Frank Georgalis – Writer

My Father’s Life Story: PART II

PART II

THE DEATH OF THE HORSE

By Frank Elias Georgalis

Being one of the few haves, my father tried to distinguish himself from the have-nots by not socializing with them, so the town of Astakos was his turf and parading grounds; either on his white horse or steel wagon, keeping company with the cream of the crop. Astakos was a fishing village a lot bigger than Dragamesto and the biggest part of the town, seven kilometers south of Dragamesto, sat on flat land between Veloutsa and the blue bay.  He would, after parading on the streets of Astakos, bring the wagon and leave it at the foot of the mountain below Dragamesto. Eventually, getting tired of it, he abandoned the wagon altogether and the gypsies, who were the transit blacksmiths of the area, took it apart and made horseshoes out of it for years to come.                                                                                                                                                                                  I, since my childhood years, spent the time in our animal corral, some three hours on foot from the town on the other side of the mountain. Our corral, the home of some 400 goats, some cattle, 100 horses, sheep and pigs and was consisted of four huts and a long pigsty built with stones. I will never forget one day when I came out from the hut in the morning and heard a man screaming as he was being beaten up. The man who was being whipped with a bull tail whip was one of our thoulos (slaves or servants) and the man who was whipping him was my father, who, as I stood there from afar and watched, gave the beating to the servant, mounted the Arabian white horse and rode away at high speed heading for the city of Astakos six kilometers south east from our kounaki (corral) down a rough rocky road. I was just a young boy less than twelve years old and I tried to find out from the servant what had made my father angry enough to whip the poor man, but the servant was crying so hard from the physical and mental pain,  couldn’t answer me. Later on that night my father appeared to be coming up the mountain on foot without his beloved horse. I didn’t have the right or the courage to ask him about the horse. He sat by the fire, silent and sad while the servant that he had beaten up earlier, served him food with trembling hands and my father ate without saying a word to anyone.                                                                                                                                                    Thanasis, my second brother, who was four years older than I, told me a few days later about the horse’s unkind fate. He said that our father had made a bet with an Astakos aristocrat, Karasevthas. The bet was made on a political outcome and he had bet his horse. My father lost, according to Thanasis, he sent the horse with the slave to deliver it to Karasevthas, but the Astakos aristocrat refused to accept the horse and when the servant brought back the horse, my father beat up the servant, for disobeying him by bringing back the horse, and my father took the horse to town of Astakos. Arriving in town, he went straight to Karasevthas’ mansion. He opened the gate entered the courtyard, dismounted from the horse and called the man he had made the bet with. The man appeared at the balcony.                                                                                                                                                   “General, I brought you the horse you won on the bet,” my father called out.                                                                                                                                                                      “Iraklis, I don’t want your horse, I was not serious about the bet,’ responded the man politely, whose name was Pandelis Karasevdas, one of my father’s best friends, a general in the Greek army and a gold medallist winner in pistol shooting at the first modern Olympic Games, in Athens in the year of 1996.                                                                                                                                                            Without adding another word or throwing another glance at the Olympian, my father stepped away few paces from the horse, took out his pistol, aimed at the unfortunate animal, shot and killed the horse.                                                                                                                      “I was serious,” mused my father, walking away. He stopped by the gate gazed at the astonished General and then added “ General, the horse is yours. You should have known that I always make good on my bets.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Of course that violent act brought my father more fame and respect from Astakos and the Dragamesto inhabitants for being bold and keeping his word.

Even though he kept company with men of letters and arithmetic, who were married to women, some way younger than they, who preferred to look and act as autumnal matrons with dazzling bosoms and preferred to suffocate in concealing their bodies in the honor of decency, standing next to their husbands while reading the morning paper, my father never tempted to have my mother to follow suit. One may say that he was an independent thinker.