By the time I reached the square the early evening bells were calling for the first slow dance, the sianos. But heavy with guilt after my foolishness that afternoon, I kept to the sides and the back, hidden amongst some visitors watching Aristethes and his son sitting with their instruments upon a table. The table and musicians were surrounded by a small ring of villagers holding hands or linking arms and waiting to dance. The music came slowly leading the ring of people into a steady, anti-clockwise swaying side-step; an almost imperceptible, trance-like encircling of the musicians. They were deep in contemplation, even the children. From time to time others joined the ring, strengthening and swelling it, doubling and tripling the number of participants. They crossed arms and joined hands and the musicians played on with a mesmeric, soothing reverie for anyone who joined in the dance. It was like some core of primal energy. The westering sun caught gold in the glistening faces, the essence of life on the mountain, something exclusive and transcendent.
The women are statuesque. They awakened my maleness by their displayed femininity and wherever I went I was offered food and drink - made to feel male. As for the men, they do welcome you, of that there can be no doubt, but the welcome comes with the understanding you must never presume without invitation. You enter at their discretion.
As the shadows grew longer, the square flickered from reflections in the windows, and glittered in the little mirrors and beads of the costumes and in the glow from hundreds of naked candles shimmering in faces and colours. The sweeping shuffle of the dance was unrelenting. It reminded me of the chanting monks of Dharamsala. And it really was mesmeric. In contrast to all the blues and pinks and reds and greens of the dazzling patterns, dark eyes glittered beneath handsome black eyebrows. No blue eyes to be seen at all.
In the twilight of the square, bodies wandered by me as if I were invisible, until I bumped into Alessandra on her way home to change out of her costume.
She looked me in the eyes and shook her head, 'Forgive me, but today, sitting up there amongst the dignitaries, I think you were a little silly. Many people were humiliated just to look at you. In our little mountain village we have had five thousand pilgrims for the festival, some of them even saw you sleeping in your little chapel. You must be more aware of our people's feelings. Now excuse me. I can't stop. I have to change. See you later. Oh, and I hope you smarten yourself up by then.'
I straightened my back, brushed away the candle wax from my hair and clothes in an effort to appear a little more respectable. What an idiot I'd been! Thoughtless and careless. At least the sky was growing dark and my carelessness would not be so noticeable. A voice called out through the window of a kafeneion inviting me in for a drink. It was the man who had been my whisky partner earlier at the table.
'Hello sir, how's your head? Still on fire?' He ordered me a raki in the candlelight, the last thing that I wanted, but he offered me a seat with a group of men who seemed to be talking about the future of the village so I joined them. Sitting on the floor by the door a lyra player, lost in music, rested his head against the wall.
'By the way, thank you for the whisky earlier. It was very hospitable of you.'
Just as I was about to throw the raki down my throat, he laid his hand on my arm, 'No, no, no! Excuse me sir, the raki is for you to rub on your face. It will put out the fire. Raki is good for bad cough, stiff legs, when you are cut or aching in the heart. Raki is the liquid of life.' It was good to laugh with the locals and sure enough, after spreading the stuff over my soreness, the stinging faded and the throbbing disappeared. Somebody put the lights on, everybody moaned, so someone turned them off again. The room became a plotter's den slanted with plans and schemes. From a room at the back I was waved in to join a larger group of young men in another candlelit circle. Furtive glances shot in my direction when I appeared in the door-frame. It was a glendi.
A glendi is a party, a musical gathering, often with mantinada, like the one I was saved from by the gentle bouzouki player that afternoon. I know a little about the music of Stephanos now. The mantinada is a kind of folk-song made up on the spot with ad-libbed rhymes inspired from personal experience and sung in the round or by one or two people. Mantinada verses are sung just once in a glendi. No one uses lines that have been used before which was why the hummed response heard earlier in the square was very apt. Behind the young men sit the elders, listening and marking every word.
Early migrants to America and Australia were often photographed at weddings and in bars, raising a loving glass to the old country, showing great bravado, cigarettes drooping from their lips; young men sipping whisky in shirt sleeves and armbands, unbuttoned waistcoats and slackened ties, slicked back hair. It was almost the same in that room except that the men were bound not just by Greekness but more so - by the deep sense of kinship with their village. They were different. And although they allowed me to stay, I could sense I was on probation. It was their respect for Pantelis that gave me space there that night to witness their fervent devotion. They were homesick but helpless; trapped on the treadmill of capitalism and had to return to it if they wanted to send money home. If they had nothing more to give, at least they offered me the words of their lives that we might understand each other more. And when they sang and I saw such a bold display of pride and such skill in crafting mantinada they left me astonished and full.
Beyong another doorway further back in the room, behind the elders, I could just make out a veranda where I thought I might be able to sit without being so obtrusive. Before another song began, I weaved through the throng, aware that all eyes were on me and so moved cautiously to avoid any undue sacrilege. They made a space and let me through and someone broke the ice with, 'Ouzo for Mr. Godfrey Lambrakis.' There was no escape but at least my new name sounded strong. This time it was Aristethes to my rescue, keeping an eye on me. He passed me the drink himself then stood by me, sipping his own while we listened, and I felt stronger for his company.
Two men were singing with genuine passion. One, a young man in his first beard, and the other, his father's best friend. The older man sang about growing in the village and how the children all grew together sharing everything, even poverty and love. The young man sang, 'Under different circumstances, you might have been my father.'
The older man was staggered by this and stuck for words. He stammered, looked directly at the boy, then lowered his voice to sing, 'And you might have been my son.'
With the closing of that song came the moment to leave. The mood was too intimate for newcomers. I rose to my feet, unsure where to step first. Aristethes caught my eye and to all the men in the room, he excused my presence and announced my intention to thank the men before I left the gathering. I mumbled a short, self-conscious speech of gratitude in very bad Greek and was surprised to hear the murmurs of approval and see the nodding of heads amongst a gentle applause. I thanked them, wished them goodnight and hit the darkened alleyways holding my breath. That was the first time I'd ever stood and addressed an inner-circle and in a tongue foreign to my own. It was not something I would recommend. It left me shaking with nerves and embarrassment. I followed the sounds to the square, back amongst the zealous and the lights. And still they danced. I found a place against a wall and almost straight away a lady and a young girl stopped in front of me to watch the circle, almost blocking my view. There was a change. Now the dancing had a flourish, of palpable energy in a skip of defiance, and it was made near the low wall, right where the sea was no more than a step away through darkness and space.
I look back on that day now as one of enlightenment. To think only a few evenings before I'd relished the company of strangers, squashed in, beguiled by musicians, so easy and accepted in their midst and now, there was a growing feeling of being a part of it all.