Waltz

I was at the hospital to have my ear checked. Then, I went to see a friend of mine, a doctor, who had started to work there a few months ago. I opened the door slightly and saw he had a patient so I found a seat in the big, miserably lit hall, common for many sections. That was when I saw the young cleaner going around with her tools. Her strong thighs were making blood run faster. When she came closer to me I looked into her eyes. They were so melancholic, separating her from the other people in an instant. You‘d say she had just seen an animal being slaughtered. She was Russian. I didn’t stop looking at her. She put her tools aside, came and sat next to me. I put my arm around her waist. “Come with me” I told her. “I can’t now, come again tomorrow, at five.” “All right.” She stood and picked up her brooms again.

Next day I went there around four thirty. I went to see my friend again, the doctor. Towards the end of his shift, he had got out some raki, slowly sipping with a colleague. After I joined them, things got more lively. We talked about old singers and how nice it would be to go back fifty years with a time machine, to see Bo Didley, Burdon the shorty, Markos and things like that. It was five past five and I bid them farewell. Out in the hall the girl was waiting with a rucksack. “You are late” she said. “Let’s go.” We got out in the street. I didn’t know where to go, just walking about. “What’s your name?” “Dimitris, you?” “...where are we going?” “I don’t know, shall we go to my place?” “Ok.” We filled ourselves up with love. Then she became very thoughtful, staring at the ceiling and it was like I wasn’t there, in the same bed with her. I wanted to do something sweet for her and I took her to the bathroom and washed all of her body with the soap: behind the knee, around the heel, between the toes. She smiled at me. Back in bed I put my arms around her and told her these wise words: “how is it in Russia ? Would you like us to go there?” “You are one of those Greeks who don’t work for their bread.” I laughed. We kissed and made love again. I had in my ears that waltz of Shostakovich.

The next morning I took the bus for the port, to get the subway to Athens. There was a very pretty girl in an opposite seat and I am sure she was from Crete. Unfortunately, the most beautiful part of the face was hidden behind huge, semi-transparent, pink sunglasses. In Europe we have our own burkas. In front of me a man and a woman sat, both over seventy, side by side. It seemed that they knew each other very well, exchanged warm greetings. Then they started on how their offsprings are progressing and after that they talked about their own childhood, which means about the war. Back then they were living in the same neighbourhood of Aghia Sofia. His house was on Rodopis’ street, same as my father’s. They would probably know each other, at least by family names. A bug was strolling on his crimson hat (which would be rather dangerous to wear during his youth) and he looked like a man who was always very active. He said about that winter of 1941. It was Christmas eve and all night long everyone in the neighbourhood could hear a man from the street saying the same words again and again : “I am hungry.” Nobody opened the door. They were all trying to feed their kids with anything that wasn’t seized by the occupation armies. And the penalty for breaking the curfew was death. Christmas morning they found him lying in the street. Everyone knew him. The old lady crossed herself twice in his memory. The old man continued his story with a simple smile : Mrs. Whatshername tried to snatch that plot that was left without an owner after the war. She made a chicken barn and fenced it with wire. The waltz keeps sounding, on and on.

The old lady stood up before the bus stop. She didn’t grab the railing very well and her old friend sprang up to catch her. He helped her get off the bus and then sat by the door, next to the beautiful Cretan girl. He started on a tune like old men usually do.

Dimitrios Zacharakis

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