FIRST STORY - Where the road ends - PART THREE
Uncanny screams awoke me.
Inhuman - although they came from the recruit occupying the bunk next to mine.
I opened my eyes to flames rapidly spreading through the top half of his bed - and body.
Earlier that evening, having watched him take from under his bed the candle and lighter he had smuggled into the barracks, I had considered confronting him, alerting him to the danger - but gave up when I understood he just intended to pray.
When he jumped off the bed, the crucifix around his neck flew like a tiny comet. On his face, only a dark gap among glaring flames was distinguishable - his howling mouth. In despair he was slapping himself, trying to put them off. It must have been terribly painful, for he dropped that. He hit his head against the top bunk, maybe lost in the darkness, maybe blinded already, maybe trying to get rid of the flaming pillow that stick to his head.
His howls woke everybody around. Lights went on.
Like me, it might have taken the other recruits some time to realize they were not having a nightmare at the sight of a body in flames spiraling between two bunks. Screaming too, they tried to help him.
I should have been the first, I know. But I couldn't. I couldn't have moved, if I wanted to. Watching fire spread across the mattress just feet away from my face, and the recruit revolving and wailing as everything above his shoulders went up in flames. I could feel the heat. The black smoke brought me the sickening smell of burning plastic, hair and flesh - but I don't remember coughing. I recall lying perfectly still. Terrified, I was paralyzed.
"Shit!" yelled one of the guys, stepping onto the wet floor right next to my bed, when he tried to help the recruit on fire.
I hadn't noticed the jet being so potent, as to not only drench my underwear and the bed, but to hit the floor and form a puddle.
"Shit! Fella here tried to put off the fire with his little hose!" He shouted, for everybody to listen. "Shit, mate!"
And that's how I became Whizz, The Firefighter, for the length of my time at the Army.
-III-
I drop to the floor. Not on my knees, because they still hurt.
I had wondered about the padlock, as the old lady tried to unlock it. Then, I recalled a friend of mine saying that in India the doors had no locks, but padlocks instead. Since Greece sometimes seems to me more the door to Middle East than the cradle of Europe, I judged to be collecting just another travel anecdote. The old lady, too - how could I have figured out she was so dangerously wicked?
She seduced me, and attracted me to their trap, I conclude. What an easy prey I must have been. She had called me darling how many times? Caressed my thigh, stroke my hair, kissed my cheek. But these are not the reasons why I was so stricken by Daniela.
Will she let them kill me? I wonder. Because I know the men are coming to get me. Not until full moon, perhaps. Am I to be sacrificed? Greece could be all leisure and pleasure for a tourist. Beaches, bars, clubs, cheap beer. But I have nonetheless been constantly haunted by an underlying mystery, emanating from centuries of mythological tales. Their characters, historical or not, seem to inhabit the landscape, the monuments and sites, even the sky. The Sea belongs to Poseidon, eagles and oaks remind of Zeus, the sun is Apollo's, the stars tell of Castor and Pollux and Andromeda and Perseus. They are always there, all around, populating everything that there is. Even if, only, as a possibility of the human imagination, in their powerful representations of creation - or destruction.
Now I am about to discover whether ancient rituals are still being carried or not. Had Greeks sacrificed only bulls to the Gods - or people, too?
Isn't the whole Minotaur story about that?, I recall, shuddering.
I am to simply disappear. Nobody knows where I am. Of course, my family and some friends know I am in Greece, but I have never sent a single postcard home, indicating I have arrived, even.
I have been warned, haven't I?
The kind man at the tourist office, from behind the awkward pulpit. He must have been an angel, trying to lead me to safety. The taxi drivers, who refused money to take me. Even the other men, who shooed me.
Overcoming the mountain, I must have trespassed boundaries. Haven't I felt it? Passing through the boulders to meet the beautiful view of the interdicted village after the curve - hadn't it felt like I was crossing a magical portal?
Not a heavenly portal, though.
I have always been cautious, since I was a small kid. I never jumped; I never threw myself on things, or at things. I would never take the front row or seat, and certainly not at the roller-coaster.
Only at the Army, where I became Whizz, The Firefighter, did I understand I was a coward.
But now I am not going to die without resisting my kidnappers.
My eyes having grown accustomed to the darkness, I raise to my feet. First thought is I should block the metal door. But the shelves are fastened to the walls.
I move to the next room, the one that is totally empty, except for my backpack lying dead on the floor - like I am soon going to be, myself.
I walk to the switch on the wall and, to my surprise, the naked bulb hanging at the center of the room gives light. My footsteps are clearly imprinted on the dusty floor - and to that sight, I sneeze again.
I immediately start planning how I could use them. Not to hang myself, certainly, though that might be still better than being tortured, sacrificed, eviscerated, raped. I shiver. Could I use the cord to lash my kidnappers, while throwing the bulb at them?
But that would leave me in the dark again. Pathetic.
That's when I see another door, painted with the same color of the walls.
My hand freezes on the handle. I close my eyes to open the door. But visions of mutilated corpses waiting in the next room make me open them again.
I open the door.
And I start crying.
I run across the room, towards another door.
It gives to a bathroom. The first thing I notice is a pair of awning windows close to the ceiling. They are big enough, and climbing on the bathtub I can easily squeeze through them. But what awaits me outside? Aren't we on the first floor? How high would I fall? And onto what?
I go back to the room, and check another door, between two windows, shut by Venetian blinds.
It is closed. I turn the key, applying force on the handle, guessing the door shall be blocked. It opens effortlessly.
Blinking, I step into the late afternoon sun, onto a long veranda, adorned with red and pink geraniums in white pots. The balustrade is white, too, which I follow until the stair. Running, flying several steps down at a time, I descend into the garden. Still running - for shelter - I cross it, jumping over beds of yellow and orange daisies, my feet dropping the petals of several red poppies - until where the orchard begins.
I look around. There is no one watching me from behind a wall, behind the tress.
Nobody shoots me as I venture farther into the orchard to pick an orange, maybe just pretending I am going to pick an orange - and instead, flee.
It is a lovely room.
Not a guesthouse's, though. Someone actually occupies the room, or used to.
A fair-haired young man, around my age, is seen on several framed pictures. In one of them, he is with the old lady, looking a few years younger. There is one of him standing before the Köln Cathedral. He is clearly not a victim, offered in sacrifice. He might be the lady's grandson, I'm guessing.
I take a cold shower, leaving the bathroom door open, and the windows and door to the veranda wide-open, too. I then dress quickly, putting my trunk underneath the cotton trousers, and am off to the village. Crossing the garden, I realize the front to the house is opposite where the kitchen was, and that's probably why the old lady used the iron stair as a short cut to show me the room. She might have explained how I would reach the bedroom - in Greek and German. I am ashamed, and relieved.
Thinking of nothing else but food, I check all restaurants. The town is closed. I wonder which one belongs to Daniela, or if that is another lie - and I am ashamed again, at doubting her.
Many things remain yet to be explained. The interdiction hasn't been lifted, as I am soon to find out.
The only open taverns overlook the main square, a recent addition to the new and touristic part of the village. The villagers glare at me with frank hostility, and I don't dare approach the taverns when I realize there is only men. Everywhere I look, it's only men.
My hands are trembling, my neck hurts, my heart is racing, I can't quite focus my eyes - so hungry am I. Eating the apple and chocolate Daniela has given me only opens my appetite, and my stomach revolves, disgusting noises like internal burps.
On a side street, a small grocery shop is my salvation. I stumble in, having overlooked the steps. Under the suspicious look of a silent, dour woman, I grab from the shelves whatever I think I can eat - and open. There are sardines and octopus in cans, but I won't be able to get to them, so I stick to crackers, yogurt, chocolate. And a jar of black olives. Dried figs and prunes - delicious as they might be, it will hardly suffice.
Once I have paid everything, the woman asks, "Hungry?"
My hands were trembling when I handled her the drachmas.
"Pretty much!" I say, already opening a package of crackers.
She puts her hand on mine, before I can bring the first cracker into my mouth, saying "Come."
Opening a curtain behind her, that reveals a long corridor, she beckons me to follow her.
Am I being paranoid when I hesitate?
I am. At the end of the corridor lays her kitchen. Opening pots and pans on the stove, she fills a soup plate with a little bit of everything there is - or rather a lot. Stuffed aubergine, potatoes, onions and sausages in tomato sauce, white rice with carrots in it, and fried minced meat balls topping all. It is an aromatic marvel and a miracle of textures, her food tastier than at many restaurants I've eaten around the country.
With a discreet smile, the woman observes as I eat, and I smile back. From behind a curtain, a small girl observes me, and when I smile at her she flees, to never reappear. The sound of television indicates her dwelling starts there -or where I am, already?
Having finished, I raise and ask, pointing at the empty plate. "How much?"
The woman is made angry at my question. She takes two steps and slaps my arm. But at my surprise and shock, she finally laughs.
"Now. You. Bitch." She says in English. Though the words are simple and short, they demand great effort from her.
"Yes, I want to go to the beach." I smile. I haven't changed my mind yet about swimming in the sea at night, under the full moon light. "Do you think the moon is out yet?"
"Yes. Moon. You. Bitch." And she shakes her hand in the direction of the long corridor, indicating I should get going.
I deliberately leave the things I've bought at the counter. I am not taking them to the beach - to the 'bitch' - and am supposing I can pick them up tomorrow. Wrong, again.
Remembering how disappointing the beach seen from the car looked, I am not impressed with the second harbor either, on the other side of the peninsula. Less touristic, but still too close to the road running in front of closed guesthouses and souvenir shops. Not the least inspiring, or poetic, to celebrate the full moon.
Having perused that postcard in Athens so intently, I can recall a small change of color and texture on the grey rock, that I took for a strip of sand on the tip top of the peninsula. Right on the side giving to the moon rise.
Hoping for a secluded beach, I head to the old town on the peninsula.
The problem is I have to cross the main square. At gathering dusk, it is packed with more men. Greek men, only. Just like Daniela told me, I am the single foreigner. I'm guessing the whole male population of the village is here. Sitting at the benches under the stately plane tree, or at the tables in the taverns. Mostly, going about the square and its side streets. They walk nervously, to the same rhythm of the moths hitting the street lamps. Many elders, a few teenagers, and all ages in between - each person who wears trousers in the village (and Greek women traditionally won't) has gathered here.
It's not a happy reunion, though. And certainly not a celebration. The atmosphere is thick with tension and expectation, as if something is about to happen.
And there is hostility, now, as I stride along the square trying to reach the single, pedestrianized street going into the old village. I am headed the same direction many men are, and I bow my head avoiding to detach too much from the crowd. I'm not taller, I'm not fatter - still I seem to sparkle, and as if my footsteps take sparks off the floor or resound, all eyes follow me.
A young man, around his thirties, coming from the opposite direction, bumps deliberately into me, his shoulder against mine, with so much violence that I gasp, losing balance.
"You are not welcome here." The words are spit, his accent right off the Brooklyn - or so I think, since I have never been to New York City.
"Why?" I ask, trying to sound friendly, massaging my shoulder.
"You are not one of us." He hisses. From his breath, he is a smoker.
I don't know what to reply to that. I realize other men closing in onto us, and again fear takes my heart. I mute.
"You don't have the right to be here." He insists.
"I thought Greece was a free coun-."
The guy pushes me. I wasn't expecting physical violence, and fall to the floor. Next, a guy spits on the pavement, and it almost hits my hand. Someone snorts, someone grunts, another cracks his knuckles.
Sensing the local gang is encircling me, and I am about to be lynched, when I spring to my feet I am already running away from the group, and off the square.
They just laugh, and won't chase me.
I recall having seen small lines of tracks on the sides of the peninsula. Going back to the second beach, wandering about the rocks, it is not hard to discern a trail between the shrubs, illuminated by the light of the moon that has come off already, on the opposite side to where I am. I see its glimmer grow above the canopy of the pines, like a distant, apocalyptic explosion. With a sense of urgency, I set off intently on the beaten path. Smells awaken as I brush past bushes of lavender, basil, rosemary , thyme. There are also marjoram flowers, and jasmine, rhododendrons, scented brooms - but I don't enjoy any of it. I'm in a hurry.
On my left side is the ocean, and up the slope are the fortified walls of the old village. The trail often forks, heading up into the town, but I stay on the path bordering the back of the houses, until I'm way past the original settlement.
To reach the other side of the peninsula, where the tiny beach is - or so I am guessing -, I have to cross the pine grove. I am not surprised when I find it populated with men. Obscurity ascertains their anonymity. But it is not a gay thing. They are not cruising. I don't see men engage with other men. And still, they walk all over, in the dark, like lost souls, and they are searching.
I stride among trees scenting to rosin. Trying to find a trail on the other side, going back and forth myself, I suddenly bump into one of the men.
"Hey!" He exclaims, immediately grabbing my arm.
I think I recognize him as one of the drivers of the cars up the mountain, though I can't say which one. Under the foliage, his face is a crisscross of silver and black, and so must be mine. But he seems to recognize me, tightening his grip.
"Hey!" He shouts, when I pull my arm with all my might, ripping the sleeve off my shirt, and dart across the grove.
"You!" His shout alerts other men, and the agitation in the woods seems to reach a frenzy.
Devising a space between the bushes on the other side of the grove, I try my luck, and jump. I might never have jumped like that before. As a child, if I were to jump, I'd place a pillow as a target.
I slide down a path of gravel, and stop from falling on the rocks and the sea below only because I grab a long branch, striping off its leaves in the process. Luckily, it does hold me.
Bending as low as I can, to keep myself the size of the bushes, I run between them.
Soon, I see what I want - the little stretch of sand down below, and the path descending to it.
It is not fine sand, but tiny pebbles.
Enveloped by fragrant bushes, I feel safe. I'm sitting at the edge of the sea, opposite to the trail where I emerged behind a rock, on the far side of the beach - although that means no more than a hundred feet, or less.
I've skinned my hands, and they hurt, but I have already cleaned them. Dipping them in the chilly, salty water, not only starts healing the scratches, but pacifies my heart, too.
I can still feel all the agitation and movement above me, in the woods. But nobody is coming after me, it seems. Still, I have just taken my sneakers off, and am no longer sure whether I will undress and bathe. Yet, I am considering that, if they do come after me, I'd better be in my trunks only, for I'd swim faster.
Before me, the full moon slowly rises over the ocean, to the left, where the peninsula ends in a sharp beak. It is no longer orange and immense, but still such a magnificent spectacle.
I am relieved. The feeling is I have escaped. Whatever is happening, or about to, is not taking place on this beach, but on the grove above.
Cautiously, I remove my shirt only. The sleeve is hanging by a thread, and ripping it off, decide to do the same with the other one. The noise, though, seems to reach the men in the grove, and the silence is suddenly audible. I freeze.
Then I listen to them - distinctly. Steps. On the trail coming towards the beach. Unmistakably descending the same path I have just ran on. But slowly, rhythmically. Not the whole army, just its best trained soldier. Armed?
I rise to my feet, swiftly taking my trousers off, like only a stripper would. I'll have to leave my clothes behind, if I want to save myself. Hiding the bundle in the bushes behind me, I descend to the edge of the rocks, getting ready to jump in the water.
The steps draw nearer, clearer. Suddenly, I am confronted with the problem of which direction to swim. I cannot probably go back to the town beach nearer to the port, where the men will be waiting for me. Trying to swim around the peninsula to the other harbor won't work either, as I expect it to be watched by another group of men. How long will it take for them to embark on their boats and chase me at sea?
What, then? I'm a good swimmer, and I love swimming underwater - but still.
No comments:
Post a Comment