Συννεφιασμενη Κυριακη μοιαζειζ με την καρδια μου*
α.
It took one song, the song of grey Sundays and unanswered prayers
a bottle of whiskey and two shots of Koumandaria, sweeter than whiskey
but the deeper diver, a plate of olives and bread
half a packet of Karellia and the mere smell of weed, the loss of half
week’s pay on a poker game with greedy brother-in-laws
the loss of wife’s respect when she searched pockets the next day
and he moved in trance from corner table to the middle of the room, found himself
in the sacred space where every table and chair parted and the smoke couldn’t
penetrate, nor the eyes or mouths of the watchers, he closed his eyes anyway
became awash in music and lyrics, grey Sundays and unanswered prayers
he knew the ritual of Zembekiko, better than a Priest knew the liturgy
hands raised just above head like they were nailed in midair
but those hands were fighting against life, not death, two fingers clicked the
steady rhythm of wave against rock, an arm swung loose like a broken mast
then up erect again, a crazed battle over gravity
to untrained eyes he might have seemed drunk and disorderly, a dance of madness for sailors on a sinking ship, but the stumbles forward were timed precision
each hop, step and whack from hand to foot a chaotic sequence of storytelling,
he is the eldest son, with mortgage-one to father and mortgage-two
to bank, and the wife’s ten years younger, into Beatles and the truth
money is made scaling and slicing frozen fish, the knife often plays funny tricks
pretends to carve into sea flesh but finds human, mostly his, and the doctor
throws him morphine when his stitching back the skin but won’t give him any
extra for those slow nights when the pain’s sunk in and he wakes up to grey Sundays and unanswered prayers…
β.
Outside the blue sky swamped by the grey, turns temperamental
storming those inside shadows of candle flame, incense smoke
and many heads tinted with years of prayer, bend even lower to receive
the blessed chant Δοζα Πατρι και τω Υιω και τω Αγιω Πνευματι…
in the back pew he sits with others who hover between worship and sin
he’s there as eldest son, as husband, as father, his daughter is now old enough
to cross herself from right to left, he tilts her head to the floor when the Priest
passes by dipping olive branch into goblet of holy water, and flick, flick flicking
showering heads, he wants the water to bless her little soul but he never bends low enough, his eyes get stung by the divine, the hanky is dragged out
to wipe away unwelcome tears, his little girl reaches for hanky too
to dry her wet curls, he puts hanky away, she says Please, he says No, he wants the holy water to stay with her as long as possible, she still has a chance.
γ.
The girl is nine but could pass as twelve, she thinks more than she talks imagines more than she prays, likes to cross herself from left to right when her Dad’s not looking, if Dad could just once take her with him when he visited the Priest
behind the altar, behind the wall of golden framed Christs, Virgin Marys and Saints, behind the sliding doors that look like Royal Gates, behind the large eye of God that never stops staring at her, there’s the sacred space where men and boys can go and they hold these private talks about… about?… she’s asked Mixali, her cousin to tell her, It’s not your business, he says with the authority of his father, girls are forbidden, another brat, Tony, will tell her what goes on if she gives him her entire stamp book, but the stamps are from Russia and China and Yiayia gave her the old and young Makarios stamps, she can’t, so she’s never told
she waits with the widows, wives and daughters, some wondering more loudly than others, τι κανουν μεξα κει, παιξουν χαρτια? they drinking wine that’s what they do, holy business, it’s holy business, private, sssshhhhh
the men and boys slink out, silent, the Priest remains, chanting from scripture
the girl’s Dad takes her by the hand out of the Church into the bright… the sun has now run away from the clouds, she lets go of her Dad and runs all the way to the car
never stopping to look back.
δ.
She saw her Dad rise from the table like he was being blessed by invisible hands
they drew him forth to the dance floor, the cigarette lay limp in his mouth, a forgotten friend, he raised his hands and became anointed with bouzouki and song, everybody was watching her Dad, nobody talked, nobody clapped, he was their guardian from the other side, he would dance the battle of life and death for them, he would risk his sanity for theirs, she wanted to help him, to dance the madness away with him, to search for the unsteady feeling and bang it into submission, she got up because the hands wanted to bless her too, she wished she was old enough to smoke so the cigarette could hang from her mouth too, she knew there was feeling before there were steps, and this dance had no human teacher, and she clicked her fingers like wave against rock, her Dad opened his eyes, his face became as stern as it was in Church, she had entered the sacred space, girls are forbidden, ssshhhhh, hide
she swung herself back to the corner but Dad caught her arm in flight, held it to his, placed the hanky in her hand and nodded, she was Allowed In, the hanky flapped in her hand, a strong sail in a crazy wind, and they danced to sorrow and sin.
* The first line from a famous Greek rembetiko song (Tsitsanis, 1943): 'Cloudy Sunday, you look like my heart.'
