Tales of the Unexpected: Part VI :Frank Georgalis

Tales of the Unexpected: Part VI

A woman called Kali, a man called George, they were lovers

By Frank Elias Georgalis

Part VI

According to the town gossip he was very wealthy, a very stingy and a mean man who used to lock up all the food to keep his servants from eating and he was also constantly haunted by a suspicion the male servants were hiding a woman some where in the premises. Under the influence of that delusion one would see him walking around the premises all hours of the night, further more the townspeople said that Mr. Kanaris was sleeping with one eye open. Mr. Kanaris who had moved into our town from up north some twenty years before my time, never revealed his true origin thus several stories about his past were told by the townspeople. But the most interesting of all was that he was a gambler who always lost and a conniver who always won. The information created an ere feeling within me, and Tsika and I were careful.

My father, having been captured and send away suddenly, made no arraignments for provisions for the winter months for us who were left behind, so I resorted in selling Tsika’s milk from door to door. Milk delivery was a very difficult task for a boy of my size and years. It involved walking to the other side of town, with a thirty-pound milk can hitch to my back. Part of this task was the collection. The reason that the collection was very hard was that the paper money was not of very good value during the war days. Payments ranged from corn and raisins, to olives and eggs. The cleaning of broken eggs and the separation of them from the fish and the raisins was the worst job I was ever faced with. But practice makes perfect eventually on cleaning.

Even though my hometown was never visited by snow, the rain and the cold wind that snuck from the northern mountains made it necessary for someone like me to have an overcoat and a good pair of shoes.

My mother, the creator in the family and a true daughter of the Thales, one of the ancient seven wise men, used to say “Starvation and hunger would close eyes and open appetites to anything” and “Self preservation would expand the minds,” she made loafers out of heavy yarn and soled them with unprocessed pig skin from the traditionally butchered Christmas pig. Those who were fortunate, like my brother and sister, who only left the fireplace when the sun came out and chased the clouds away, and the north wind returned from the south, kind and friendly, their shoes were very comfortable. To one like me who entered the word of enterprise, and the necessary physical and moral requirements were similar to those of a mailman, they were a disaster.

One night when I came home, cold and wet, and I squeezed myself between the two most loyal to the fireplace, my brother and sister, removed my footgear, my mother noticed that my toes looked like octopus’ arms and smelt like half boiled tripe, she wept.

Once my feet got close to the fire, they looked and felt better immediately. My mother’s silent sobbing and the increase of the effluvium worried me. I thought my feet were rotting away. As I backed up from the fire in despair, I noticed my brother standing with his legs crossed, goosed bumps and his short brown hair standing up like a porcupine, I was relieved as I realized that the smell wasn’t from my feet but from Nassos. It was his

laziness, the warmth of the fire, the hope that it would go away, his fear of darkness and

the thought of the cold falling rain that prolonged his necessary trip to the out house and

blew the safety valve and passed a dosage of bad gas. I then felt I had to choose; one, leave the room or to push him into

the fire. Fortunately, when I poked his five-year-old ribs, he read my mind that I wasn’t

about to leave the room.

The dirty look that I received from my mother as she hastily volunteered to take him out, knowing that if I were to accept to escort him at that time I wouldn’t bring him back unhurt, she accompanied his departure. Even though she had to cover her nose to endure her being next to him, I was amazed to notice that she was still kind to him. The favorable gust of wind that came from the right direction through the chimney, pushed the dark smoke into the kitchen, drowned the scent and placed a smile on my sister Poppy’s face and mine. When my mother returned, confirmed with my sister, Poppy, and me, that because of the cold north wind and the heavy rain, preparations would be made for us to sleep next to the fireplace covered by our favorite comforter that my mother had made out goat hairs. I don’t mean cashmere; I mean hair from the good mountain goats.

The heavy rain that came down during he night filled the river to its rims and woke it up angrily, stretching its brutal brown around, grasping, dragging and gulping everything more frail than an almond tree, and made it impossible for me and Tsika to go near it that

day. It was one of those days that Tsika would have to stay in the yard and eat dried oats,

and I would go to my milk delivery and collection early.

Descending three white marble steps brought me in the front of our house to the partially gravel covered street. The street looked clean, only some driftwood, dried grass and hay was unfairly caught by roadside bushes, deprived from taking a free trip to the sea, remained as evidence pointing the way the water went.

Jumping over half filled puddles of water, and at times, sliding over the mud, I made it to the center of town, the main market. Smooth laid down white slabs of stones shaped the sidewalks on both sides of the street, allowing me to proceed faster to my destination. The numerous closed doors of had-been stores before the war, did not affect me for I was too young to remember their times of thriving before the war. I had heard from the grown ups that the village of Astakos was thriving community of merchants serving catering to a lot of the surrounding towns plus the cargo arriving by sea to supplying the inland cities and towns A few stores remained opened during the war and only sold domestic food and food products, which grew in the area. Suddenly my eyes fell on a hanging coat on Mr. Zulas’ meat hook in front of his butcher shop, which seemed out place and did not really belong there. I stopped, paused, and looked, first out of curiosity and then out of

personal interest. The coat hung gently from a hanger that began to turn my way by the

touch of the soft breeze that snuck up from the nearby harbor, as if it were showing off its shape and form to me. It stopped and paused with its arms open as if it wanted to embrace me, like an old friend. I made up my mind to go and find out the price and the availability of that beautiful item that hung around in that mysterious manner.

My dream coat

With my collection sack in one shoulder, the milk can and the tin measuring cup in the other, short pants, muddy legs and home made shoes I walked up into Mr. Zulas’ tiny butcher shop, which also served as a dairy store.

Mr. Zulas, a big man, in width and in height, with a heavy mustache that ended in a curled wax tip, was standing behind an old wooden counter that held the carefully stacked tiny clay yogurt containers shaping into a pyramid. He recognized me and began to ask me about my mother and if we had heard from him.

My shy personality did not give him too many answers, but my great concern about my hanging friend gave me courage to inquire about it. The price he quoted, reduced at that because of our long family ties, was beyond what my imagination could conceive, without saying another single word, I turned to leave, but Mr. Zoulas made a gesture for me to stay a little longer to tell me more about the coat. He proceeded to tell me that coat originated in the U.S.A.and a relative of his had sent it to him through the Red Cross. It was unfortunate for him, he told me, he had no use for it because it was a boy’s coat and all of his six offspring were girls. Although what he had said in a few words was nothing new to me, I felt that those words were meant to be some comfort and encouragement. Embarrassed, thinking that I annoyed him and afraid that my disappointment was showing on my face, I thanked him and careful not to disturb his yogurt possession, with my dangling apparatus, did an about face and hurried out.

I knew, through my father of Mr. Zulas’ family. His wife continued giving birth to nothing but girls, six girls to be exact, in the hopes of giving birth to a son. So Astakiotians referred to that syndrome of having nothing but girls, a curse on the Zoulas family.

“Finally,” I remember the first time I heard my father telling me the story. “Finally, the curse was broken,” he said, looking at me with a keen eye. A wide smile, as I now remember, appeared on my face, upon hearing the curse was broken. In the meantime I was perplexed, learning the birth of a son, knowing Mrs. Zoulas gave birth to nothing but girls. “Not really; the curse was not broken by whoever places the curses,” said my father, seeing me still smiling. “Mrs.Zulas and the midwife thought, giving up the idea of ever having a son, and decided to hide from Mr. Zoulas the last girls sex and presented him with the false statement that Mrs. Zulas finally gave birth to a boy,” continued my father, seeing my smile disappearing, but my eyes stayed on him, staring eagerly. “The child was reared as a boy until the day of her baptism, when she was taken to church to be baptized at the ripe old age of four. That was another odd act,” said my father. “Because children are generally baptized on their first or the second year after the birth it was learned later that midwife and the mother kept on delaying the baptism. ”

I had heard of the event, which was more of an episode than an event, taking place before my arrival, because I was four tears younger than Zoulas’ last born girl. I had heard it in different doses and verses, resembling an anecdote more than a sad situation, as my father were presenting it.

“The grand day of the baptism,” continued my father, “had finally arrived. The church of Saint Nickolaos was filled from wall to wall with the townspeople who had gone to witness Zoulas’ son baptism and to take part, after the sacred event, in the all ready being prepared festivities of roasting lambs and a quantity if other foods with white and red wines, which was to take place in the town square.

There was the Kolimvithra (Baptismal font. Three feet in diameter and four feet deep) half filled with water for the child to be submerged to be baptized sat in the middle of the floor. Two priests and a cantor began the fifteen minute eulogy to bless the warm water in the kolimvithra. Time had come for the son of Zulas to be disrobed completely and placed in the water. With trembling hands sweating face, Mrs.Zulas assisted the priest in the disrobing of the child before the eyes of all the worshipers who were more of spectators. When the child was completely undressed, place her tiny hands between her legs, guided by a natural instinct, to replace the removal of the garments of shame. Suddenly the priest placed his hands under the child’s arms and in attempt to raise the child, the hands of the child were removed and the true sex of a female came to everybody’s view. The priests now, expecting a son and seeing a daughter and being familiar with the curse on Zulas’ family, believing that a curse is rarely removed, witnessing the miracle of sex change before their eyes, they both fell down on their knees next to the shiny copper tub, extended the sign of the cross by starting at the very top of their heads reverently coming sown above their belly buttons, bended their heads and mumbled on. Not knowing whether to continue the blessing of the water or start an exorcism they went reciting a different passages of the holly books. Now the crowd the poor crowd who had gone there to listen to the eulogy and congratulate the proud father and mother and get to rat a little bit of meat and drink a little bit of wine, needless to say became confused to say the least. Some were confused, bur some believing the curse has reoccurred, and ran out for cover. A part of the crowd went down on their knees as the two priests had done and prayed continually until their arms became tired from making those long signs of the cross. But a lot of the crowd still and waited to see what was to happen next. They were the ones who declared to each loudly and reverently that the child was reborn,” said my father. That was the first time I had heard of a child been reborn of born twice. I heard of many who had died twice. In f act, at that tome I remembered Mr. Samaras, the town baker, I was told he died twice. The first time he died was in his bakery. He died suddenly. He was taken home, in absence of funeral homes in that town, and he was placed in the casket, they crossed his hands, adorned him with flowers and the neighborhood ladies sang traditional mourning songs all night long. The following morning he was taken to church. The casket was open and in the middle of the floor surrounded by the two priests the cantor and the two alter boys and all his beloved ones including a lot of the townspeople. There he lay with his eyes closed, his lips reddened artificially, looking calm and proud wearing a new suit

In the midst of all the sobbing of his beloved ones and the cantor caroling and the priests eulogizing nonstop Mr. Samaras suddenly opened his eyes came up to a seating position. He looked around at first calmly and then, surveying his unexpected surroundings , bent his head and looked at his new suit, and his a pound necktie, something he didn’t like and always used to say, seeing Mr. Lainas who was the only one in town who was never without his necktie, Mr. Samaras that he wouldn’t be caught dead with a necktie, without saying a word or uttering a syllable, he fell back and died again and never came back to life, in spite of all the cologne that was poured on him, all the rubbing of his wrists and slapping of the face. Some say that he died again for catching himself wearing a tie.

“The baptism throng,” went on my father, in his usual calm manner, “made noises and unbearable sounds. The cantor, Nickos Karavasilis, your mother’s cousin, being educated having finished six years of schooling, which was very rare those days, and having been to Athens, was considered a world traveler and the townspeople cast much emphasis to what he was saying, and coming from the Karavasilis tribe had the gift of gap, like your mother, stood up and told everybody to shut up and ordered the two priests to rise which they did with a sigh of exhaustion. ‘There is no miracle,’ he yelled. ‘There is no reoccurrence of any curse, there was never a curse. Mrs. Zoulas and the midwife, Panayio are the ones who put together this lie in an effort to stop Mr. Zoulas demanding a son and to leave her be. There is nothing more Mr. Zoulas can do at this time except to accept his wife’s apology and the midwife who, as you all know has passed on to the other world, for her involvement by now is apologizing to higher authority.’

After the eloquent speech, the cantor took his seat and the crowd, some angry at everybody, some puzzled and astonished and some refusing to witness a girl’s baptism, dispersed. The godfather who was the only one to give the name got all tangled up with papers and other holy books looking for a female name. But being the town mayor at that time and used to getting off tight spots, he gave the name Thalia, which was the female name for Thalis, ancient Greek inventor, and which he had in mind to name the boy.” I now remember concluded my father.

“What happened to the roasted lamps and the food and the wine?” I asked.

“It turned out to be a girl’s baptism, which was insignificant, so nobody attended. But, as we say, in a domestic dispute the devil gets fed; that very day the English fleet of ten ships arrived and harbored in the gulf of Astakos as it very often happened. The sailors came ashore, saw the fiesta with only the servants around, thinking the fiesta was in their honor, sat down and ate and drank like the town priest’s chickens. There goes to show you the English won again,” said my father, who did not have much love for the English.

I crossed the muddy street and before my feet could take me further than my eyes

could see, I turned as if to say goodbye to the coat. I saw once more the perfect triangle

that the lapels shaped, the several buttons that hung like a kite’s tail and the coat slowly

turned as to show me its half belt that gave it a disciplined military look. Never had I been so affected so deeply and so truly with anything before, as I was that day when I had first seen the hanging beauty from the butcher’s hook flowing with the breeze like a ballerina in love. I slowly closed my eyes and bid it goodbye.

That was not the first time that I detoured through town because of the muddy streets.

It was the first time though, that I met something that I was longing to see again.

Melpo’s house a single family with a very low basement and a less than six feet high balcony of the ground encroaching on the street was my next stop. She lived there with her husband Yianny and because Molopo was more known than he and he being very quite man, the people of the town referred to him as Mr. Melpo. He didn’t seem to mind it in fact the tavern he owned gave it the name Molopo’s Yianny Tavern. Melpo was married to Yianny but she kept on keeping company with other men, I heard, while Yianny was at his tavern. They said that the reason Yianny allowed that was because he was impotent and Melpo was a woman with damaged goods. One time when I was visiting my aunt she was lecturing her daughters with a stick in her hands At one point she made them to understand that they weren’t going to grow up as women with damaged goods because they will never get married. One of my cousins was six and the other was nine. The nine year old said to her mother that Molopo was a woman with damaged good and she got married. When my aunt heard that all hell broke loose with the stick on her hand she whipped my poor cousin mercilessly and if it weren’t for my other aunt Dimitro, who had saved me from father plenty of times before, to intervene, I think she would have killed both of them. Hearing that, a woman of damaged goods, not only from my aunt but also from others, every time I would deliver milk to Molopo I would survey her, discreetly up and down to see the damage goods, but I must confess, I saw nothing wrong with her. In fact, I was given permission to enter the house without knocking, to fill the pitcher on the table with milk pick up what she already had for, mostly nice cooked food from the tavern on a plate covered. Couple times I saw Melpo coming out of one of the rooms, wearing only underpants and a bra and a pair of colorful sandals. She didn’t pay very much attention to me, but I paid a lot, trying to see where she was damaged. She was the first woman that I had seen, almost in the nude and from what was circulating around town, I wasn’t the only one.

“Mrs. Molopo,” I said, “I love your sandals.”

She stopped turned and looked at me smiled and said “You the first of the male species who looked at my shoes ever since I was fourteen years old. You are either too young or I am too old,” she concluded walking away. “ I hope you are too young. “ I heard her saying, rather despondently.

Another time I heard Yianny and Molopo talking and Yianny said, “I allow you to keep company with other men because I am impotent. I have been impotent all my life and that’s my problem, and you’re taking advantage of my impotency, but I never told you to bring in here every Bob, Petro and Paulo in town. I knew that the balcony was short and I had heard that’s where the men made their entrance, but when I heard these names I became puzzled because the only Bob, Petro and Paulo I knew, and I knew most people, those three were younger than me and there was no way they could jump in from the balcony. Another thing when I heard the word impotent, I was amazed realizing the number of words we have, and we seldom hear them. One time after that when my mother was lecturing me, I told her that, “I am doing my best to be very impotent.”

When my mother heard that she laughed so loudly she scared me.

“Do you know what that word means?” asked my mother softly.

“Nice. The word means nice.” I replied.

“No, son, it doesn’t mean that. It means something else which I’ll tell you when you get a little older, ” said my mother, caressing my hair. “Where did you hear that?”

“I heard Molopo’s Yianny telling her that the only reason he lets her have male friends was because he was nice. But he didn’t say nice, he said impotent,” I replied innocently.

“Well, it doesn’t mean nice. Like I said, I will tell you when you get a little older” my mother replied.

I was kind of tired hearing from my parents, ‘You’ll understand when you get older, or you’re too young to know that. I couldn’t wait to grow up to understand that world of mysteries.

My next stop, from Molopo’s house, was Kali’s house near the main harbor. I was always reluctant to go her house all alone, because I had never being able to predict her moods, which were all of different nature and attitude. When she was in a good mood she had a wonderful way listening to what was said to her or waiting for an answer to what she had asked. In that kind mood, I was lost in amazement and stood there, before and after I gave her the milk, staring at her quietly, as if pleased and desirous of continuing the conversation with her, but I was cautious not upset the cart of her good mood, being suspicious of her laws of politeness.

“What do you intent to become when you grow up,” said Kali, paying me with a half a dozen oranges

Part VI