My bicycle and I
I did as my grandmother had asked me to do. I would have done the same for any neighbor.
She said, “Go to the baker’s and get me some bread.”
She didn’t have to use such words as ‘please’ because she was my grandmother and I was her grandson. It was my duty to respect her. Besides, this kind of word was rarely used and strictly with people you didn’t know, strangers.
“How are you, Giorgos,” he asked me. “Shopping for your granny?”
“I’m fine, (‘kalá´, a single word in Greek)” I replied and ran out with the loaf wrapped in a film of white paper.
I was mad with those boys because I knew they would pick on me at school for a couple of days, and I was sorry for my grandparents whom I ‘condemned’ to eat bread from out of the road.
I picked up the bread, whipped it with my hands and blew at it as hard as I could, then wrapped it again but didn’t ride the bike, I pushed it home.
‘Here you are, gran!” I said and handed my grandmother the loaf.
She said “well done” (Bravo, in Greek) and I darted out of the house. I only hoped that she would not find out or die by eating the bread. I hated the idea of being locked up in jail. I would miss hundreds of shiny days, all the summer fun with my friends, fishing with the rod, diving for sea urchins …
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The Death of the Ice Cream Man
When I was eleven years old my perception of the world changed completely, when one summer morning I overheard my mother say to Katina, a neighbour, “Poor Papamoros is dead; he died in his sleep last night”. I almost choked on the ice cube I had just picked from our first electric refrigerator. I slammed the kitchen door, spat the ice cube into one of the flowerpots lining our miniature patio and rushed out on the street. I felt as if I were breaking into pieces. My arms and legs felt so alien to me. Had the world suddenly shattered into tiny fragments, including my own insignificant existence?
“Papamoros is dead,” I gasped to Nikos and Menas playing a game of marbles on a stone bench next door. They didn’t even look up. They were absorbed in their game, but they did invite me to join them. “The ice cream man is dead,” I shouted at them.
“Does that mean that he won’t be making his rounds today?” Menas asked, as he was about to throw his shot.
In retrospect, I should not have expected more of those ten-year-old companions of my childhood. The game of marbles, the sunshine and the main elements of our world were there while more fun was unconsciously anticipated as the day wore on. However, I knew that Papamoros, an essential element of our universe, was gone forever, just like my grandfather two years earlier.
For weeks after my grandfather had died his house furniture seemed so alien to me; they had shrugged off their mysterious mantle. The wicker chair between his bed and the wooden, oblong kitchen table was cold and hopelessly inhospitable. When he was alive he would take me on his lap and share his breakfast with me. He would break chunks of hard, whole grain bread and dip them in a glass of warm sage tea, and I would suck the juice and pick black olives from a cup at arms length and spit the stones on the table aiming at a ‘constellation’ of breadcrumbs on the wooden expanse. He would tell me stories of brave local fighters who, although outnumbered, fought the enemy on the mountains and plains of Crete and won glorious victories. He would recount in detail the lives and legends of holy men, hermits, who had renounced worldly affairs to spend the rest of their lives in caves around the island. As much as I did not enjoy the latter stories, I loved my grandfather, in spite of the fact that his furrowed face and callous hands reminded me of those hermits who, to my mind, were tormenting themselves for no reason, wasting their time in dump and dark hollows and missing all the fun under the brilliant and warm rays of the sun, not to mention countless games of marbles. My grandfather was tall and thin, an ascetic man, much like those desiccated figures on his icon-stand above his bed. Forty days after my grandfather had died, my mother laid a white, embroidered tablecloth on that table and removed the icon stand. My father hired a construction worker to hammer out a window on the wall against which my grandfather’s bed stood. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as soon as the first lances of sunlight rammed through the opening. My grandfather’s world was slowly, but inexorably, dissipating in my memory, pushing deep into the remote recesses of my unconscious.
However, Papamoros was so much unlike my grandfather, both in terms of physical appearance and dress. He was a short stout, middle-aged man with red hair and a round, sleek and smiling face. His sky blue eyes – rings detached from the azure canopy of the heavens – captured our tottering reflections as we besieged him for his wares. There were no ridges or knolls on his plump hands which handled the scoop with such artistry. His milk white skin was dotted with imperceptible, tiny reddish spots, which gave me the impression that this man was made entirely of candy. His professional attire consisted of a doctor’s white coat and a white painter’s cap with a visor. His love for children he channeled into his art of making the most delicious ice cream in the world, our world. Also, he was a one-man band, with nasal and vocal sounds of cymbals and drums.
As much as my grandfather represented the lore of darkness, with its bloodstained heroes and skeletal hermits, Papamoros represented the sensation of warm and comforting light and the simple pleasures of life that provided nourishment to our young minds and green taste.
Papamoros pushed a white, closed cart, more like an oversized cube on wheels with a trap door on top. The insides of the pushcart were lined with sheet-metal and filled with crushed ice keeping cold the ice cream in two large tin cylinders. As the ice melted, it drained from the bottom rear left corner of the cart through a short spout fitted snuggly into a longer piece of garden hose. The continuous flow of melting ice marked Papamoros’ rounds, with little pools of water designating stops. The pushcart moved on three wheels, two in front and one fixed on a swivel in the rear for turns. The front right wheel wobbled with an intermittent sound which, to my mind, sounded yet another call, “child-ren, child-ren”.
“Paaagotooo!” the call of the ice cream man would echo through my old neighbourhood, mobilizing troops of children at play in the streets to a wild campaign for half a drachma, the price of an ice cream cone. Scores of little feet stormed indoors to return just as fast in the tow of one hand extended to a fist closed tight over the precious ‘token’ for a scoop of vanilla or strawberry ice cream. Naturally, there were ‘casualties’: despondency or frustration nested both in children’s limbs and wet rosy cheeks.
I took my eyes away from my friends’ game and scanned the neighbourhood, as if nudged by a mysterious urge swelling inside me. The little, white-washed houses were bathed in the morning light as usual, the film of shadow from the only three-storey building to the west was receding imperceptibly, and the rustle from inside the low houses was the same, albeit more acute. It was as if my ears were propped up and my entire senses on alert. I knew something was wrong, in spite of the apparent familiarity of the morning stage.
Papamoros is dead, I repeated to myself. I know something is wrong, I thought. It’s in the air. I sniffed to my left; I sniffed to my right, but stopped only when I noticed that Nikos was staring at me with his mouth gapping open.
“What are you doing, Giorgos?” Nikos asked.
“Nothing, I can smell bacon. Takis will be coming out soon to join us,” I lied.
I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so I wandered off with both hands in my pockets and head down. Following the slightly sloping road was better suited to the melancholy which had taken hold of my limbs. It was not so much a feeling of personal loss, as was the case with my grandfather, but a sense of emptiness, a loss of orientation, of a significant landmark or point of reference in my psyche. I felt a growing urge to pass by Papamoros’ house, perhaps nursing the hope that my mother was wrong, that Papamoros was simply late or sick in bed.
The dark brown cover of a casket was leaning heavily against the lime-washed wall of Papamoros’ house. The sign of death, I thought. ‘Death is a guest in this house. The cover is his calling card’, the words of uncle Minas churned in my mind. Next to the cover was a large, round wreath of white carnations. The wreath was fixed to a long and narrow floorboard and had a white ribbon inscribed as follows: “In Memory of Our Father and Grandfather: his children and grandchildren”. I bent down and pinched a wall-lettuce making an insipid appearance through a crack at the lower end of the wall, to the left of the doorstep. I wiped the dust off against my left sleeve and stuck the flower between the thick arrangement of white carnations, adding a nice touch of green to the lower, left circumference of the wreath. In Memory of the Ice Cream Man: the children of Saint Trinity quarter of the town, I murmured.
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The Seamstress' Boy
This is George with his mother, Mrs. Spyrou. They live on the island of Crete. George is 11 years and goes to grammar school. His mother is a seamstress. She makes dresses for other women. Also, she is a single parent because her husband died in a car accident when George was six. George has a sister, Mary, who is five years younger. It is very difficult for Mrs. Spyrou to raise her children alone. She needs help.
One day before Christmas George came back from school to hear his mother say. “Dear, I have just finished a coat for Mrs. Peraki. She lives two blocks past the church of St. Menas, at the corner of the fish market and 1821 Street. I want you to take the coat to her after lunch.”
“Mom, I can’t do that! I’m not a girl you know!” he complained.
“Of course you are not a girl,” Mrs. Spyrou replied. “But who else can I ask for help but you?”
“Why can’t Mary do it?”
“Your sister is not old enough to go out on errands, and I’m very busy.”
George is a good boy. He helps his mother round the house, and so does his sister. However, he felt that walking the streets with a woman’s wear in his hands was not the kind of errand boys of his age do.
“Mom, what if my friends see me with this?” he said, pointing to a beautiful red coat on the hall tree. “They’ll make fun of me.”
“Don’t you worry; I’ll wrap it up in white paper. Nobody will be able to see the coat. Besides, there is nothing to be ashamed of.”
After lunch Mr. Spyrou took a huge roll of white paper from out her closet and laid it across her bed. She rolled out a long piece of paper, placed the coat on it and pinned a piece of paper on the lapel. She wrapped the coat carefully and folded it in the middle.
“There you are,” she said, “Now, extend your left arm.”
She hung the coat on George’s forearm and said, “Don’t look so grumpy! Besides, you may get lucky with a tip. Mrs. Peraki is a nice lady, you’ll see.”
George left the house with a heavy heart. Occasionally, he looked from right to left to see if any of his friends from school were in sight. When he came to the church of St. Menas, he saw a lot of people coming out, mostly women in fine clothes. Walking closer he noticed a woman sitting at the steps of the church. From the long dress in floral patterns and the head cover she was wearing George understood that the woman was a gypsy. She was a little younger than his mother and had a baby in swaddles lying across her lap. Her right arm was slightly raised, her hand loosely cupped. She was begging.
“Please, help me; I’m a poor mother!” the gypsy entreated the crowd.
Something happened to George at that moment. It was as if he had been struck by lightning. The words of the gypsy rumbled in his ears. Images of his mother flashed in his head. He felt disoriented.
“Stop it, please!” George almost shouted at her. “Here, take this!” and handed her the coat. “Keep it or sell it; it’s yours.”
“Thank you my child,” She said. “God bless you! But…”
George turned around and started walking fast. He turned right on Kalokerinou Street and decided to take the long way back home. He crossed the Lions Square and walked down to the harbor. The big ferry was just leaving the port. For a moment he wished he were on it. He was afraid of his mother’s reaction. Since Mr. Spyrou died she was easy to lose her temper and shout. Then she would cry.
“I’ll say it took you some time to get back, George?” she said as soon as he walked in.
George started crying.
“I’m sorry Mom,” he sobbed. “I … I was robbed. Someone snatched the coat from me and ran off. I couldn’t help it, Mom; I’m sorry!”
“Are you all right, dear?” she asked, without a sign of surprise or anger in her voice.
“Yes, Mom … I’m all right. But you aren’t angry with me…!” he muttered.
“Should I be angry with you, George?” she asked.
George picked a quizzical tone in her voice. He remained silent for a moment. He was at a lost to understand the cool reaction of his mother.
“Well…?” Mrs. Spyrou continued. “Should I be angry with you, dear?”
“Please, Mom, don’t.” he cried and hugged her by the waist. “I gave the coat to a poor gypsy woman.
“Why did you do that, my dear?” his mother asked, but more than pleaded.
George could not believe his ears. His mother did not scream, as he feared, nor did she shout at him. She was calm, as if she knew what had happened.
“I saw YOU in her eyes, Mom.” he sobbed. “She had a baby with her, too. Perhaps it was a girl, I don’t know.”
“Please, calm down and tell me what happened!” She said and passed him a paper tissue.
“Well, …” George said, wiping his nose. “When I saw her I felt awful, and heard the same words which you said in your prayers when I was younger and, suddenly I saw you begging again.”
“What words…?”
“You said, ‘Please help me God! I’m a poor mother.’” George replied. “Then I would see you in my dreams, begging, with little Mary in your arms. I still do.”
Mrs. Spyrou remained silent for a moment. Tears were running down her cheeks.
“My dear boy,” she said. “I did pray loud when your father died, but never thought you could hear me from your room.”
“I did, Mom.” George said. “And felt so sorry for you and Mary, and…”
The telephone rang; it was Mrs. Peraki on the line.
“Hello, … Oh, yes. He’s all right. Thank you!” Mrs. Spyrou replied. “I’ll explain everything when I see you tomorrow morning.” Then she turned to George.
“As I said, Mrs. Peraki is a kind person.” she said. “She was coming out of the church when she saw you giving her coat to the gypsy woman. Thank God I had pinned her name and address on the lapel!”
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