Dead Europe (12 page)

But he had disappeared. I swung around and looked at the path, I walked to the gate and peered below. The ground sloped down to a precarious drop. The cemetery was perched on the cliff's edge. I drew back and looked behind me but the gypsy child had disappeared completely. And then for the first time in years, as I walked out of the church grounds I found my hand had flown to my forehead and to my heart. I had made the sign of the Cross. And again I heard laughter.

I took the path back to the shop and Giulia was waiting for me, smoking a cigarette.

—Where's Andreas?

—Gone for a walk. She took my hand. Are you angry with me?

—My mother doesn't want anyone here to know about her.

Giulia squeezed my hand tight. Her eyes were bright.

—Yes, I know, but listen to me.

I interrupted her.

—No, you listen to me. This is my family business.

She let go of my hand.

—And what are you going to find out on your own, she mocked me, with your terrible Greek?

I started walking away from her, past the coffee shop, past Andreas' BMW now coated with fine coppery dust. I was walking away from the village.

—Wait, she called after me, and I heard her steps running towards me. I did not look around.

—Wait, she repeated, and my anger dissipated on hearing the whine of her tortured English. I turned to her, all smiles, I was going to ridicule her accent. She was breathless as she took my hand. I was about to speak, to tease her, when she placed a hand over my mouth and I choked back my words.

—Will you just listen to me for a second? she pleaded. Just listen. I spoke to those old men.

Her breathing was slow and heavy, she was searching for words. She took her hand away from my mouth and stroked my cheek.

—My darling Isaac, my darling cousin, did you know your mother's family is cursed?

MICHAELIS PANAGIS HAD not liked America. He had not liked the crowds and the sprawling city of New York, he had not liked the tiny rooms in which he had to live, he did not like the bosses who ordered him to do this and to do that. He did not like it that Americans spoke fast and that they travelled even faster: he feared automobiles and electric underground trains. He did not like the thick sound of the American accent, did not like what these strange foreign words were doing to his own tongue. Speak English, wop, speak English. Even the Greeks there cursed him like this. No, Michaelis had not liked America.

But America had been good to him, though it had not been without effort and had not been without sweat. Michaelis' nightmares were still full of the deep black caverns of the ironworks in which he had found himself at fourteen. The dark pits with their charred walls and roaring furnaces had seemed like Hell and he was to spend thirteen years stoking those furnaces, shovelling coal into their ravening mouths. Countless times the flames had snatched at his skin, and his body was full of the marks of the devil fire. But he had money, he had a cheap corner in a room which he shared with a silent Armenian called Essaman and a Persian Hebrew called Samouli, and he was determined to not let the temptations of the city seduce him. From morning, when he arose and began his prayers, to the evening when he threw his exhausted body onto the mattress, Michaelis asked God that he would return to his village rich enough to silence once and for all the insults against his parents. He asked that he be
allowed to marry the beautiful Lucia. And with those two prayers on his lips, he would fall asleep until his nightmare began again the following day.

Even when the factories closed at the height of the Depression, Michaelis managed to find employment. Samouli had married into a large New York family who supplied lace and fine textiles, fabrics and cotton, to the American aristocracy: Hollywood. Bergman and Sons supplied the cream chiffons that swathed Garbo in
Camille
; the sleek silk tunics that Valentino wore were made of fabrics smuggled into America by the senior Bergman himself. Samouli had organised work for Michaeli after-hours in the dank warehouse cellar underneath the Bergman store on Broadway. Samouli had also loaned him a sum of money to tide him through the harrowing weeks of unemployment, and to last through the fortnight's trial period that old man Bergman had demanded. Ashamed but desperate, Michaelis had accepted the loan.

The one motion picture he had seen had frightened him and given him a headache, so Michaelis had little idea of the luminaries who wore the silks and cottons that he spent hours dyeing, cutting and sewing in the basement of the Bergmans' shop. The stench of the dyes was so strong that he would sometimes faint and awaken in a panic, with threads of vomit stringing his lips, and stains spread across his work tunic. But Michaelis never complained. He was grateful that the Hebrews had given him work. The warehouse was busy day and night with desperate hungry women and men who also grew sick from their work. They were mostly Hebrews, from Russia and Germany, and other countries that Michaelis had never heard of. The women never spoke to him, refused to meet his eye. Out of respect to the older Bergman he made sure that he never spoke to any of the daughters who worked in the store upstairs. The wife he never saw. She lived high up on the other side of the city, far
from the harassed bustle of the store; a million miles from the stench and heat of the basement. The sons he detested. They took every opportunity to make it known to Michaelis that his employment was a favour of which they did not approve. They ordered him around disdainfully, shouted at him that he was lazy and a fool, complained every time they had to pay him, but Michaelis accepted it all. Yes, sir, he would answer and they would take the opportunity to laugh at his accented English. He would bow his head and continue with his work.

All the time he kept himself separate from the Hebrews. He made certain to never touch their food, believing it contaminated with Christian blood. He feared the old bearded men: they indeed looked like devils. Even Samouli, or Sam as he now preferred to be called, he kept at a distance.

When work was again plentiful Michaelis returned to the ironworks and for close to a year he kept a small amount of his earnings under his mattress in order to repay his debt to the Hebrew.

When he had saved enough to return to Greece a rich man, he placed the money he owed to Samouli in a small envelope and he walked the long distance to the Hebrew's house. Since his marriage Samouli had rarely spoken with him and Michaelis had never been invited to the house. He knew that the wife was a strict Hebrew and he understood that his being a Christian, and therefore a reminder of their damnation, made the Hebrews fear him.

Samouli's house was small but it was built from new bricks and situated in a neighbourhood where the streets were wide and clean. Michaelis had knocked twice on the door and waited. The woman who answered wore a soft blue scarf around her hair. The locks that strayed from beneath the fabric were the colour of honey. Her eyes were round and bright, the light in them as fierce as the furnaces he had
worked in New York and Pittsburgh. Michaelis blushed, bowed, and asked for Sam. At first the woman seemed to hesitate, as if she was going to slam the door in his face, but then she turned around and called out.

—Samuel! There's someone here for you.

—Who is it?

Samouli came to the door dressed in a suit jacket and a crisp white shirt. Michaelis looked down at his own dusty shoes and frayed pants and could not stop himself from blushing.

—Got something for you, he barked, refusing to look at the woman. He handed over the envelope to Samouli and turned to leave. The Hebrew glanced at the contents.

—What is this?

—The money I owe you.

—You owe me no money, Mikey. Take this back.

Michaelis refused. The woman took the envelope from her husband's hand and looked inside.

—Is this a debt?

—Yes.

Samouli shook his head.

—No, Rebecca. I find him job. That's all, at your uncle's shop.

The woman, still holding the envelope, smiled. She said something in the Hebrew tongue and Michaelis glanced at Samouli, who was shaking his head.

—He is not a Jew.

Her eyes searched the Greek man's face.

—Would you like to come in?

Samouli nodded his head in agreement.

—I have much to do. My ship leaves for Greece next Saturday. Michaelis again made a move to walk away.

—Please, the woman said, please come in. We are fasting but I can prepare you a small supper if you like.

She named the fast:
yam kippa
? Michaelis knew that the
American Hebrews said that the names of all their festivals were announced by God in the Bible but Michaelis had never believed this Hebrew lie. He could not read but he knew the thick strange words the woman had uttered could not possibly be inscribed within the Holy Book.

—No. Michaelis took Samouli's hand and shook it vigorously. Thank you, friend, he said.

He bowed again, then turned and made his way back down the street. His mind was feverish. She was very lovely, still a girl really, her body slender but her breasts and face full. Rebecca, he whispered her name and felt lust surge through his body. Rebecca. She even had a Greek name. Reveka. He cursed Samouli's luck. A pretty and wealthy wife, a soft, easy job in the store, an assured inheritance, a small but comfortable house in the world's greatest city. He was not aware of the streets he was walking down, the neighbourhoods he passed. Even in the New York cold he began to perspire profusely and his clothes felt wet and heavy on his body. On reaching home he threw himself on the mattress and began to weep into his pillow. He was ashamed of his emotions, his rage and envy, but the howls would not stop and when Essaman arrived to share their bed, Michaelis was still sobbing.

—What happened?

—Nothing.

The Armenian laughed.

—You Greeks, crazy.

His face still half-hidden in his pillow, Michaelis blurted out his sin.

—I am jealous of Sammy. He has big house, beautiful wife.

—The Devil protects the Jews. Here on earth, but only here on earth.

—Tell me, you Armenian bastard, you can read: is Reveka a Christian name?

—Yes. It is in the Holy Book. She is a saint.

—Not a Jew?

—No.

—Sammy's wife is name Reveka.

—In America, Jews, Greeks, Anatolians, all of us lose our traditions. That's why you Mikey, me Max and bloody Samouli is Sammy. Names no matter in America.

Michaelis dried his tears. The Armenian had thrown off his shoes and slipped into bed. He had been drinking and soon his loud snoring filled the room. Slowly Michaelis thrust his body into the mattress. Reveka, Reveka, he intoned silently. He spilt himself into his trousers and fell asleep.

 

His parents had arranged a feast for his return and all the village had turned out to welcome back Michaelis. He had been a child when he had left and he returned a tall and imposing adult. He had always been handsome but the long years at the furnaces had weathered his skin to make him appear older than he was, and he was balding. America had proved a lucrative place for him but he allowed his parents to exaggerate his wealth. He did not have a house in New York, he was not a partner in a cotton mill, he had not met the president. But Maritha Panagis had told all her neighbours that her son was indeed a rich and powerful man in America and Michaelis allowed her to boast. His father had not said much at all but his eyes shone with pride and gratitude and he would not leave his son's side. Michaelis had brought his mother and sisters the finest cloth and prettily laced shawls and squares of fabrics, stolen from the Bergmans over time, which he had kept faithfully stored for his return. He had a suit made especially for his father and he pledged money for the Church of the Holy Spirit. At the feast, for which a dozen goats were slaughtered and barrels of wine ordered from town, Michaelis sat his father and mother at the head
of the table, next to the priest, and they wore the splendid clothes he had brought them. The village drank to their health, celebrated their son, wished them the continuation of their good fortune, and though Michaelis knew that they gagged on every word, he knew too that his wealth now meant that not one of the cowards sitting at the tables around his parents would dare to insult them to their faces again. Every door would be open to them, every feast and every religious ceremony would have old Panagis at its head.

He drank copiously that night, celebrating the wide wild sky above him, inhaling the cool pine breeze of the mountains, raising his hand to trace the luminous stars. The years of coal and fire and sweat and cramped rooms washed off him that night and every time he looked back to earth, at the crowd toasting his health, he thanked God for making his dreams possible.

—Why did you return?

His brother had walked with him to the edge of the village, where they sat on a rock and chewed tobacco, looking down at the lights of the village of Klimoni, and up towards the jagged peaks of Mount Ouranos.

—You should have stayed, there is only hunger here. And they say there will be war.

His older brother Stavros was shockingly thin, and his young face was bitter and dark. Michaelis knew that Stavros might never forgive him for returning from America, that he had hoped to one day join his brother in the New World. He tried to explain what it had cost him to live as an exile.

—This is my home. Michaelis stretched his arms out to the sky above, to the world below. This is where I belong. And if I die in war, at least I die here. And if I die hungry, at least I die here. Who would have buried me in America?

 

And who will bury you here?
For close to two years he had thought that God was playing a cruel joke on him. He was
childless. All the money he had made, all his boasting, had come to nothing now that he had married a beautiful but barren wife. He knew that this was what the village said of him and of Lucia, that she had been too proud of her beauty, he too proud of his wealth, and God had punished them. He had almost begun to believe it. His mother told him not to listen to their gossip and curses, that it was only envy that made their neighbours so spiteful and it would be they whom God would eventually punish. But as they grew more hungry under the Occupation, as Lucia's womb remained empty, as the summer turned to winter and then to summer once more, Michaelis wondered if his brother had not been right. The Germans would never dare attack America itself, and by God, there was food in the New World. Maybe he should have stayed.

 

He should never have doubted God. Michaelis awoke one morning to find that Lucia was not by his side. He assumed that she had ventured down to the valley to see if anything could be scrounged from the earth, or that she had wandered over to her sister's home, but on going to the outhouse he noticed her staff was still lying against the cottage wall. He poured water on his face and returned to the house to light the fire. She returned soon after, her face red and her eyes bright.

—Where have you been?

—To Old Woman Nassoula.

He sat beside her. The old woman was a midwife.

—And?

Lucia's smile was frigid.

—I am with child.

He had meant to sing, to swoop his wife into his arms and to dance with her, to shout out across the valley, to every house. I am to be a father. But her cold smile stopped him. Lucia suddenly burst into tears.

—Don't be foolish, woman, this is great news.

—We have no food, we have nothing. This is not a time to be with child.

He stormed out of the cottage and made his way behind the small field of nettles to the shed where they had tended the goats. The animals were gone now, killed to feed the enemy, but the shed still smelt powerfully of them. He fell to his knees, prised a rock out of the ground and removed a handful of notes from the hole it had been covering.