The House on Paradise Street (28 page)

“Here he is!” He sounded excited. “Look! Markos Perifanis, 1925–1944.” My grandson removed the box that was on top and slid ours out. It was closed with wire, but not locked. The number 3782 was scrawled on the lid.

“Shall we open it?” He sounded both reluctant and curious.

“Not here. Not like thieves,” I replied. “Let’s take him home first.”

Nobody questioned us about what we were doing – who would steal old bones? Anyway, a grandmother in a cemetery is hardly suspicious. Orestes walked by my side, carrying the box to the motorbike, where he tied it to the rack on the back. We were a strange threesome riding the short distance to Paradise Street, me side-saddle again, and what was left of my brother behind me.

Orestes placed the container on a table in Mod’s sitting room and I watched, as he untied the twist of wire and lifted the lid. The bones were pale and smaller than what you’d expect for a grown man, but the skull was perfect – completely white and smooth. All the teeth were in place. I didn’t lift it out, but placed my hand on the crown, feeling tiny, zigzag lines and a light covering of dust. Undoing the safety pin in my pocket, I took out the button that had been with me all these years. I would put it in Markos’ box when it reached its final resting place.

It didn’t seem strange when the doorbell went and Orestes ushered Johnny into the room. The old man stared at the young one, and I realised he was seeing Markos in my grandson, with his dark locks and deep brown eyes. Johnny managed to disentangle his gaze to come over and kiss me in a distracted manner, looking down at the mortal remains in their open box. He said, “Markos?”

“We found him today,” I replied. “Now, finally, I hope, to do the right thing.” Orestes was lurking by the door.

“Sorry, but I’ve been up all night in the cells and I need to get some sleep. I’ll see you later.” He spoke in Greek and Johnny tried to answer but stumbled with “
Kalón ýpno
” [sleep well] and switched back to English. He said, “Goodbye, dear boy. God bless.”

Johnny and I sat on the sofa, side by side in front of the box. I appreciated that he kept quiet – the most appropriate response to the situation. It gave me time to reflect on our entwined lives and how he had meant so many things to me: teacher and first love, enemy, then someone who offered me help – the only one who did so when I was in prison. Now we were both near the end, dried up skin and bones. The next stage was beneath the earth. I was surprised when I heard a noise like a shuddering, stifled sob and saw that Johnny was crying. He said, “Stupid.” Then he shook his head and looked furious with himself for his lapse. “You know, Markos has haunted me since I left Greece. I loved him. I would never have done anything to hurt him. And now… It was my fault, what happened.” Johnny brought out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes and nose. His voice was steadier when he spoke again, though he looked drained.

“I was there during the attack.” He looked at me for a reaction, but I merely nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“Spiros told Basher and me there were rebels in that house in Kaisariani, but nothing about Markos. I know I said I wasn’t involved, but I couldn’t face telling you. I hold myself responsible and you have every right to hate me, Antigone. I didn’t launch the rockets, but it comes to the same thing.”

“We were both responsible for what happened.” I knew it was too late now to rage at poor Johnny and, after all, I was well aware that Spiros had followed me up to Kaisariani. I should have done something. My failure to report what I’d seen had been deadly. I put my hand on his – two loose-skinned, liver-spotted toads.

“I loved him,” Johnny repeated quietly.

“I used to hate you,” I said. “But not any more.” For the first time I consciously understood what I had not been able to admit to myself all those years before – that Johnny had truly loved Markos. Although he cared for me, I was never going to be his love. I had kept myself going on a girlish fantasy that had had no foundation in reality. Every show of affection was merely friendship on his part. And in those days there was so much room for misunderstanding. Memories came back, making sense of isolated incidents: even before the war, Johnny and Markos would go off on walking expeditions, leaving Paradise Street with knapsacks for day trips to Mount Parnitha or Pendeli. I was always envious. I recalled the cave in the mountains, where we had all met during the occupation. I had seen Johnny’s arm around Markos, but never interpreted it correctly. I had still hoped it was me he wanted. I remembered the comment my sister spat out at a time when Markos and I started doing secret errands for Johnny during the war. “Anyway, he’s a poofter.”

I didn’t say anything. At the time I knew nothing about love between men, though later in Russia I had friends who were that way inclined. Now it seemed too late to question Johnny about long-lost love. It was time to bury the past before we were buried ourselves. It is what it is. I said, “We both loved Markos. And we are just ‘little people’, as Chryssa says.”

“Thank you, Antigone.” Johnny looked at me with great gentleness. “Now, please tell me what happened – why you left Greece and Nikitas. And what about all those years in Russia? Were you happy? You were married, weren’t you?”

I smiled “That’s a lot of questions.”

“At least tell me why you came back to Greece. Alexandra said you had made an oath never to return.”

“One thing I have learned is that there is never a last word, never a promise which cannot be broken or a belief that continues unaltered. If life has taught me one thing, Johnny, it is that. I came back to mourn my son and there was something else I wanted to do.”

Before I could continue, the door of the apartment opened and Mod appeared. At her side was my granddaughter, her arm in a sling and her head swathed in gauze.

“Tig was allowed to leave the hospital, so we came home,” Mod explained, supporting her daughter and smiling wanly. “I’ll put her to bed and come back.” I went over to greet the poor girl, whose face was drawn.

“
Antigonaki
mou
, are you all right?
Siderénia
[get strong as iron].”

“Hello
Yiayia
.” Never has the word “grandmother” sounded so good.

Johnny stared intently at my granddaughter. “This girl looks just as you did. It’s like going back in time.” He came over and took Tig’s good hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Antigone.”

“What’s that?” asked Tig, peering at the box with Markos’ remains. “Is it a head?”

When Tig was born, it was Chryssa, childless and probably a virgin, who told me about the forty days when mother and infant must stay at home.

“I know you’re a modern girl and times are different.” She began diffidently, even though she was usually forthright. “But to do things properly, you should not leave the house unless you have to, and neither should the baby. At the end, you bring in a priest to do a blessing.” Nikitas was having none of that, but Chryssa’s talk of blood, pollution, unspecified nocturnal dangers and nameless spirits remained with me. I did not take her advice, but I understood the rationale behind the superstition. Long before the advent of baby manuals and childhood experts with all their contradictory teachings on “bonding”, village women had found a way of allowing the mother and new baby to be quiet together and to rest before normal life resumed. The forty days were a time of limbo, like Jesus in the wilderness or Moses on Mount Sinai. The number forty also applied to fasting during Lent and to the period between a person’s death and the first important memorial service.

The evening before Nikitas’ ‘forty-day’, Chryssa brought wheat, pomegranates and other ingredients for
kólyva
, just as she had for the memorial three days after Nikitas died.

“May God forgive him,” she said as she came in, briskly wiping a rheumy eye. “He was like a son to me.” She busied herself, letting practicalities take precedence over emotions. Tig was not able to help because of her arm, but sat and watched, smiling bravely. When Antigone got back from a meeting she had arranged with Johnny, she joined them and, from my study, I heard an animated conversation in the kitchen. The words were unintelligible but I could tell it was largely between grandmother and granddaughter, with a few interjections from Chryssa. When I went to see how the
kólyva
was progressing, they abruptly stopped talking.

“Beautiful,” I said, taking in the mound of grains and seeds now covered in icing sugar like a shallow, snow-covered volcano.

“And tasty,” said Chryssa, friendly but obviously relieved to have found a topic to distract me. “The wheat is good quality and the pomegranates are from a friend’s garden. Only the best for our Nikitas.” Antigone looked at the floor and Tig glanced at me to see how I reacted.

“I think I’ll go and lie down,” she said. “My arm’s sore. Mum, can I take a Depon?” I went to get her the painkiller and overheard her taking her leave (“Goodnight Chryssa, goodnight
Yiayia
”). It sounded very cosy. I sat on Tig’s bed and took in the mix of childhood relics – the teddies and picture books – that sat incongruously with the patchwork of posters, concert tickets, banners and assorted mementoes on the walls. One side of the room was a mural painted by Tig and her friends, depicting a girl spraying graffiti. There were slogans I assumed came from Orestes: “Lifestyle is manic depression, gift-wrapped,” and “Buy until you die” (accompanied by the anarchists’ A in a circle). Someone had recently added “Cops, pigs, murderers” and “Alexis, that bullet hit us all”.

“So, what do you think of your grandmother? You seem to be getting on well.” I heard something in my voice that I hoped wasn’t jealousy.

“She’s nice,” Tig replied in non-committal fashion.

* * *

The winter sun was dazzling. The bitter-orange trees outside the cemetery were laden with ripe fruit, some of which had fallen into the gutters and collected in heaps. The arrangement was that we would meet at the gate and walk to the grave together, locating en route one of the priests who performed memorial rites. I tried to dissuade Tig from coming; it was only the day after her discharge from hospital. But she insisted, walking gingerly alongside her newly acknowledged grandmother. Alexandra proceeded with her head held high, staying next to Johnny, while Orestes (unshaven and in jeans) took my arm on one side and Chryssa’s on the other. It felt as though years had passed since we all walked the same way for the funeral, not even six weeks earlier.

Nikos the poet came rushing through the gates, hugging us all with relief when he found he was not late.

“Meet Konstantina,” he said, introducing an attractive, young woman, who looked vaguely familiar. I assumed she was one of the poetry groupies he and Nikitas often joked about, though her straightened, blonde hair and fashionable clothes marked her out from the earnest types who normally pursued the ageing poet.

“Konstantina is an admirer of Nikitas’ writing and wanted to come along,” Nikos said unconvincingly, as he put an arm around her. I realised she was the television reporter who had interviewed him on the day of the accident.

Danae was lurking awkwardly in the shadows and I called her over. I had rung her the previous day, wanting to make up for my unwarranted suspicions, and invited her to the memorial. I kissed her and she scrubbed at her eyes with one hand.

“Sorry,” she tried to smile through watering eyes. “I’ve been up half the night with my daughter. I’m just tired.”

Orestes waved at her casually. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She gave a small wave back. It was strange how harmless she looked.

The two ex-wives tfurned up, Kiki draped in a purple scarf and pendants and Yiorgia in a lawyer’s suit and heels. They both kissed me politely, but in a manner that said the time for sharing tears and falling into each other’s arms was over. In any case, all anyone could talk about was the crisis.

“You can’t even walk down University Avenue,” Kiki said, throwing out her strong potter’s hands in exasperation. “Everywhere is shuttered up and nobody dares go to the centre. You see gangs of “hooded ones” rampaging along like packs of dogs. They’ve been attacking policemen. It’s unbelievable.”

“They deserve it.” Orestes never agreed with the opinions of his father’s first wife. “The pigs have been beating us up without anyone stopping them for so long, they thought they could start shooting kids in cold blood. The police need to be taught a lesson. This is a war. We’re fighting the state. It’s more than hooliganism.”

Yiorgia joined the debate, taking her son’s side.

“I don’t know what’s going on in this country, when our children are chased by gun-toting policemen in gas masks. There’s blood on the pavements in front of the Parliament building. It’s like 1944 all over again. It certainly doesn’t look like the democracy we fought for.” She looked around for support.

“They’re already calling it the
Dekemvriana
of 2008,” said Kiki, looking pleased with herself. “You know what I saw painted on a wall in the square, near the burnt Christmas tree?
Merry crisis and a happy new fear
. At least they have humour.” No one laughed. I saw Antigone listening and watching us, taking in the three wives of the son she didn’t know. Her expression was impossible to interpret, her eyes lowered and her lips set. Johnny was standing by her, leaning on a walking stick and far away in his thoughts. He had obviously given up trying to follow the conversation in Greek.

During the short service in the chapel the two sisters stood grimly apart, their faces rigid as though each were a Medusa that had petrified the other. Nothing was given away. The past itself seemed to be set in stone. We walked slowly to the grave. The pathways had become familiar in recent weeks: the prominent corner of the archbishops’, the sleeping maiden, and the family tombs with mops and buckets in attendance. Crossing the cemetery’s green heart, we made our way up the slope to the “artists’ area” and the gravestone made by a local stonemason.

NIKITAS PERIFANIS

1946–2008

You could either sum up a person like that or you could investigate, as I had been doing, not knowing whether you’d ever understand them. A priest was found and he performed the short ritual for my husband, jangling his brass censer enthusiastically, and chanting in a melodious voice. I slipped a 50 euro note into his hand at the end and he nodded his thanks, tucking it into his capacious robes.

The original plan for the reception had been to go to Zonar’s in University Avenue. It would have brought back memories for the old people, and Nikitas had favoured the place when it was a more subtle, lugubrious version of its current incarnation. However, the riots in the centre meant it was virtually a no-go area and we decided instead on Café 13, the slightly seedy establishment on Anapafseos Street, where I had first met Antigone. Most of the friends and relations didn’t stay long after downing coffee and brandy; they had work and appointments. Within half an hour I was alone with the two old Gorgon sisters, Johnny, Chryssa, Tig and Orestes. Alexandra wasn’t exactly flirting with Johnny, but was being as charming as I had ever seen her. When she announced that she had a delicious fish soup and that we should all come home for lunch, it was clearly some kind of challenge to Antigone.

“The past should stay in the past,” Alexandra pronounced. “We must all get on with our lives.” Her tone was breezy, but she didn’t look at Antigone – rather, she silently dared her to protest. She even repeated her words in English for Johnny, who nodded in agreement, evidently not realising the degree to which the sisters were estranged. There was a surprisingly brief pause, during which Antigone caught my eye, then nodded and answered, “Of course.”

We sat at the solid mahogany dining-table that Petros and Maria Perifanis had bought for their new house in Paradise Street, over ninety years before. Alexandra was at the head and served the fragrant fish soup, while the filleted white flesh and boiled vegetables were arranged on a platter, next to a jug of
ladolémono
– whisked oil and lemon. Morena had come to help and fetched and carried from the kitchen. She was prompted by Chryssa who sat with us but had her mind on the practicalities throughout the meal that she had prepared.

“We must drink to Nikitas,” said Alexandra, raising a glass of wine. We said his name in unison. Orestes downed his glass in one and poured another. Johnny pronounced Nikitas’ name loudly, looking at me and giving a sympathetic smile. Antigone and Tig had mumbled and were concentrating on their drinks.

“May we remember him,” said Chryssa, for the hundredth time.

“It’s good that your son grew up here, in the same house as you did,” said Alexandra, addressing her sister in what was obviously a prepared speech. “He may have been left by his mother, but his roots were here. He had his grandmother. You did the right thing.”

“There was not much choice.” Antigone spoke softly, but Alexandra did not give up.

“At least he wasn’t turned into a little Russian. He stayed in his homeland. It is important for a boy to have a man around, someone who sets him an example. Spiros was like a father to Nikitas.” I couldn’t tell whether Alexandra was provoking Antigone or whether she believed what she was saying, but it was Orestes who had heard enough.

“I thought Spiros used to beat him.
Babas
told us that he was frightened of him as a child.”

Alexandra didn’t miss a beat. “Those were different times, my boy, and discipline is an important part of bringing up a child. Spiros believed you should take responsibility for your actions. Crime requires punishment. And a little slap never hurt anyone. Children today could do with more backbone.”

Nobody said anything and Alexandra kept going. “Spiros always stuck to his word, which is why he was a good policeman. When he needed to find a criminal, he kept at it with method until he succeeded. That’s why he rose to such a high position in the Ministry – he knew when to strike. It wasn’t for nothing that his colleagues called him Wasp.” Alexandra looked proud as she said that.

“Wasp?” I checked to see whether Antigone and Johnny reacted, but they didn’t blink.

“Then what did Spiros do? What happened when Antigone was in prison?” I blurted it out without really thinking and everyone at the table looked at me as if the question didn’t make sense. If Spiros was Wasp, what had he done that had shocked Johnny back then? And why did Nikitas have his hated uncle’s nickname written on the pad on his desk?

“What do you mean,
Mondouly mou
?” Alexandra asked sweetly, tilting her head to one side.

I should have left it there but I couldn’t. It seemed that everyone knew more than I did; even Tig was in league with Antigone. I wanted to know what was going on.

“‘Johnny, can’t you tell me?” I asked in English. “What is it about Spiros? What did he do? I know that Nikitas was puzzling over the name Wasp just before he died? I think you must know. He was my husband. Please.” Johnny was embarrassed by my outburst, but I didn’t care.

“Maud, my dear…” He fumbled for words. “I think that Antigone should… She is the only one who can speak about this. And I imagine she will want to do so in private.” He glanced at Antigone and she nodded with what I now interpret as bleak satisfaction. Tig and Orestes stared at me in bewilderment, as though they were thinking: “Now she really has gone mad.”

Alexandra looked furious. “I don’t know what you’re all talking about, but there’s no need to go on about Spiros. He did nothing wrong and you should leave him to rest in peace.”

* * *

“There are certain things that are better left unsaid. I hoped I wouldn’t have to have to re-open these wounds.” Antigone and I had retreated upstairs to my sitting room, leaving the others with Alexandra. The winter sun had warmed the air and the street sounds formed an incongruously comfortable, quotidian backing to her words.

“Truth is over-rated as a virtue,” she said. “People say they want honesty, but sometimes that’s much crueller than a lie and far more destructive.” It sounded like a last warning from the oracle: be careful what you wish for.

I nodded. “Yes, but it’s too late. I need to know.”

“I never told Nikitas, because I wanted my son to grow up with the idea that his father was a brave and good man, a
Kapetánios
who gave his life for his country. It would have been too harsh to tell him that he came from an act of violence. There, I’ve said it.”