Mercy (23 page)

said I had m y period but when the bleeding didn’t stop I didn’t

tell her because a peace boy said I had a disease from sex and I

was bleeding because o f that and he didn’t want me around

because I was dirty and sick and I thought she’d throw me

aw ay too so I said I had called m y parents. I f you tell people in

apartments that you called your parents they think you are fine

then. M y mother said I should be locked up like an animal for

being a disgrace because o f jail and she would lock me up like

the animal I was. I ran aw ay for good from all this place—

home, Amerika, I can’t think o f no good name for it. I went far

away to where they don’t talk English and I never had to talk

or listen or understand. N o one talked so I had to answer. N o

one knew m y name. It was a cocoon surrounded by

cacophony. I liked not knowing anything. I was quiet outside,

never trying. There was no talking anyw ay that could say I

was raped more now and was broke for good. If it ain’t broke

don’t fix it and if it is broke just leave it alone and someday it’ll

die. Here, Andreus is a m an’s name. Andrea doesn’t exist at

all, m y m om m a’s name, not at all, not one bit. It is monstrous

to betray your child, bitch.

F IV E

In June 1966

(Age 19)

M y name is Andrea but here in nightclubs they say
ma chere.

M y dear but more romantic. Sometimes they say it in a sullen

way, sometimes they are dismissive, sometimes it has a rough

edge or a cool indifference to it, a sexual callousness; sometimes they say it like they are talking to a pet dog, except that the Greeks don’t keep pets. Here on Crete they shoot cats.

They hate them. The men take rifIes and shoot them o ff the

roofs and in the alleys. The cats are skeletal, starving; the

Cretans act as if the cats are cruel predators and slimy crawling

things at the same time. N o one would dare befriend one here.

E very time I see a cat skulking across a roof, its bony, meager

body twisted for camouflage, I think I am seeing the Jew s in

the ghettos o f Eastern Europe sliding out o f hiding to find

food. M y
chere.
Doesn’t it mean expensive? I don’t know

French except for the few words I have had to pick up in the

bars. The high-class Greek men speak French, the peasants

only Greek, and it is very low -brow to speak English, vulgar.

N o one asks m y name or remembers it if I say it. In Europe

only boys are named it. It means manhood or courage. If they

hear m y name they laugh; you’re not a boy, they say. I don’t

need a name, it’s a burden o f memory, a useless burden for a

woman. It doesn’t seem to mean anything to anyone. There is

an Andreus here, a hero who was the captain o f a ship that was

part o f the resistance when the Nazis occupied the island. He

brought in guns and food and supplies and got people o ff the

island who needed to escape and brought people to Crete who

needed to hide. He killed Nazis when he could; he killed some,

for certain. N o occupier has ever conquered the mountains

here, rock made out o f African desert and dust. Andreus is old

and cunning and rich. He owns olive fields and is the official

consul for the country o f N orw ay; I don’t know what that

means but he has stationery and a seal and an office. He owns

land. He is dirty and sweaty and fat. He drinks and says dirty

things to women but one overlooks them. He says dirty

words in English and makes up dirty limericks in broken

English. He likes me because I am in love; he admires love. I

am in love in a language I don’t know. He likes this love

because it is a rare kind to see. It has the fascination o f fire; you

can’t stop looking. We’re so much joined in the flesh that

strangers feel the pain if we stop touching. Andreus is a failed

old sensualist now but he is excited by passion, the life-and-

death kind, the passion you have to have to wage a guerrilla

war from the sea on an island occupied by Nazis; being near

us, you feel the sea. I’m the sea for him now and he’s waiting to

see if his friend will drown. M venerates him for his role in the

resistance. Andreus is maybe sixty, an old sixty, gritty, oiled,

lined. M is thirty, old to me, an older man if I force m yself to

think o f it but I never think, no category means anything, I

can’t think exactly or the thought gets cut short by the

immense excitement o f his presence or a m emory o f anything

about him, any second o f remembering him and I’m flushed

and fevered; in delirium there’s no thought. At night the bars

are cool after the heat o f the African sun; the men are young

and hungry, lithe, they dance together frenetically, their arms

stretched across each other’s bodies as they make virile chorus

lines or drunken circles. M is the bartender. I sit in a dark

corner, a cool and pampered observer, drinking vermouth on

ice, red vermouth, and watching; watching M , watching the

men dance. Then sometimes he dances and they all leave the

floor to watch because he is the great dancer o f Crete, the

magnificent dancer, a legend o f grace and balance and speed.

Usually the young men sing in Greek along with the records

and dance showing off; before I was in love they sent over

drinks but now no one would dare. A great tension falls over

the room when sometimes one o f them tries. There have been

fist fights but I haven’t understood until after what they were

about. There was a tall blond boy, younger than M. M is short

and dark. I couldn’t keep my eyes o ff him and he took my

breath away. I feel what I feel and I do what I want and

everything shows in the heat coming o ff m y skin. There are no

lies in me; no language to be accountable in and also no lies. I

am always in action being alive even if I am sitting quietly in a

dark corner watching men dance. This room is not where I

live but it is my home at night. We usually leave a few hours

before dawn. The nightclub is a dark, square room. There is a

bar, some tables, records; almost never any women, occasional

tourists only. It is called The Dionysus. It is o ff a

small, square-like park in the center o f the city. The park is

overwhelm ingly green in the parched city and the vegetation

casts shadows even in the night so that if I come here alone it is

very dark and once a boy came up behind me and put his hand

between m y legs so fast that I barely understood what he had

done. Then he ran. M and the owner o f the club, N ikko, and

some other man ran out when they saw me standing there, not

coming in. I was so confused. They ran after him but didn’t

find him. I was relieved for him because they would have hit