Dead Europe Page 12

  —I will do it tonight. Let night fall, and I will do it.

  Lucia’s eyes were closed and her face was upturned. She was praying. Her smile was satisfaction.

  A strong will had been God’s gift to Michaelis. To escape the derision poured on his family’s circumstances, from a young age he would flee the village and spend his days on the summit, watching the sun and earth, tending herds of goats for wealthier farmers. His parents’ holdings were sparse: the tiny stone cottage, three goats, a small patch of earth in the valley.

  His mother had no dowry, and, worse, she was from far away. Though Maritha now spoke only Greek, though she was the most pious woman in the village when it came to the rites of the Church, everyone persisted in calling her a stranger. And as her child, he too was called names and heard the whispers behind his back. The other boys beat him mercilessly, and he in turn tried to dislike them. But Michaelis did not have the temperament or the cruelty in his character for aloofness. He wanted to laugh and play tricks, he wanted to tease and pull the hair of the pretty girls. Knowing that his attempts at friendship would always be resisted, he chose instead to be a friend to the goats and mules, descending to the village square only when the demands of religion could not be forsaken. He had been shocked, terrified, the morning his mother had awoken him with a rough blade in her hands to shave his head, and said to him that every morning was now to be spent in the school with the other children.

  He had kept his fist tightly clenched over the hard chunk of bread his father had given to him that first morning. The school was a small room at the back of the Teacher’s house. Michaelis liked the Teacher. Unlike the other men in the village, Teacher never yelled at him, always stopped to greet him and his family if their paths should meet. The small room was fitted with two long tables. That first day there had been sixteen children crammed together on two pews, facing Teacher, who wore a stiff white shirt and a black bow tie. Not all the children were from the village. There were the Litras twins, Christo and Pano from Serita, which meant that their walk to school would have taken them two hours. There was Maria, Thimia and Kostas Mangis from Frousini. And there were the children who Michaelis knew. It was one of them, Nikos Hondros, who began the fight.

  Nikos was older than Michaelis, and his father owned three large plots of land in the most fertile, lush fields in the valley. Nikos was tall and strong and he sat in the pew beside Michaelis. All the boys sat in the second pew; the young girls sat demurely in front of the Teacher in the first pew. The morning had been confusing and difficult. Michaelis was used to roaming the mountains in the morning, following the path of the goats. But Teacher was commanding him to stay still, to listen while he pointed to strange pieces of paper on the wall behind him. Michaelis could not stop fidgeting, could not stop tapping his foot, stretching his arms, yawning. But Teacher had instructed him to stay still, to keep quiet, and his father had warned him before sending him off to school that morning, that if he heard that Michaelis had not obeyed the Teacher he would be thrashed when he returned home in the afternoon. So even when his bladder began to ache, even when his mind seemed as if it would fall out of his head, so weary was he of concentrating on the wall in front of him, Michaelis tried to remain as still as possible. But he could not help moving: his hands, his feet, his very toes and fingers seemed to take on a life of their own. The Teacher was now irritated.

  —Panagi, what’s wrong with you?

  —I want to piss, sir.

  —Then go and piss, my child. Or would you prefer to do it here on the floor in front of us?

  The whole class tittered.

  Nikos Hondros piped up.

  —It’s because he’s an Albanian, sir. They all piss in their own houses.

  Michaelis ignored the laughter and made his way to the back of the school. He heard Teacher punishing Nikos Hondros and he was glad. He squatted over the hole in the ground, pissed into the earth, and smiled as he looked up into the sky. There were birds flying, he could hear shouts from the men and women working in the fields. He did not want to return inside, to be imprisoned again by the walls of the schoolroom. Reluctantly he hitched up his pants, wiped his hand on the grass and went back inside.

  His bread was missing. He had kept hold of it all through the morning but had left it on the table when he had gone outside. Teacher was still talking and the children were all quiet. Michaelis looked all around the table, checked the floor, but he could not see the bread anywhere. He heard a smothered giggle.

  —Who’s taken my bread? he whispered to Nikos.

  The older boy shrugged his shoulders, then smiled and opened his mouth. Crumbs lined his tongue; wet chunks of chewed bread filled the gaps between his teeth. Michaelis was outraged.

  —You stole it!

  His shout was so loud that Teacher jumped, and dropped his ruler.

  —Panagis! What the hell is happening?

  Michaelis ignored the man. His face flushed, his hands became two coiled balls; he stood and looked down fiercely at Nikos Hondros. Then he dropped his fists onto the older boy’s head. The fight was short. Like feral dogs they bit and scratched and tore at each other. Nikos was older and bigger but Michaelis’ frenzy was such that he did not feel the blows on his flesh and he was determined to be the victor in the struggle. The older boy was equally determined not to be beaten by his weaker foe and it was only the wild kicking of Teacher that ended the duel. The man was furious. He gave them a couple of extra blows on the head. The other children were laughing and encouraging Nikos. The teacher held the boys apart.

  —I’m going to tell each of your fathers to give you the thrashing of your lives.

  Michaelis squirmed away from the teacher.

  —He stole my bread.

  —He’s lying, sir. He’s just an animal.

  The younger boy stopped still. He was enraged by the lie.

  —It’s true, sir. I was sitting listening to you and he just started hitting me.

  Michaelis found a word.

  —Thief! he accused Nikos.

  Nikos’ eyes narrowed.

  —Who do you think you are? Your mother’s a slut foreigner and your father’s an imbecile.

  Two things happened. The whole class erupted into laughter. And the teacher gave Nikos such a blow that the child lost balance and fell to the floor, smashing his head across the pew as he collapsed. The collision made a sickening thud and the class went silent.

  No more argument or fighting occurred that morning but in the hushed schoolroom Michaelis heard the whispers circulate. Poutana. Poutana. Poutana. Xeni xeni xeni. He would quickly look up when the words glided past him but each head was lowered obediently to the desk, the children faithfully copying the strange notations the Teacher was making on the board. But still the word persisted. Throughout the day, Michaelis sat, his face red, his eyes wet, listening to the children call him the son of a whore.

  That afternoon he returned to his house and told his mother and father that he was not meant for school. His mother fell to her knees, pleaded with him to reconsider, his father thrashed him then and again during the night and again the next morning, but Michaelis would not change his mind. Finally, his body bleeding from his father’s blows, his mind slowly drifting back to consciousness, he made his promise to God. That one day his mother would hold her head up high in the village and that all the children who had mocked him would be made to bow to her. From that day he did not waver in pursuing his promise.

  In the same way, in the bowels of night, terrified every time he heard the hungry howls of the wolves on the mountains, certain that the shadows that fell upon him from the trees were the shadowy limbs of demons, he did not falter from following the path to the summit. Summer had long left the village and he could feel the first bitter sting of winter. He pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders and proceeded up the slope. With every step he felt the leather sheath of the dagger slap his thigh. It only made his steps more determined. Determination had been God’s gift to
him.

  The boy was praying. He was on his knees, rocking back and forth, his eyes closed, his hands held out. Michaelis dropped into the cellar and the boy sprang back. The eyes that turned to Michaelis were animal and desperate.

  On recognising the man the boy’s breathing calmed. He still sat crouched in the corner of the dark but there was something close to a smile now on his lips. He stretched out his hands and begged for food.

  Michaelis, recoiling from the foul stench of the cellar, all shit and piss and sweat, seeing the boy’s skeletal body, was suddenly aware that murder was the most decent act he could perform. He too smiled, crouched next to the boy, and slowly brushed the Hebrew’s hair from his eyes.

  —I have no food for you tonight, said Michaelis. But I have good news: the war is over.

  The boy shrank back from the man’s touch, his eyes wary.

  —I tell you, the Germans have surrendered. You are free.

  The boy looked down at his emaciated frame, at the rags that clothed his body.

  —I tell you, continued Michaelis, your father is with us at the house. He has returned. Your family is waiting for you.

  The boy began to cry. His hands fell across his crotch and he looked down at the dirt.

  —What is it, you bloody fool Hebrew?

  Michaelis rose and looked around the cellar. The boy had scratched Hebrew letters on the stone walls. Reminding himself that the stones above him were once part of Christ’s church, Michaelis made a vow that he would return to remove the evil scribblings. Damn this, thought the man, let’s get it over with. The boy had still not moved.

  —Have you clothes for me?

  Michaelis laughed.

  —Aren’t you the aristocrat? No, my boy, there’s nothing for you. The Germans took everything from us. There’s precious few clothes in your future.

  Then, as he realised the truth within his lie, Michaelis hung his head low. Steel yourself, Panagis, he ordered himself, and lifting his head he demanded the boy come with him. The youth shook his head.

  —I cannot see my family like this. He pointed to the rags he was wearing.

  —Don’t be an idiot, yelled the man, what the hell does it matter what you look like? You’ve been damn lucky holed up in here throughout the war. You haven’t seen anything. And we fed you, didn’t we? We fed you when even we did not have a thing to eat. You lousy Hebrew.

  The boy began to cry.

  Michaelis softened.

  —Come, I’ll take you home.

  The boy came over to the man, and softly kissed Michaelis on the lips. The touch was only momentary, but the youth’s lips were full and wet and it had been such a kiss that the man had been waiting for all his life. Lucia would never kiss him like this. The face she turned to him in the evenings was hard. The boy’s eyes were open wide and the man took a step back.

  —You are the Devil, he whispered, and he made the sign of the Cross. He pushed the boy roughly towards the hole in the ceiling.

  Climb, he ordered.

  But the boy was weak, and Michaelis had to push him up through the hole.

  Once in the shell of the church the boy clung close to the man and when they entered the night the boy began to shiver. His wide eyes took in the black sky, the pearly stars, the world below: he moved closer to Michaelis.

  —The world has changed, he whispered.

  Michaelis looked out across the mountains and valleys, he looked across the dark.

  —The world never changes, he answered.

  They descended wordlessly. Michaelis urged the boy ahead and they made their way along the small thin rivulet, following the sound of the water upon the rocks. The lights of the village came into view and the boy’s pace began to quicken. Michaelis grabbed him.

  —Let’s drink first, he whispered, and he took hold of the boy’s arm and pushed him towards a small grove in the forest. The creek widened in the grove, and the trees provided shelter from the wind. The boy knelt, cupped his hands, and drank from the cold water. He drank and drank, and when finished he washed his face, his arms, his neck. He turned his face to Michaelis and his smile was rapturous and as large as the earth.

  The dagger plunged deep into the boy’s throat. There was a muffled scream of pain and the boy fell to the ground. Michaelis searched the boy’s still breathing chest and when he found the beat of the heart he screwed the dagger hard into the body. The boy shook, a gurgle escaped his lips and then he fell still and quiet. The now empty eyes stared out at Michaelis from the hollow sockets. He moved his hands across the boy’s face and shut out the night. But as he did so, the boy’s face grimaced and shook and Michaelis shrank back in horror. Then he smelt the urine and the excrement. The body was again still. Michaelis made the sign of the Cross. Even if he were a filthy Hebrew, the body had once housed a human soul.

  Michaelis knew that the wolves would soon smell the blood so he smashed the boy’s face with a rock, smashed it repeatedly so the face was unrecognisable. Then he stripped away the boy’s clothes, washed his own hands and face in the water, and then ran all the way home. Lucia was awaiting him in the cold, her arms wrapped tight around her body. When she saw her husband enter she sprang up and moved towards him. There was hunger in her eyes.

  —Is he dead?

  When Michaelis nodded, the joy in her was unmistakable. She clutched at her husband, kissed his neck and his face, his eyes and his mouth. She brought his hands to her lips and smothered them in kisses of gratitude.

  —We are free, she whispered.

  Lucia made a fire and threw the boy’s clothes upon it. She took down a small vial of holy water from the mantelpiece and splashed her hands with it, and ordered her husband to do the same. Then when the clothes had been reduced to ash, she collected the remains and threw them deep into the shithole outside. As some of the ash caught in the wind and danced in the night air, she remembered the boy’s skin upon hers, and she shuddered. She returned to her house and fell exhausted into bed. Michaelis soon heard her light snores beside him.

  Sleep did not come easily for him. The moon’s silver light played on the walls of the cottage, forming the strange signs of the Hebrew. It is only the moonlight, it is only your imagination, he told himself, but he had to keep his eyes shut tight in order to banish the evil hallucinations. Sleep did come, but when it arrived it was full of nightmares. He dreamt that he was a wolf, running in a pack, his body slick and grey. At first the dream was pleasing and arousing. But soon the pack came across the Hebrew boy’s bloodied corpse and they attacked the boy with a ravenous ferocious lust. Michaelis awoke screaming, the taste of blood and meat and flesh still in his mouth, on his lips, on his breath. He looked down at his wife but she had not awoken. He forced himself back to his nightmares.

  Lucia was not asleep. She had heard her husband’s yells and she too awoke frightened. In her dream there had been no wolves, no spirits, no demons. Instead there had only been Elias’ eyes, staring at her, watching her sleep. There had only been his eyes. There was no face, no body, no skin. Only his eyes watching her. The eyes and his smell. When she woke, she could still smell him. She recognised his stench, the smell of him after he had finished, after he had been inside her. It was a smell that had always disgusted her. And as always, her eyes closed tight and ignoring her husband’s screams beside her, it was a smell that aroused her.

  Sleep did not return to Lucia. She spent the night staring into the dying fire, watching a final red ember slowly burn itself out. When the sun came at last, its glow was warm and reassuring. She jumped out of bed and walked outside, looking down on the green fertile valley below. There were wisps of smoky white cloud on the mountain, there was a farewell lament from the last of the nightingales. She breathed in the morning, she breathed in the fresh sun and air.

  THE COFFEE SHE made for me tasted far too syrupy, but she assured me that was how Lebanese coffee should taste; unlike Turkish coffee, it should be honeyed and sweet. The cafe was called Beirut; her hands were old but her
face was young. Her husband wore a crisp white shirt and wiped down the tables while she brewed the coffee. My photographs were spread across the table; I’d had them developed quickly, but certainly not cheaply, in a Kodak shop off the Piazza San Marco. As the woman brought me the coffee, she pointed to a photograph.

  —Sicilia?

  —Greece.

  She put down the coffee and glanced up at the television screen above the bar. Three elderly Italian men were watching young men playing soccer. The men looked as if they belonged to the sea, with fishermen’s caps and thick shirts bleached by the weather. Their bare arms were strong and tattooed. I felt relief that they were not in expensive business suits and more so that they were not tourists with backpacks like me. They shouted at the tiny men kicking the ball across the field; the sound was turned down on the television, and instead, Arabic music came from a tinny radio hooked precariously to the top shelf next to the bottles of spirits.

  I had always assumed that Venice would be a modern metropolis grafted onto a Renaissance skeleton, that the medieval palazzi and sculptures would be dwarfed by shiny steel edifices and modern skyscrapers. So when I first walked out of the train station and saw the ferries on the Grand Canal, I was taken aback by how small the city appeared. I climbed onto the first ferry I saw and began my journey through the guts of the city. The sun was shining and cast a clear brilliant light on the tiled walls on the canals. I dismounted at the Piazza San Marco, and began to knock on hotel doors. The prices were exorbitant, so even with the backpack getting heavier on my shoulders, I walked further, determined to find a manageable price. I crossed the Rialto Bridge and moving further away from the tourists and shops I found a small hostel in the north of the city, close to the markets where the Venetians shopped for their vegetables and toilet paper. The pensione was small, there was a shared bathroom in which the water was never better than lukewarm, and a midnight curfew; but it was affordable, and I figured as I didn’t know anyone here to go out drinking with, the curfew wouldn’t be a problem. I was not intending to stay. I was making a mad dash from the southern tip of this immense continent to the west, but I broke my train journey in Venice for it had always been a romance, a city I’d always wanted to see. I had no guidebook with me, and after the bouts of savage drinking in Greece, a midnight curfew was welcome.