The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 2

  A cloud of dust engulfed the taxi as it swirled in the open courtyard of the co-operative. The driver remained in the car. Theodore stepped into the thick heat; the air was on fire and the experience was dizzying. The cicadas went on and on and on… To his astonishment no one was in the dilapidated building which seemed to waver in the sun’s glare. Its exterior, an ochre shade, with countless patches where the white plaster had peeled, was covered with colourful and illegible graffiti. Most of the green paint of the two-paneled door had been stripped by the dampness from the nearby sea and the scorching sun, and a rusted chain held the panels together. Abruptly, Theodore’s body jerked backward as a lizard leaped over his loafers and then disappeared in the dried overgrown thistles. He steadied himself and noticed all the window panes were broken; he walked towards one and peeked inside, its dark interior was lifeless as a tomb.

  Disheartened with the building’s condition, Theodore pondered the fact that time had been so unkind to this place. Why was it abandoned? Did the beautiful building and its vivacity exist only in his memory and in the muted stones where lizards and snakes lurk? He wished his grandfather were here to explain it all to him; but his beloved papou had passed away five years ago. The death was a double blow for the young man: he lost the sagacious old man and he couldn’t afford to return to Greece for his funeral.

  Slowly, head lowered, Theodore reached the taxi again. “Drive straight ahead and turn left at the road’s end,” he directed the driver, “we’ll stop at the caféneon in the agora for some refreshments. I’ll stay there awhile, so just drop off my suitcases there too.”

  Within two minutes the road took a downward direction and Theodore’s low spirits faded when the endless Laconic Bay stretched out before them. The festive indigo sea sparkled as the sun’s rays illuminated its surface, resembling a flat mirror; calm, it projected a peaceful, lazy goodness. The colourful fishing boats, tethered to the pier, were motionless as if the sea had lulled them to sleep. On the dock the fisherman tended to their saffron yellow nets, and a flock of swans strutted in a straight line, imprinting an intricate design on the golden beach like delicate embroidery.

  The panoramic beauty was like a dream for Theodore. When the salty smell of smoke wafted in the air from a nearby fish barbecue, combined with the scent of the countless flowers around the town’s square, it sent him in a state of euphoria. And suddenly he knew that he had been here forever, that his ten-year absence had not happened.

  At the caféneon, facing the pier and the beach, Theodore did not find the gathering he expected. Only two villagers occupied one table inside the café playing tavli. Outside, Papa Gregory, Plitra’s priest; Kyrios Lukas, the schoolteacher and two of Plitra’s notables relaxed under the shade of an old gnarled eucalyptus tree sipping coffee. The only sounds that broke the stillness were the clicking of the dice on the backgammon board, the fan’s humming on the high ceiling and the cicadas’ singing. All four men fixed their eyes on Theodore from the moment he exited the taxi, received his suitcases and paid the driver, but they did not recognize him. As he walked closer to their table, one of the notables asked, “Is it you, Theodore?”

  “Yes, it’s me, glad to see you, sir.” They all got up, pulled another chair and asked him what he’d like to drink.

  “Just a lemonhada, please.” While his co-villagers made contact with the waiter, Theodore thought that they greeted him pleasantly, but not with the surprise he expected.

  “Where are you coming from, New York, Chicago…?

  “No, no, I’ve come from Toronto…, you know in Canada,” replied Theodore.

  “Oh, so you did not go to America like the other boys from our village,” said one of the notables with a slight incredulous tone in his voice and a strange glance which seemed to be saying: ‘what a pity you won’t become rich as the others who went to America.’ Silence ensued.

  “What year was it when you emigrated, my boy?” asked Papa Gregory.

  “In 1966, Pater, this is my first trip back home after a decade.”

  “So, you missed all the political turbulence we had here; you know that we lived under a military dictatorship for seven years,” declared Kyrios Lukas.

  “I heard my partner and other Greeks in Toronto talking about the military rule and I recall their concern, but personally, politics doesn’t interest me; it’s full of lies and betrayals.”

  “Yes, and what would you know about living under a dictatorship? All you migrants have a strange sort of mentality, a different attitude altogether. One could say that there’s something peculiar about all of you Diaspora folks; it’s as if you have your own ethnicity,” commented Kyrios Lukas, almost reproachfully.

  “What do you mean, sir? Do you not consider me a Greek? Was I not born here?” Theodore’s voice was hoarse—the kind of hoarseness that animates from a deep hurt and dries one’s mouth. Weariness spread throughout his body; he envisioned himself facing a firing squad, charged with treason. But the school teacher did not notice the wound he had inflicted on the young man, and did not answer the visitor; he merely slapped Theodore on the back in a condescending way and changed the subject.

  His hosts asked some more insignificant questions, but nothing specific about himself. Theodore was hoping they’d show some interest in what he did in Toronto, had he prospered? But to his disbelief, they kept mentioning the achievements of so and so who had gone to New York. Canada didn’t interest them, so he couldn’t tell them about all the opportunities it offered, its beautiful parks and houses, its welcoming libraries, all the cars… and all the other things he had rehearsed in his mind. In no time, the subject turned to politics again, and he stopped contributing to the conversation.

  All that rang in Theodore’s ears was the phrase you migrants have a strange sort of mentality. Was the schoolteacher right? The long yarn of the young man’s memory, which at times warmed his heart and at other times chilled it, had just plunged him into a pensive, almost melancholy state. Was he a mixed person, someone with two identities? He was an offspring of one country and yet found himself in the bosom of another; he didn’t belong to the country where he was born, but neither to the country where he was living now. Is this why he was referred to as a ‘Greek-Canadian,’ a half and half person who feels and is regarded as an outsider inside his own race? Was he their brother who is not really a brother because he was not brought up by the motherland?

  To change the subject Theodore mentioned to Kyrios Lukas that he had ordered maps and globes for all the classrooms in Plitra’s school and they should be receiving them shortly. The teacher rolled his beady eyes behind his round spectacles and said, “Too bad you did not write to me about it first, young man. We have so many maps and globes. Yanni and Paul, who returned from Brooklyn last month, brought soccer uniforms for the boys and volleyball uniforms for the girls.” Then, the teacher turned slightly on his wicker chair and started playing with his komboloi – amber beads strung on leather with a yellow tassel.

  Another setback, bordering on frustration, gripped Theodore, like someone who loses all hope after trying so hard. The joy of his return, which he had experienced just a few minutes before, had dampened considerably at the caféneon. All he wanted to do now was to see his parents. As he made his farewell, Papa Gregory asked him, “How long will you be staying with us my boy?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll stay about four to five months, Pater,” replied Theodore, without hesitation. He had pared his stay down by one or two months.

  “Be sure to come to our Ekklesia this coming Sunday, Theodore,” commanded Papa Gregory, “after our mass, we’ll hold a fundraising event for our church.”

  “You can count on my presence, Pater.”

  II

  The sight of his father, in his mid-sixties, white-haired, thin and swarthy, dressed in a black jacket, gave Theodore a rush, a rush of physical joy, the greatest joy of his life. And when the older man said, “let me have a good look at you, my boy,” and moved back from his son, there was
tenderness in his chestnut eyes, touched with admiration. This elated moment was truly worth the long trip back home thought the young man; not that he knew how long his delight would last, for he remembered his authoritative father usually kept his distance. But now his father’s voice sounded sweet, and it ran over the young man’s skin like some delightful goose pimples. Theodore’s crushing disappointment at the caféneon had melted away and all he felt now was a kind of happy effervescence.

  “Bring something to drink to our health, Penelope, hurry up!” demanded the host. Overcome with bliss, the minute woman with the minute face, hair pulled back in a bun, appeared disoriented. After hugging Theodore repeatedly, she was at a complete loss and lamented that she was unaware of his homecoming and had not prepared the appropriate dishes.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “tomorrow I will bake….”

  “Please don’t concern yourself with food, Mana; I came here to see you. Let me see you, dear Mana, and please let’s just enjoy this happy occasion.” And Theodore gave her another bear hug.

  “Remember what Papou used to say about happiness, it only has a present time; happiness has no tomorrow, it has no yesterday, it does not remember the past, nor does it look to the future. So come and sit by me, let’s treasure this moment.”

  While his parents fussed over him, Theodore surveyed the room of his ancestral home—the humble hearth, the chest in the corner, the decrepit wicker chairs, the red and white checkered vinyl tablecloth, and the photographs he had sent his parents scattered here and there on the bone-coloured walls. They depicted him in various scenes from Toronto’s annual parade along Danforth Avenue in celebration of Greek Independence Day, and other celebrations of feast days and Easter at Toronto’s St. George Greek Orthodox Church. He also noticed the calendar he had sent depicting a handsome Mountie on his black horse.

  Theodore continued to scrutinize the room, and finally announced, “We’ll buy some new furniture for the house,” and turned towards his father. “And maybe we can call a contractor to renovate it.” The old man did not respond immediately and Theodore knew it was his father’s way of expressing his silent disapproval. The silence of the house seemed to hang about them like a listening presence. And finally, “We’ve lived all our lives with these,” uttered his father, “why would you want to spend your hard-earned money, my son?” Theodore frowned at his father’s indifference and thought, ‘there he goes again disagreeing with me. It must be all those years on his back.’ But he refused to get into an argument with his father and in a few minutes the older gentleman stepped outside.

  Theodore looked at his mother who removed her spectacles, breathed on them and rubbed them with a corner of her apron.

  “Mana, bring me up-to-date about my friends, how’s Michael?”

  “Michael? My sweet, he immigrated to Australia!”

  “To Australia? When?”

  “Oh, about five years ago, I believe.” Theodore remained speechless, but the hurt he felt turned into incredulity in his eyes which seemed to be saying, ‘are you serious!’

  “What about Stefano?”

  “Stefano is gone, my dear boy, he’s settled in Athens, he’s married now.” Theodore did not expect this either, he was looking forward to spending some time with both young men. He felt an unusual tightness in his throat, but he found the courage to continue with the questions.

  “And…” he couldn’t mention the name, her name… But his crimson cheeks betrayed him.

  “Maria’s married in Molae. Her father found a well-to-do merchant,” uttered his mother, almost in a whisper. This unexpected reality startled the young man, but he faced it in the tender gaze of his mother’s moistened grey eyes whose affection was unbearable. Stifled, Theodore excused himself. He craved Greece’s fresh air and wanted to walk on her soil. Hurriedly, he mentioned that he was off to the cemetery to pay his respects to his Papou. But just before he reached the door, his mother grabbed his hand, caressed it and asked, “Tell me my sweet, how long will you be with us?”

  “I imagine around three to four months.” Another reduction from his original six months.

  III

  On Sunday morning, Theodore wore his finest dark suit, adorned it with gold accessories, and headed to Saint Nikolaos. The sight of the church, freshly painted with pure white lime, its blue shutters, its round dome and its beautiful courtyard with the tall cypress and palm trees, reminded the young man of the churches he had seen on glossy postcards. ‘A heavenly sight,’ he sighed.

  With the anticipation that all eyes would be on him that morning, Theodore entered the church with an air of seriousness. A quick glance at its interior gave him the sense of the familiar, including the candles, the incense and the fact that there was so much iconography. At the wooden partition, the ikonostasis, hung all the tama – votive offerings – in the form of little metal plaques engraved with images of feet, hands and eyes, in the hope that the holy powers will intervene to heal the sick.

  The worshippers were separated, with the pious old women to the left of the nave, mostly dressed in black, who crossed themselves repeatedly, and the men to the right standing idly. Under scrutiny, their eyes looked dead or vacant, or bright and birdlike but for the most part they seemed absorbed. To Theodore’s dismay no one noticed him. Their apathy created a kind of uneasiness in the young man, he found himself at odds with the local folks. And he had neither the skill nor the power to fight the forces of indifference. In his perplexity, he recalled the feast days in St. George back in Toronto where the entire interior of the church was decorated with daphnes and blue and white ribbons, the colours of the Greek flag. It seemed that all of Greece was there – the homeland in St. George was as bright as the sun, warm and faraway as he was; it was not earth, but an idea or a trance. And after every service when the worshippers gathered in the church’s meeting hall for coffee, he could see Greece in their glances, in their smiles and tears, in their songs and dances, and even in their gesticulations.

  After mass, Papa Gregory directed everyone towards the tables in the courtyard, set up under the shade of the cypress trees for the church’s fundraising drive. Behind the tables sat three volunteers and the worshippers formed three lines in front of each volunteer to make their pledges. Theodore stood at the centre line and when his turn came he offered one thousand dollars with a gesture of indifference like the man who was used to being generous.

  A group of worshippers surrounded Theodore afterwards and he invited everyone for coffee at the nearby caféneon. “Please order what you like, I’m treating today,” he announced proudly. During the course of the conversation when everyone thanked him and wished him good health and an enjoyable stay in Greece, someone congratulated him for his generous contribution to Saint Nikolaos earlier. But as soon as he had finished another one casually stated, “Yanni and Paul contributed two thousand dollars each last month.”

  “Don’t forget the two lads had returned from Brooklyn though,” piped up a third, “and you can’t compare Toronto with New York, which is the world’s commercial centre. Really, who has heard of Toronto, how could it compete?”

  “That’s true,” agreed a fourth, “New York is a more prosperous mega place.” And before Theodore could add a word, the entire conversation turned to New York, Chicago, and other American cities, and all the young men from Plitra who had settled there. Some referred to the money their sons or nephews had sent back home for the needs of their church; others reminded everyone of all the money their hospital and the Home for Seniors had received.

  To Theodore’s astonishment, he heard about the fortunes of other immigrants again, but he wasn’t given a chance to talk about The Elmwood, his restaurant which served more than five hundred people a day. The poor lad had assumed that he’d be the centre of attention, that Plitra’s folks would receive him with enthusiasm and respect as he talked about his new life in Toronto. Sadly, he learned that the people who had remained here were not impressed with large sums of money anymore;
they had seen it all before: their sons and daughters had sent them so many things, and described the various places abroad in detail. Their parents now sounded knowledgeable, as if they had visited these places themselves. Nothing surprised the villagers. The more tempted Theodore was to believe in his own importance, the more determined the villagers were making him feel his insignificance. Their apathy was the last blow to his pride.

  On his way back to his parents’ home, with his parents beside him, Theodore walked slowly and silently. He reflected why everything was rough now like the earth they were walking on, and so contrary to the way he remembered things. The passersby did not recognize him, nor did he know them. He was an unknown person, amidst unknowns, how could he fill his eyes and his soul with the past world? He had fantasized his return to be quite different, and the actual welcome he received saddened him. The image of the little village, molded in his mind over and over again no longer existed. From Toronto he had shaped his little village, animated it with the strength of his nostalgia and inhabited it with the faces which had resided in his memory. But time had swallowed this corner of the world and its people who had been frozen in Theodore’s mind. He now understood what his Papou had told him once: “Time, my boy, as it rolls along it covers things, hides them and distances them from our memory.”

  Theodore’s vacant days turned monotonously into weeks. His parents seemed older, tired and defeated, and their quiet manner annoyed him. His father like the other country folks worked in the fields, and the women who met Theodore in the street greeted him with a typical kalimera, then they lowered their eyes and went about their business. Dressed in his finest clothes, he sometimes visited the caféneon, but it was mostly frequented by older men who played tavli, sipped their coffee leisurely, smoked their pipes and talked about their children or politics. After a while Theodore stopped going there, for on many occasions he returned home without having exchanged a word with anyone. Occasionally, he hopped in a taxi and went to Molae’s National Bank to exchange his Canadian dollars into drachmas. There were no movie theatres and Theodore had nothing else to do; he found Plitra uncultivated and remote, and he felt lost and lonely. After dinner he would walk down the pier to gaze at the last gleams of the dying day, and when the quietness came over the night, he returned home, went into the garden and breathed the fragrant air before retiring.