The Daughter (19 page)

…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 could 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.

Meanwhile, Doc Manolaras was getting set to go into
politics
, which is the reason why he was pulling strings to get us a pension. Politics was starting up again, you see, and the
politicians
were beating the bushes for votes. From us he stood to
collect
six, two from my father’s parents and four from us, counting our big brother Sotiris. Why, Doc Manolaras even promised to find him, saying, Asimina, I’ll leave no stone unturned to find your eldest and bring him back to you, no vote can escape me. Never did find our Sotiris though, but he did get a voter’s registration book issued in his name, which he used himself.

Still, the X-men didn’t give us trouble, even though plenty of families started leaving Rampartville due to their beliefs.
Rampartville
was a nationalist town, and everybody knew just who the left-wingers were. And when the X-men started their beatings and breaking down doors, plenty of people made up their minds 
to move to Athens once and for all, for shelter. That’s when Aphrodite’s ma left. Fortunately for her, because she got ahead. If you take away that they slaughtered her husband in those
December
Events, or whatever they call them, she’s doing just fine today with her lace doilies. Really has the knack, she does.

Funny thing, back then, there was this X-man, the
sentimental
type and a travelling greengrocer by trade, and he goes and falls in love with Ma. Her hair was a bit longer, styled it à la garçon I did, looked real good on her. So, late at night on his donkey he came by, most likely on his way back from the
countryside
where he went to buy his vegetables, he hung around behind the church singing songs full of meaning, like If you turn your back on the past or the hit of the day, I’ll take you away with me, only he changed the words to say he would take her away to other lands where they had a king and queen. Other times he sang patriotic hymns, things like Sofia-Moscow is our dream, but they came out sounding like a hesitation waltz.

This same greengrocer, he even put in a good word for Mrs Chrysafis. Another X-man comes right up to her door and tells her to her face that they’re going to dig up her son’s corpse, they’re not going to give that stinking commie a moment’s peace. But the greengrocer had a word with him and he left her alone. Not that Mrs Chrysafis cared a hoot: Go on, dig him up, she tells the X-man, and give me a call so I can see what he looks like now. Everybody’s nerves were pretty much on edge.

People in the neighbourhood were starting to talk about the love-sick greengrocer, but it was all a big misunderstanding. One day Mrs Fanny comes up to me and says, Roubini, get it over with, girl, either tell him Yes, or get rid of him. I was speechless. Mrs Kanello was telling me the same thing, got it all wrong for the first time in her life. No, I tell them, the
greengrocer’s
making eyes at my ma, what could he see in me? But I said it without really believing it, seeing as by then my breasts were coming out and I was getting taller. 

But the greengrocer wouldn’t give up. One evening, in fact, while he’s serenading right beside our window, the donkey starts braying, and his master starts kicking the poor creature. Shut up, he hisses; my heart sank to see him tormenting the animal. It was a neat and tidy little donkey, come to think of it, with a little crown hung right under its forelock. Finally Mrs Kanello takes matters into her own hands, she buttonholes the guy and asks him what are his intentions towards the orphan, meaning me, the dimwit. That’s when everybody realized that it was Ma the royalist greengrocer was after. But soon after Mrs Kanello’s efforts he disappeared for good, and I could only think about what would become of the donkey, maybe he would beat it again.