her mother to drink. Then her mother took the pitcher but instead of drinking of it, she moistened her face and neck daintily to clean off the filth and the ashes. Then the virtuous man grabbed it from her and showered the crowd with water and people roared with laughter and shouted, Hurrah, hurrah, the church bells were chiming, now the virtuous man stood beside the mother of Meskaris Roubini and broke a rotten egg over her head, and the raw egg dribbled down her neck and the people were laughing and then the young Meskaris Roubini caught hold of the truck and tried to climb aboard. And then the virtuous man leaped to the ground and the crowd roared out its approval with a burst of happy applause. Then Meskaris Roubini had a seizure. She started to applaud with great ceremony and then proclaimed solemnly to the crowd, Long live my Mother Meskaris Asimina, Long Live my Mother Asimina. And the crowd applauded with gales of laughter, it was like something from a variety show. Meskaris Roubini wasn’t crying; there was a kind of froth coming from her eyes.

  That was when the mother of Meskaris Roubini started to cry out, but it was only a sound, a shriek. Then some citizen threw a wet rag dipped in soot at her and it hit her right in the eyes. And Meskaris Roubini was hanging there from the back of the truck and she turned towards the crowd to speak, but she could not speak and she began to howl like a beaten dog. And then her mother went berserk and started to scream ‘Get that Dog out of here, get that Dog away from me, get it away – what’s that Dog doing here, I’m not its mother,’ she screamed deliriously, deadly serious.

  …that’s all I remember, nothing
else. When you come right down to it people are real wild beasts, there’s nothing they can’t forget, nothing. But that’s not what I mean to say: in the end they let the women go, right in front of Rampartville cathedral, and we went home, and along the way I remember how proudly I held my mother by the hand, as if I was carrying a church banner and nobody tried to stop us. And I said to myself, I’ll always remember this day. And now look, I went and forgot the half of it…

  And when we got home I sat her down at the table and heated some water and washed my mother, first time I ever washed her, it was. The second time was about forty-two years later, right here in our apartment in Athens, when she died.

  After that I put on some soup to warm. There came a knock, it was Mrs Kanello. Ma ran over and threw her body in front of the door, she wasn’t going to open it, and Mrs Kanello was calling to her, Open up. Asimina. Darling, open the door I tell you! She was in a rage, and sobbing at the same time. Ma threw all her weight against the door. Then Mrs Kanello kicked it open and barged in.

  ‘Brought you some chicken stew with potatoes,’ she said.

  And that’s all she said. The tears were running down her cheeks. She left us the pot full of food and gave Ma a kerchief for her head, a flowered head-scarf, you know the kind that was in fashion before the war. And went off without a word, still furious.

  After, her and me sat down and we ate the chicken stew and the potatoes and I even remembered the pullet buried under my bed, if the pullet had been a dog and if it was still alive today it would be gnawing the bones.

  Our little Fanis didn’t come home that night. Or the next night. We went to bed early, slept in her bed the both of us, didn’t even wonder what happened to the kid. Had to turn in early, because I had to be up early to do the laundry at Mrs Manolaras’s place.

  And so that’s how we had our first chicken come the Liberation. The last time was before the Occupation.

  Next morning we had milk to drink, with cocoa and real sugar, dear departed Aphrodite’s mother Mrs Fanny brought it, her and Mrs Kanello. Hailed us from across the street as if nothing had ever happened. This time Mother opened the door, hurried over to open it in fact. The two women came rushing in, and Mrs Fanny had a smile on her face for the first time since her daughter died, the two of them were all bright and cheery as if they were ready for an outing, as if life was going to go on.

  Mother drank the milk and cocoa, dipped her bread in it what’s more. And the two women went off feeling better, Mrs Kanello to her job and Mrs Fanny to her knitting. Me too, I went off to work feeling better, and when I got home that afternoon there was Ma sitting by the window, with the curtain drawn back. The house was clean and spotless, the blue wrapping paper the occupying forces made us use for the blackout was gone from the window panes, the sink was whitewashed, everything in its place and neat as a pin.

  The day after that our Fanis showed up. No questions. I had no idea where he spent the night and I didn’t ask. Years later, at Ma’s funeral it was, he finally told me how Kostis, the son of Mr Kozilis, who worked at the Prefecture, took him home. The first night our little one slept outdoors, down near the ditch at the Canal. Further along, behind the church of Saint Rosolym, was where Mr Kozilis lived, they were leftwingers but respectable people all the same. So his son Kostis took Fanis in. He had a meal and left, and spent the next night sleeping down by the Canal. Kostis didn’t say a word to him about the matter of our mother. (Today he’s quite an impresario in Athens, he has the loveliest wife, she’s an actress too, but not quite as talented as me, name of Eugenia.)

  Fanis didn’t say a word to Mother, didn’t ask a single question, just looked at her sitting by the window with the flowered scarf Mrs Kanello gave her tied under her chin. The scarf suits you just fine Ma, he said and broke into tears. Ma didn’t say a word. Just then Kostis’s mother Mrs Kozilis appears outside the window, a tall, dignified woman. She glances through the window, sees us, breathes a sigh of relief, leaves us a plate of walnuts on the windowsill and goes off.

  But we didn’t talk about Mother’s matter even when it was just the three of us. Even today when we’re grown up, we never talk about that day that happened to Ma. Not even the day of her funeral, which Fanis came for especially; all he told me was where he slept those two nights when he left home for the first time.

  Mother, she wasn’t talking. Not about her matter, not about anything.

  Four whole days after the public humiliation it was, when I noticed Mother had not said one single word, not even when we asked her a question like did she want me to cook the meal, and such. At night she wouldn’t sleep. I just dropped right off to sleep I was so worn out from work and all, but I was worried about her and every so often I opened my eyes and there I saw her, right beside me, we left a small candle burning at night and I could see her eyes staring at the ceiling. After, I fell sound asleep again, I was still just a kid after all, with all those floors to scrub, all those buckets of water to empty, all that laundry to do.

  Fanis didn’t notice it either, he was always slipping out to play with that kid Kostis, the son of Kozilis who worked at the Prefecture, how was our little fellow supposed to know his playmate was going to be even more famous as an actor than his sister. I see around a lot these days. Doesn’t remember me, so I don’t let on I know him. But once it happened I was temporarily out of a job, so I was took on with his company as an extra. Picked me out himself, he did. I’ll take that one there, the cute little brunette, he said. Doesn’t know who I am, I say to myself, forget it. And today he looks right at me, can’t even remember how we used to play together for goodness sake.

  After the first week I say to Mrs Fanny, Mrs Fanny, still not a word. Her and Mrs Kanello come by, as if it’s a casual call, and strike up a conversation, but nothing from Mother. The eighth day Mrs Kanello pricks her on the arm with a safety pin, not a peep. We call Father Dinos to say a prayer, free of charge he did it, the poor man, then good old Doc Manolaras passes by and before he does anything else he gives her a shot in the arm, then he examines her.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ he says. All of a sudden he slaps her on the face, to surprise her, result nil. Father Dinos’s wife sends over a woman to break the spell but she makes us swear not to say a word to the reverend or he’ll beat her within an inch of her life. Finally we had to admit it. Your Ma’s struck dumb and that’s all there is to it, said Mrs Kanello. Doc Manolaras said the same thing, of course. Asimina seems to have suffered an attack of catalepsy, it is impossible to say if she will ever recover. You’ll just have to accept it.

  And so we accepted it.

  Mother was perfectly normal in every other way. Why, she even smiled too, what’s more. Not that we halted our efforts: we took her to see healing women, Mrs Kanello’s brother-in-law, the husband of her sister with the marriage troubles, he took Ma to a tiny chapel up in the hills with his buggy, but all in vain. Just imagine how word got around the neighbourhood, and afterwards all Rampartville knew about it. Seems that’s the reason why people stopped throwing stones at us. Hardly even bothered her any more when she left the house for work. Because after the public humiliation I found her two houses to do, ironing and minding kids, that kind of thing. In fact people liked having her work for them because she was dumb. Life got better, and finally we managed to save up some money. One lady told me right to my face, Roubini, better a deaf-mute cleaning lady, you can be sure she won’t go around talking to the other ladies where she works. Seeing as all the respectable families of Rampartville were scared to death of gossip, what would their cleaning lady tell her other customers about their patched sheets and their trinkets and such like.

  One day Kanello comes by with a primary-school reader, belonged to one of her kids. Here Roubini, she says, seeing as how she got no voice, you ought to teach her to read, that way at least you can communicate.

  Ma agreed. I taught her the alphabet and slowly she learned to write words. She couldn’t spell all that great, but she cou
ld write at least. One Sunday I remember how, way back before Albania, my big brother Sotiris asked her, Let me read you my lesson Ma. And I asked her the same thing, to help make her feel good. She liked it. So we sat her down, gave her our school books and recited our lessons by heart. One day I read her my essay, How I spent my Sunday. I wrote how we went looking for artichokes, about the purple sunset and about a cartful of sheep we met on the road.

  Later, on, doing the dishes, she asks me, Why didn’t you write how you met a hare?

  ‘Hare?’

  ‘Yes, in your school composition.’

  ‘But Ma, we didn’t meet any hares.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But we didn’t see a hare.’

  ‘It would make your composition nicer.’

  ‘Imagine seeing a hare just two steps away from the Zafiris’ fields. Am I supposed to write a lie and say that we saw one?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be a lie. It’s a composition.’

  To this day, now that I’ve passed the sixty mark (I’ll never say when, it’s enough to admit I passed it, so don’t expect me to say by how many years), I never did figure out why she wanted me to put a hare in my fifth-grade essay.

  In the end, she warmed to reading, and even learned a little arithmetic. Fanis started back to school again in the meantime, and I was going to night classes, although I missed more than I made. Our school books we got from Thanassakis’ father, the ones his son had finished with. So on Sundays Ma would sit down and read a book, mostly History and Geography it was, from the sixth grade. All about the Trojans, King Priam, the Twelve Gods, the Hellenes. That’s when we found out, Mum and me, that we are also called Hellenes, in addition to Meskaris. Later she learned where to find Andaluca on the map. She read from the Modern Greek reader too, stories with a plot were her favourites. By the time she died she could read an entire novel.