Three Summers Page 4

  “Marios,” I yelled, “what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, the sun is getting to me,” he stammered. And then after a bit, “I’m never playing this game again.”

  He didn’t even want to roughhouse with her anymore because she would throw herself on top of him, and when she wasn’t winning she’d even bite and scratch him.

  So from that year on the games stopped. We turned to studying and serious endeavors. Every once in a while in the evening Marios comes over, neatly dressed, and somehow formal. He doesn’t want us to muss up his hair like back then. Ever since he started university he takes himself so seriously. He reads really thick and heavy books, and when we suggest a walk or excursion he says he’s very sorry but he has to study or he has to go to Athens to the laboratory. Marios’s going to be a doctor, a surgeon to be exact. “Medicine comes naturally to the Parigori family,” Mrs. Parigori always says. And then as if by chance she slips in the fact that we are lucky to be their neighbors: “You never know, after all we are only human . . . Something could go wrong.”

  Thank God nothing ever does. We are all very healthy. Even Grandfather, who is seventy-five years old, never goes to the doctor. He has a big medical dictionary, and if he feels sick he opens it, and reads, and figures out his own diagnosis and cure. Rodia is the only one who has a problem. Her feet hurt when it’s damp. But the doctor says he can’t do anything about that. The same way he can’t lessen the pains of Tasia, the gardener’s wife, when she gives birth. For each of her three children she turned the world upside down. Even though their house is at the far end of the property, her screams reached us—even Grandfather in his room. He had to close the windows and doors and put cotton in his ears.

  I really felt sorry for poor Tasia. As I watched her belly grow I got more and more anxious; I wanted to explode, as if I was the one carrying all that weight inside me. Maria was very interested. She would go near the house when the pains began and hide in the bushes and wait. In a bit she would see the doctor arrive with Mother Kapatos. She wasn’t a real midwife, Mother Kapatos, but she knew a lot about it, and Tasia wouldn’t give birth without her. They were mortal enemies, swearing at each other all the time. One would be jealous of the other and at the slightest excuse pick a fight. But things changed the minute Tasia was in her eighth month. She would prepare sweets and send them to her. She’d bring her children milk. On the eve of the birth the official visit took place. “Why do you go out of your way?” Mother Kapatos would ask. “Now why shouldn’t I drop by for a visit? We live so close, we’re neighbors.”

  And it was true, Mother Kapatos’s house was only two steps away, at the edge of the woods. Poor, half tumbling down, one room and a kitchen. What’s a woman to do with five kids? Mr. Kapatos, the husband, spent most of his life in jail with small breaks—vacations let’s say. As soon as one sentence was over he tried to get a new one; his family was used to this. “Where’s your father?” “In jail,” the children would answer, as if they were saying “in the country.” And the littlest one confessed to me that they do much better when he’s not around because “he hits and has a fierce temper.”

  So Maria would hide and listen. The last time she was even able to get a look. She had snuck in at the side of the house by the window while I waited anxiously a little further away for a firsthand report. She came back upset and very red in the face. She tried to smile with her mouth, but her eyes were all teary. I didn’t understand anything she said.

  Now Nontas, Tasia’s last child, is two years old, and we are two years wiser. We see things differently. It’s only Infanta we’re not sure about, because she never talks about that stuff.

  Who knows what will become of Infanta.

  “She’s the most modest and beautiful of all,” says Mother. “She’ll get the best husband.”

  And Aunt Theresa laughs enigmatically.

  II. AT THE PARIGORIS’ HOUSE

  THE DAY is hot, the mind empty, the leaves motionless, the body and soul, too. We try to give meaning to what we see. At times the dead are living, and at other times the living, dead. I go visit the cows. They look at me as if it’s the first time they’ve seen me. The hens gather around me looking for crumbs that I don’t have. Romeo, Infanta’s favorite horse, turns his backside to me. Mavroukos’s gravestone, which is always cool, is hot today. My old buddy would have been sweating. He used to get hot in the summer and hang out his thick tongue and pant, his bulldog face taking on a tragic expression. Then he would climb up on the ledge of the cistern and wait for me to push him in because he didn’t have the courage to jump in himself.

  From the half-open door of the dining room I watch Mother set the table. She always does this herself, with the greatest care. She handles the knives and forks as if they were made of glass, spacing everything evenly, in the middle the decanter of olive oil and the salt—Grandfather forbids pepper, he thinks it’s bad for the health and the bread in a basket, already cut.

  She looks as if she is thinking hard as she sets the table, as if she’s studying each of her movements. I look at her full body, her shiny black hair in a bun that hangs heavily at the nape of her neck.

  “Mother . . .”

  To be sure, her waist has filled out and further down she’s quite plump. Her cheeks aren’t rosy, but she still is young and beautiful.

  “Ah, you scared me,” she says. “How did you come in without my noticing?”

  And seeing my bare feet, “Barefoot again? Where are your sandals?”

  I explain to her how I first watered the garden and then went to visit the cows and Romeo and the hens. I didn’t say anything about Mavroukos’s grave.

  “I don’t think I’m . . . Oh, Mother, I’m so bored today. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t. . . . .”

  My voice begins to shake.

  “Are you sick?”

  I lie down on the couch on my stomach. She comes over and puts her hand on my forehead. I wish she would smother me in her breasts, like when I was a baby and she was still nursing me. If she knows I’m not sick why does she ask? If she really wanted to know what was wrong I might tell her. She is about to ask—her voice gets warmer, sweeter—but she draws back. There’s always a certain trepidation between us. We can’t give away secrets that we don’t have.

  “The sun must have got to you,” she concludes.

  Too bad, Mother . . . And I would have told you so many things about the Land of the Houyhnhnms and about Mavroukos’s grave and about the things I can see from the top of the walnut tree.

  “Rodia,” she calls. “A lemonade for Katerina.”

  She glances at the table and adjusts a fork that’s too far from a plate. A deep sigh escapes from her chest. To have children of your own and not know what they hide inside them . . .

  “What is it, Mother?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But . . . you sighed.”

  “I didn’t sigh. I breathed.”

  And a little later: “I can’t understand that restlessness of yours. Where did you get it from? Both your father and I are . . .”

  “What about our Polish grandmother?”

  She turns abruptly, her eyes fierce; she isn’t looking at me the way a mother should.

  “How dare you!”

  Her face is bright red.

  “Yes, so there!” I shouted. “You all hate her. But I love her. Because she was beautiful, because she played music not the way you do, because she knew how to ride a horse across the fields.”

  I roll back and forth on the couch like a little animal. My lip trembles. It’s because I’m nervous. Mother turns white. Perhaps she’s thinking that she sacrificed herself for no reason, that she should have got remarried and started her life over again, as the saying goes.

  I feel sorry for her. I want to go over and kiss her hand, to say thank you, thank you . . .

  “Katerina, come over close,” she whispered. “Sit next to me. Since you know the whole story . . . One shouldn’t criticize one’s
parents, but the Polish grandmother was not a good mother. She went off with a foreign man, gallivanting around the world . . . without a home, without a country . . .”

  “But she was free, happy.”

  “No one knows that. But come now, calm down, my little one. Did I tell you about the yellow dress—the seamstress is coming tomorrow to fit it.”

  She caresses my hair and kisses me. I must try hard not to give in to her.

  “Well, I love her,” I say. “And nothing will change my mind.”

  At that moment we hear the doorbell. It’s Leda, Marios’s little sister.

  “A message,” she says. “Marios is inviting all three of you to a party next week. But he told me to give the message to Maria.” “We’ll have a great time,” she whispered in my ear—she’s thirteen—“There will be older boys, friends of Marios’s from university.”

  The Parigoris’ house was the last one on Aniksi Avenue. Two stories high and large, it contrasted sharply with the other houses in the area, even more so because it didn’t have animals, vegetables, or fruit trees. On the north side there was a row of cypresses that blocked the wind; in the garden there were mimosas, acacias, flowers of every kind. In the front there was a huge, round flower bed with deep green grass, carefully manicured; and in the middle, six rows of roses fanning out like spokes—red ones, white ones, pink ones, yellow ones, and others whose colors are hard to describe, reminiscent of the pale color of tea or of clouds forgotten long after the sun has set. For two years in a row Mrs. Parigori’s roses had received first prize at the state fair. And another year she had exhibited a strange cactus that looked like a human head. Mrs. Parigori really did love flowers—digging the flower beds, watering them, decorating the house with them. Mr. Parigori used to say—it was his stock joke—that he had fallen in love with his wife when he saw her arrange a vase of flowers. Of course no one believed him. He was at a gathering of friends, the story went, when he saw her hands with their long, pale fingers take a handful of cyclamens and spread them gently, sparsely in a shallow glass vase, and their stems underwater, an ashen green, and her hands even paler, moving about like a woman’s naked body in the sea. One month later he asked her hand in marriage. Laura was shocked. She didn’t love him; she didn’t even know him very well. Her mother, however, insisted: “He’s rich, he has a future, and he’s a good boy. Of course he’s not our social equal”—the Montelandis boasted that they were one of the first families from the Ionian islands—“but people of our social standing would ask for a dowry and you don’t have one.”

  So they got married. He brought with him his love and the promise of a comfortable life, and she, her connections with the best of society and those long, pale fingers. A successful combination. Not even three years had passed before Mr. Parigori was known as the best doctor in Athens. He worked hard: hospitals, house visits, conferences. In the evening though, when the sun went down, he liked to return to his house in the country, to stretch out in his armchair—near the fire in the winter, on the porch in the summer—to smoke a cigar slowly and watch his wife. When Marios was born, his happiness changed, took another form. Laura’s voice, her movements, became more distant; it was the cry of his boy, his first steps, that were closest to his heart. “What a sweet boy he is,” he whispered. And he grew annoyed when he heard his wife say “the sweetest boy in the whole wide world,” because he wanted to be the only one to think and say such things.

  As for Laura, in the beginning of their marriage, her husband consumed her totally. He, that is, and the care of the house. Later the hours began to drag. A little reading in the morning, a little sewing, some gardening . . . But the afternoon was endless. The evening, even worse.

  It was therefore necessary that Marios appear on the scene. When she felt the first kick inside her, the first sign that he was really there, it was as if a long road appeared before her, straight and difficult, with no turns. The kick came on Good Friday, in the afternoon, in the fifth month of her pregnancy. Every so often the bells of the nearby church tolled Christ’s death. She was resting on the window, leaning out to see the heavy sky. Always clouds on Good Friday, it can’t be a coincidence . . . When suddenly, thump, thump . . . She leaned over and looked at her belly and placing her hands gently but firmly on top . . . thump, thump . . . That’s what it was. She broke down in tears and sobbed like a child. Out of joy, of course. Although, in some far away corner of her soul there was also a nostalgia for the things she would never again experience. The road she had seen before her was straight and narrow. She would gain in depth and lose in breadth. That night John gave her a good dose of valerian. “Pregnancy often affects a woman’s nerves,” he said.

  When Marios was three or four years old she would take him by the hand and go for walks. The ravine was nearby. In the spring its banks were covered with white and purple crocuses, and all year round there was maiden-hair. Mrs. Parigori would stretch out on the grass with a slightly old-fashioned novel—she didn’t like modern ones—and the little one would throw stones into the stream. He had figured out that each one made a different sound as it hit the water, so he never grew tired of the game. He sometimes also liked to throw in bits of straw to see where they went. Some would merge with the water and sail off into the distance, others would be swept up by the wind before they even hit the surface, and others would get caught on a big rock that happened to be in the way. “Go help them along,” his mother told him one afternoon when she saw him sadly eyeing the bits of straw that had gotten stuck on the rock. He didn’t want to. He was scared he’d come to the same fate. “Now don’t be a coward. The water is only ankle deep. Go on.” He broke into tears and clung to her neck. He wouldn’t let go. Laura felt his two little hands strangling her. She looked up at the banks of the ravine—high, high up. “A bit of physical exercise would do Marios good,” she told her husband that evening.

  Leda was born when Marios was nine years old. She was a pale child, with mousy hair, gray eyes, and a difficult personality. She did whatever she felt like, which drove Mrs. Parigori to despair, but amused her father. She ran around with the kids from the neighborhood catching cicadas and may beetles or stealing fruit from nearby gardens. Lately she had taken up with the Kapatos kids, who were particularly good at stealing fruit. When Mrs. Parigori found out, she grounded her, but to no avail. Leda still went off on her afternoon jaunts. As for Marios, he is deep in his books. He also has a complete skeleton to study on. When he touches it, he tries not to think that Maria’s body is like that inside.

  •

  When dancing, Infanta never lets go in the arms of her partner, whereas Maria overdoes it. Mrs. Parigori’s garden is phantasmagoric. I’m wearing my yellow dress and I’m very pleased with myself. “The color of hate,” Petros whistles at me. “I guess you wanted me to wear red, huh?” “So you don’t love anyone?” “No one,” I sigh, and the petals of the oleander fall at my feet. “Not me, not even a little?” He puts his arm around my waist.” “If you want to dance,” I tell him, “I’ll get up. Otherwise, take your hand off me because it makes me feel seasick.” He laughs loudly. “What a joker you are, what a joker.”

  How could Venetian lanterns and Negro spirituals ever go together? Not to mention Mrs. Parigori’s roses in full bloom, about to wilt, with no prize this year?

  Leda had the idea of wearing a Pierrot hat, even though it wasn’t carnival time. No one can stop her. In the end she’s free to do as she pleases and she knows it. That’s why she wore the hat. I’d like to wear a Pierrot hat but I haven’t the courage. Then I’d have to kiss all the boys and let them squeeze my waist. What would that be like? The petals of the oleander fall at my feet. On their way down they brush against my hair and tickle my ears. I laugh. “Why are you laughing?” Stefanos asks. I can’t say that I’m ticklish because I’m sure he’d misunderstand.

  “I was just wondering what would happen if we were all real Pierrots.”

  “There’s no such thing as a real Pierrot. They
’re all fake.”

  “Leda, come and kiss your grandmother good night,” Mrs. Parigori calls out.

  “I’ll be right back,” Leda tells Alekos. “Now don’t dance with Margarita.”

  Thirty cherry drinks and thirty lemonades on a tray make a pretty sight. “Which would you like?” “One of each, thank you.” I take a red one in my right hand and a yellow one in my left. Just think, Petros mentioned my dress. There you go, he wanted me to wear red. Well, let him wait. Stefanos is nicer. But he’s with Maria. They’re dancing like limpets stuck to a rock. Maria touches her cheek to his, with the utmost naturalness. How can Maria be so natural? Her dress which is the deep red of a watermelon doesn’t cover her. But you can’t blame Maria for that; no matter what she wears she never seems sufficiently dressed.

  Infanta is an angel. Infanta is wearing white. Why are you so restrained, Infanta? Why do you never give in to the dance, to the evening as it unfolds? The boys bow to her and she dances with them stiffly. “The most beautiful are always the coldest,” Alekos whispers to Marios, and he looks over at Infanta, trying to figure her out.

  “Maria’s a good dancer,” I hear Stefanos say, and I watch his eyes following her amidst the other couples. “Oh, she’s a little heavy,” I say, because he has white teeth and a wide chest. “But, of course, compared to Eleni she’s much better.” “Would you like to dance?” “Why not?” We dance around with everyone else. I like the wild dances. “Do you have skulls and things like Marios?” “No,” he laughs. “I study law.” “Ah, law.”

  It grows dark. “The lanterns should be lit,” Mrs. Parigori says. “It’s still early,” Leda argues. “No, it’s time.” And to Aunt Theresa who is sitting by the window, “Youth, a summer evening, and darkness are a dangerous mix.” But the lanterns are only on the veranda and the garden is big. Suddenly everyone decides to visit the garden. “But at this hour you will see nothing,” Mrs. Parigori complains. “No, no,” they insist. They all rush off together. Then they separate like the little garden paths. Two by two. Telling secrets, whispering, touching . . . The girls’ skirts brush against the boys’ pants, and the wind blows the girls’ hair across the boys’ foreheads. But the girls hold back. “After I’ve washed my hair,” says Eleni, “I can’t do a thing with it.” “It’s divine,” says Emilios, trying to kiss a curl in the dark, which has boldly managed to fall across his chin. “Don’t, don’t, Nikos will see us,” she says laughing into her hands. “And here I thought Stefanos wasn’t supposed to see us.” “With Stefanos . . . now . . . there, do you see them?” And she points behind a tree where a boy and girl are tightly wrapped in an embrace: Stefanos and Maria kissing shamelessly. I see them. Marios too. It must bother him. I take him by the arm. “Marios, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Don’t think that she does . . .” He’s shaking all over. “She doesn’t love anyone,” I tell him. “It’s just that she wants to live.” “To live?” “Yes, she has this idea that this is what life is about.” “Have you ever watched bees?” she says. “They flit from one flower to the next taking the best from each.” “I hate her. I really do.” “Me too.” I feel Marios’s eyes on me. Why did I say me too? Because of Stefanos? I feel ashamed. “Because she makes you so miserable,” I add.