Accounts from an old Ledger by George Loukas - HTML preview

ON THE ROAD TO KATERINI

I am sure no one is much interested to read about an uncomfortable, midnight train journey to Katerini. So why am I writing about it? I am exercising an erstwhile need to justify my failure, to show I am not alone, to let off steam, perhaps to feel important. I am writing mainly for myself but also for any other crank who enjoys reading tales of misery and stories that add up to nothing. A sum to zero of the small pluses and the small minuses of life, which nevertheless, say something about us, about la condition humaine. It is sad, it is funny, it is hopeless and hopeful, it is unchanging, it is eternal.

It was midnight. I had just clambered on the non-smoking coach, found my compartment and deduced my seat from the others that were numbered. My goodness, does my bad luck have to be so meticulous, so all-encompassing, to extend to such minor trivialities as a missing seat number? Is it not enough that I worked a lifetime, worked hard and long with a zeal that perturbed my family life, to end up bankrupt?

To end up reproached even by my children, both wanted and unwanted by my wife?

The train started on the dot. Five minutes past midnight. I was all alone. I was happy, even if the compartment had seen much hardship and ill use and the yellow nylon seats were designed for discomfort. A third-world train right up to its toilets.

Especially the toilets, that unmistakable barometer of third-worldism. I opened my genuine leather handbag and put on my expensive reading spectacles, presents from my wife in her clement, wanting mode, and took out the short story I had written, to revise it. I started reading and it seemed rotten. How come I thought it was so good when I was writing it? Sometimes, when I'm tired, everything I read seems rotten. I put it away and tried to sleep. No way.

A little man came into the compartment and said hello. I had seen him running around at the station like a child. He must have been Indian or Pakistani. He was dark but spoke perfect Greek. He was a dwarf but perfectly proportioned, without deformities, without predictable age. I understood he wanted something and I was stupidly reserved. Later, I wondered about him. I could have asked him a few questions. He asked for two hundred drachmas for a beer. I gave them to him and he thanked me and left. Immediately after, a thin young man arrived and told me he was going down at the next station and needed four hundred drachmas for bus fare to his village. Oh boy, I thought, one is telling the other that a sucker is in that compartment giving away money and I shall soon have a queue lining up for a touch. I was too well dressed for a slow, second-class, red-eye to the north. I gave him the money and he stood around, uneasily asking me how he could pay it back.

“Forget it,” I told him.

“Thank you; if you do come to Livadia at Kria Nera (cold waters),” he said,

“we could have a coffee together.”

Sure. Very precise arrangements for hospitality at Kria Nera in Livadia. But, happily, the queue did not materialize. Unlike me, perhaps the rest of the crowd was following Polonius's advice to his son, in Hamlet, „neither a borrower nor a lender be.‟

The train started on a journey of acceleration and deceleration with very little cruising in between. It was a continuous stop-go, stop-go that, considerately, included all stations on the way, even the tiniest hamlets. And then, at Thiva, a larger town, a sizeable crowd got on the train. Four people entered my unlovely, empty 122

compartment, stacked their luggage and flopped on the seats. Seat numbers? Oh, who cares, they did not bother. It only takes a nit to get depressed over a missing number.

They seemed to know each other and continued a conversation started elsewhere.

Three men and a woman. The woman sat next to me and hacked down my reserve in a few minutes. She started talking to me immediately. Small, slim of build with dyed blond hair, neither ugly nor pretty. Well, she had an attractive smile and an engaging way of talking and laughing though her talk was strangely disjointed. It lacked continuity. As if she had already told you something and was continuing from there.

She always seemed to start talking with the second sentence, dispensing with the first.

No doubt about it, it kept you alert, if that was the point. Still, I was glad she was next to me. I like women. I get on with them better than men. Despite my shyness. I looked at her and thought that if she asked me to go to the toilet with her for a quick bout of lovemaking, I would have no qualms. Except that the toilet was filthy. These are my erotic fantasies. I keep on having them. They keep life interesting. Give it a cheap thrill.

They kept on talking mainly amongst themselves and I found it difficult to follow their drift. Sometimes, I have doubts about myself. I think I am stupid. After the debacle and all. But the girl kept dragging me in the conversation, looking at me, talking to me as if I was part of the gang. The other members of which were an elderly man, his son about eighteen and a tall, cheeky, smart-ass young fellow. The man, who looked around sixty, swarthy, unshaven, with graying hair, gave me the impression of a gypsy. In the good sense of the word, the non-racist. They, he and his son, were travelling to the county of Evros, the border to Turkey and I surmised that he was a member of the Turkish minority of northern Greece. They would be travelling most of the next day. Stop-go, stop-go. He spoke serviceable Greek, but slowly, often searching for words, which he found. His son was white, good-looking, and thin. I wanted to ask the old man if his wife was beautiful because his son was so different from him but Moslems are touchy about their women and I kept my peace.

The young smart-ass was travelling to Alexandroupolis (City of Alexander) to search for a flat for his girl who would be studying there at the university. It did him credit.

He did not seem to possess such sensibilities or to be worthy of an educated girl. But how could I know? I keep reminding myself not to jump to conclusions.

Well, as soon as they came in, they lit up. It was a conscientious irrelevance on the part of the ticket issuer to ask me whether I smoked or not and then consign me to a non-smoking coach. Everybody around was smoking. Greece, third-world even in that. The girl abstained because of terrible coughing fits. She was not well, she explained. Caught the cold at the funeral. Her mother wanted her to wear black but she told her she could mourn just as well in colour. Everything she said came in bits and pieces, in disorder. I was, throughout the journey, fitting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He died of too much drink. Who? Never mind, I shall fit that in a little later.

The little Indian Greek traipsed by, cigarette in one hand and the can of beer I paid for, in the other. The smart-ass called him in our compartment and asked him to bring his army discharge papers. He could not swallow that the little fellow had been in the Greek army. They must have had hurried confidences, hurried life-story exchanges, a while back, and the little Indian Greek must have told him he had just finished his military service. After a little good humoured interrogation and bullying, the smart-ass asked the little fellow to sing. How did he know of this talent?

Somebody must have whistled it to him. In any case, it did not take much urging. He started wailing an eastern melody. Actually, if I knew the opposite of the word melody, I would have used it. Let's say, a song. And if the words were Greek, I 123

missed them all. What I did not miss, was the feeling the little guy put in it, the passion. Oh, were I as uninhibited, I would have led a happier life.

The smoke had become unbearable even for the smokers. We opened the window and then the cold became unbearable. I was wearing a summer, cotton jacket.

The morning sun had fooled me. And we were going north. The girl was lightly dressed too and was feeling cold and getting her coughing fits. She started smoking as well. Could not put it off any longer. She, too, was misled by the morning weather and it was turning bitter. She rummaged in her small kit bag and bought out a couple of T-shirts and slipped them on top of the one she was already wearing, under her cotton jacket. The conversation lagged. More and more the three men talked amongst themselves and the girl talked to me. But now and then, out of the blue, she threw a comment or a joke at them. She asked the young boy if he was thinking of his warm bed and his wife. He looked too young to be married but Turks marry young. Sex out of wedlock is a sin. They marry not to sin. They usually have as many children as God will send them, eschewing contraceptives. The Moslem threat in northern Greece. An exploding Moslem birth rate in an infertile Greek Orthodox environment.

Religion, a blessing and the curse of nations. So vital a necessity to human weakness and insecurity and the need to understand the unknown. So ridiculous in its explanations, so menacing in its grip over the human soul and its breeding of fanaticism. I addressed the old man as, my brother. It would be so nice if it were true.

At about three, little by little, the three men dozed off. Father and son in an embrace, deriving what comfort they could from each another, psychic and physical.

The smart-ass young man stretched his long legs along the seat opposite and blocked the entrance of the compartment. The girl could not sleep and would not let me sleep.

Would not let me try, that is. She talked incessantly. I missed half of it. The other half entered into the jigsaw. I just nodded my head and stared at her vacantly. Was she sane? She had the energy of a madwoman.

“I came like mad to Thiva,” she rambled, “and have so many things to do. He died of drink, his liver was gone. Stayed three days and nights by his side. I hardly slept and I worried about the furniture. Must find a warehouse. Oh God, I am returning to such a load of trouble. I left the child at my sister's. He hardly asks for his father any more. He is stuck to me. You can see he is so insecure. Cannot bear to part from me. On top of everything, my mother telling me to wear black. Fretting about what people will say. Whatever they say, it won't be good. They are jealous of me.

How old do I look?”

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

“You see! I'm thirty-seven. I don't look my age. The kid's father was at the funeral. All of a sudden heartbroken over my father's death. I told him I'd carve his face up with a pin if he doesn‟t pay up. How am I supposed to feed the child? I went to a lawyer. He said, no problem. It's clear-cut. It's a question of time. He has to pay for his child's upkeep. To the last drachma. Or else it's jail. God, I'd love to see him in jail. He's ruined my life. And I have all my furniture to move from his house. My clothes and things are all in boxes. Such a mess. I have to find somewhere to dump them. The place I have now is tiny. Where are you going?”

“Katerini.”

“Good. We'll get off together. We can share a taxi. God, I'm freezing. Aren't you cold? Look, it's pouring outside. What's your name?”

“George. What's yours?”

“Popi.”

“Are you divorced, now?”

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“Yes. He squandered my dowry. All my money as well and now I have to work. On top of everything I have to find a job. He had this woman all along. He used to go away for days. In the end I told him I would go out too. I could not bear to stay at home every day. He was very upset and jealous but in the end gave me his permission. I used to go out with my girlfriends. Just for a drink. Nothing much more than that. After a while he stopped bringing money at home and I left with the boy and went to my parents in Thiva. I stayed there a few weeks and then they gave me some money and I returned to Katerini and rented a small flat. It is my hometown. I did not feel well in Thiva. Oh soon, very soon I'll see him in jail. I shall not rest until he is behind bars. I shall go visit him there to laugh and spit at him. I know he has no money. He's bound to end there, the silly fool. At one time he had two BMWs. All from my money.”

“Excuse me, I have to go to the toilet,” I said.

“I shall go buy a coffee.”

We woke up smart-ass so that he might remove his leg barrier to our compartment and went out. After the toilet, I walked the length of the train to stretch my legs. Boy, you see some strange people in second-class, all-night rail travel. The little Indian Greek was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, he got off the train and was at home, in bed. Which was where I wish I were. When I returned to our compartment a few minutes later, there was a change in the seating arrangements. The boy had stretched on my side of the seat and was asleep, leaving me a tiny corner to sit in. The big fellow was now next to the old Turk and Popi was in the corner diagonally opposite to my seat. She had collected herself in the fetal position trying to conserve heat, trying to sleep. I was very cold, too, and were I not afraid of being misunderstood would have suggested snuggling together for warmth, covering ourselves with my jacket. I felt sorry for her. Perhaps, she drove her husband cuckoo with her incessant talk. She was a plucky girl and she was not stupid though some of the things she said were crazy.

I tried to sleep but the cold and discomfort were too severe. I opened my eyes and I saw her crying. Carefully avoiding the legs of the slumberers, I went to her and caressed her arm. I sat at the edge of her seat.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I lost my keys. If my husband is not at his house, I shall have to wait for hours outside until he comes. Everything seems to go awry in my life. And I feel so drained.”

Well. I had to wait for hours, too. We would be arriving at six and the appointment for the opening of the tenders was scheduled for ten. She calmed down soon and as I was uncomfortable at the edge of her seat, went back to mine. Drained or not, she started talking again, non-stop, across the compartment. It was even more difficult to understand her at this distance but since it was a monologue that required very little participation, I just nodded my head and said, yes, instead of saying, what?, all the time. I was thinking, I was not alone in my misery. I was better off than a lot of people. Except that I had taken a fall in my life and in my reputation and my self-respect. Perhaps it was inevitable. I was not hard enough, not ruthless enough a person to keep a large business going. And now, I was a glorified office boy. Even at that, I was better off than Popi. She had a worthless husband who ruined her and tormented her. I had a wife who was often contemptuous and insulting but was herself successful in her career and grudgingly kept me going. At times she was good and generous. I must not seem ungrateful for I was hardly ever the ideal husband. Not by a long shot. We had been very much in love, once, long ago.

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The train was running late. Rain was pouring outside and torrents of words inside. Probably, it was a bursting out of pent up frustration. On it went and did not stop until we arrived at Katerini, one hour late. We got up and said good bye and a good journey to the three men and got off the train. It was dark outside and it was very cold. Mercifully, it had stopped raining. I started shaking violently from the cold all of a sudden. More so than Popi but tried to conceal it. A lone taxi was waiting outside the station and we shared it with two other people. A few people were left stranded. In the taxi it was warm and I stopped shaking. Popi acted as my guide, explaining Katerini to me. I hardly paid any attention. We dropped the two people at their destinations and she insisted on taking me to the hospital first. When we arrived, I got off and gave the driver a ten thousand drachma note. He did not have change and neither did I.

Popi said, “Don't worry, I'll pay.”

I was upset and I kissed her and said, “thank you,” and “it was nice meeting you.”

She said, “I'll try to see you later either at the hospital or at the station.” The taxi took off and we waved to each other.

It was ridiculously early to go to the hospital where the tenders would be opened. I started walking towards the town center. The walking warmed my blood. I did not get the shakes again. Day was just starting to break but everything was shut.

Nowhere to go; just kept on walking. The whole of the city center was a pedestrian zone. It is a fashion that is spreading all over Greece and is very pleasant. The town was waking up. People hurrying to work, bakeries and coffee shops being cleaned and tidied before they opened. It was a small, pleasant Greek town and I always wondered what life would be like in a small place such as this. After a while I bought and consumed a ring shaped roll covered with sesame and went to a coffee bar for a coffee and a visit to the toilet. At nine I was at the hospital to let them know I had come. The employee in charge told me to come back at ten. I went to a nearby park and sat on a bench. I brought out my short story and it now seemed palatable. Not bad, in fact. Not bad at all. Made some corrections. It was my new hobby. Mania is a better word.

Writing gave me a sense of worth. Lifted me from the dump of worthlessness. Even my wife said it, the only thing I did well was writing.

At ten I was back at the hospital and in an hour or so my work was over. The train for the return journey would leave at two. Surprisingly, I did not feel tired and decided to walk to the station. On my way out, I looked at the crowds of the ailing, resignedly waiting for their turn to be examined and the bustling nurses and doctors. I kept a lookout for Popi as I was slowly walking by, with as much hope of finding her as a needle in a haystack. Outside the sun was out and I started walking to the station after asking for directions. It was some way off but I had nothing much better to do than walk. I took my jacket off when I started to perspire and in less than an hour, at a leisurely gait, I was sitting on a bench at the station waiting for the train. Waiting for Popi. I wanted to see her again but I hoped she would not come. There was not much point. How strange that a night of extreme discomfort and misery could bind two people. Well, bind me, at least. I was always a soft touch in every possible way.

For two hours I watched a few trains come and go and the faces of our fellow countrymen from a provincial town. Not much difference from the Athenians. We really were in the age of the global village. In any case, half of Greece lives in Athens and the other half comes and goes for business and family, making it crowded and unbearable. In older times provincials were always figures of fun for the sophisticated 126

inhabitants of the capital. No more. They are rather people we envy for their calmer lifestyle.

The train was on time and my seat had a number to it. Things were looking up.

At the next stop two Dutch girls came in our compartment with their backpacks.

Tourist survivors on a dollar a day. Would comfortably sleep in the woods or a train station or a warm bed with a friendly host. I helped them hoist their backpacks on the racks overhead. I took out my book and expensive spectacles and started to read. Now and then, I looked at the girl opposite and when our glances met she would give me a smile. She was blond, pretty, and slim wearing a commando outfit and boots. I thought how sad that it is only in porn movies that a girl casually gives you a sign and you follow her to the toilet for a fiery love session on a train. I would not have hesitated one second. Instead, I read on and on and on until the words and sentences separated in pairs and there were two of each, dancing about, and my eyes closed deliciously in sleep and I missed all the lovely scenery I was planning to see.

13 / 10 / 2000.

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