ΤΟ ΜΕΡΩΜΑΝ ΤΟΥ ΠΕΛΛΟΗΛΙΑ

Το διήγημα αυτό αποτελεί ένα από τα δεκατέσσερα κεφάλαια της Νουβέλλας μου ΟΙ ΠΑΤΑΤΟΦΑΕΣ και βρίσκεται στην Κυπριακή Βιβλιοθήκη της Λευκωσίας.Η δράση και η όλη εξέλιξη της ιστορίας αποτελούν προϊόν μυθοπλασίας και δημουργήματα της φαντασίας του συγγραφέα και καμμία σχέση ή ομοιότητα έχει με πραγματικά πρόσωπα ή / και γεγονότα.>. ΤΟ ΜΕΡΩΜΑΝ ΤΟΥ ΠΕΛΛΟΗΛΙΑ

Ηταν η τρίτη εφτομάα του Απρίλλη. Οι βροσιές αναρκώσαν. Οί μέρες αννοίξαν τζι’ή πειρά του νήλιου αρκίνησεν να κάφκει. Εμυρολοήσαμεν Την Ταφήν τζι’εγιορτάσαμεν την Ανάστασην του Τζιυρίου με την τακτιτζιήν μας εβλάβιαν, τσάκρες, μάσκουλα, λαμπρατζιές, κότσιηνα αφκά, βλαούνες τζιαί τες σούσες μας που κρεμμάσαμεν πάσ’τους κλόνους των δεντρών. Τωρά έν’είσιεν τίποτε άλλον να καρτερούμεν εκτός που τ’ανώφελα κουνούπια που’ρκούνταν να μας φάσειν δείχα αλλαή κάχε γρόνον, τζιαί τους φόους της γρίππης που πάντα ερκούνταν τ’απισών τους. Μ’άξιππα έναν τζιουνούρκον τζιαί τέλεια ακαρτέριτον νέον εκρέπαρεν μέσ’την γειτονιάν τζι’έφκαλεν που μέσα μας που τζιείν’το φοητσιάρικον καρτέριν—ο Πελλοηλίας αρκίνησεν ν’αλλάσσει. Το κόλλημαν του παρατσουκλιού Πελλοηλίας πάνω του ήταν, το λλιόττερον, ένας ασσυχώριτος πολλαπλασιασμός. Ο άδρωπος έν’ηταν πελλός, άμμαν η τακτιτζιή εξήηση τζιείν’της λέξις εβάλλετουν στον νούν. Εν’ήταν ούτε τζιαί μισόπελλος, γιατί για εξέμιση που τες εφτά μέρες της κάχε εφτομάας ο Ηλίας έν’ήταν τζιαί τσα πολλά θκιαφορετικός που τους άλλους ούλλους αδρώπους της γειτονιάς, άλλον που τ’ανάστυμαν του—ήταν το λλιόττερον τέσσερα δακτύλια μακρύττερος που τον δέφτερον ψηλώττερον άδρωπον μέσ’την γειτονιάν που τύχαννεν νά’ν’ο τζιύρης μου. Μα άμμαν έρκετουν το Σάββατο το δείλις, ο άδρωπος εγενείσκετουν αγνώριστος—άμμαν εκόντεφκεν το δείμμαν του ο νήλιος του εστραωχόρεφκεν έσσω του που τους καφενέες στουππίν, έβαλλεν την γεναίκαν του Πεππούν του βούρου γυρόν-γυρόν της αβλής τους με μιαν βέρκαν τζι’ύστερα εκαλλίτζιεφκεν τον γάαρον του τζι’εγύριζεν την γειτονιά για να ξητημάσει τζιαί να θκιαολίσει όσους εσταβρώννα την στράταν του, πριν να στραφεί πίσω έσσω του πάλε τζιαί να το ρίξει στο τζιοιμήσην. Τζιαί τούτον εγενείσκετουν δείχα αλλαήν κάχε Σάββατον το δείλις για ούλλα τα γρόνια π’αθθυμούμουν. Ετσι κάτω πό’ναν περίτου δίτζιον λοαρκασμόν το παρατσούκλι που του ταίρκαζεν (θκιώννετουν) έπρεπεν νά΄ναι ο Δεκατεταρτοπελλοηλίας, τζιαί κόμα περίτου δίτζιαια, ο Νακκουρίν-πελλοηλίας. Μα τζιείνος πού’φκειν πρώτος με το παρατσούκλι έν’χε να τσάκκιζεν τζιαί τσα πολλά την κελλέν του πασ’ε’τέκκοιους λοαρκασμούς. Αντάσωρα’τζιεί, (ήνταλως τζιαί νά’ταν) τζιείν’τα δείλια του κάχε Σαββάτου ήταν ώρες φόου τζιαί τρόμου για την γειτονιάν. Αμμαν εκόντεφκεν το δείμμαν του νήλιου εμείς τα κοππελλούκκια εχαννούμαστειν πού τες στράτες τζι’οί γεναίτζιες ετραβούσαν τες πόρτες τζιαί τα παναχυρόφυλλα τζι’εβαωννούνταν έσσω. Πιλε ο θκειός μου ο Παναής επαραίταν τα κοψείματα τζιαί τα σιεπαρνείσματα του μέσ’την αβλήν του τζι’επάαιννεν να κουρρώσει έσσω. Μα μιάν τζι’έρεσσεν οι πόρτες εξαναννοίαν, τα παναχυρόφυλλα εκουνκιούνταν πίσω τζι’ούλλοι μας μέσ’την γειτονιάν εππέφταμεν πίσω μέσ’την καχημερινήν μας ζωήν τόσον γλήορα ήταν σάμ’που να μέν’εγένειν τίποτε. Τζι’ούτε πιλέ αναφέρνετουν, εκτώς μετ’όνομαν της Πεππούς, που για τες γεναίτζιες μέσ’την αβλήν μας ήταν η περίτου άτυχη τζιαί βασανισμένη γεναίκα της γειτονιάς τζι’εππέφταν η μιά πάσ’την άλλην ποιά εν’νά της δείξει την περίτου λύπην (συμπάθειαν), σάν’που τζιείνη η πελλάρα του Πελλοηλία ήταν έναν τόσον μιτσίν τζιαί καχημερινόν πράμαν έν’τ’αξιζεν πιλέ ούτε η αναφορά. Μα τωρά, γιά τρεία Σάββατα στην σειράν αντίς να μεχύση τζιαί να καλλιτζιέψη τον γάαρον του για να γυρίση την γειτονιά για να ξητημάσει τζιαί να θκιαολίσει όσους σταβρώνναν την στράταν του, ο Πελλοηλίας εξώκιαζεν τα κουλλουρωμένος μέσ’τον στάβλον του σάν’που νά’πασκεν π’αγιάτρεφτες τζιενκές. Ηταν τζιείνον που σουξούλισεν την γειτονιάν τζι’έωκεν αξίαν του Πελλοηλία. Τζι’εγιώ αίτρεμα τον, τζι’εν’νά’ταν λοϊκόν αν’τζι’εγιώ εσιαίρουμουν τωρά π’αρκίνησεν να’λλάσσει. Μα έν’ετσι πού’νοιωχα. Μόνον αιστάνουμουν μιάν οφτζιερκάν μέσ’την ψυσιήν μου—γιατί άντζιαι, σαν άδρωπος, ο Πελλοηλίας έκαμνεν με να τρέμω, για μέναν ήταν τζιόλας ένας άδρωπος που έν’να’αναγνώριζεν φόον, ένας άδρωπος που άμμαν ήταν μεχυσμένος κανένας, ούτε πιλέ ο Ηρωας Πολέμου, έν’ετόρμαν να τον καρτζιυνήσει, ο μιαλλίττερος μου ήρωας, ένας άδρωπος πού’χελα τζι’εγιώ να γενώ σαν τζιείνον άμμαν εμιαλίνησκα. Μα έν’απερπιστηκα γιατί εν’επίστεφκα καχόλου πως τζιείνη η αλλαή ήταν να του μείνει. Επίστεφκα πως εν’χε’νά’ρκαν να του περάσει, πως το άλλαμαν του πρέπει νά’σιει λοϊτζιήν εξηήσην τζι’ήντα πού’χα να κάμω ήταν να την ανακουτρέψω. Ετσι αρκίνησα να ρωτώ. Μά κανένας έν’εφαίνετουν να ξερει, η έν’εχελαν να μου πούν, έν’είμουν σίουρος ποιόν ήταν το σωστόν. Ετσι εκαλόκατσα πάσ’την μονασιητζιήν εξήησην πού’μπορα να φκάλω, πως τζιαί τζιείνος εν’νά’φοάτουν το ερκόμενον πλάτζιασμαν των ανώφελων κουνουπιών τζιαί μιαν τζι’έρεσσεν εν’να’ξαναγενείσκετουν ο ίθκιος φοερός μ’αφάνταστος άδρωπος πού’ταν πάντα. Μα αμμαν του το είπα, ο Αντώνης εχαχάνισεν μου μέσ’τα μούτρα,--το μυάλον κουνούπη έν’η σιηράτη Γούλλα, η τζιουνούρκα γειτόνησσα μας. Εκλεψεν την καρκιάν του τζι’ο πατσιόγερος εν’τόσον ερωτεμένος έν’ει’ξερει αν’πααίννει ή έρκεται. Επελλάριζεν ο Αντώνης πάλε, είμουν σίουρος. Πρώτα πού’λλα, είπεν την Γούλλαν γειτόνισσαν μας, άμμαν έπρεπεν να το ξέρει πολλά καλά πως έν’ηταν τίποτε που τζιείνον γιατί έν’ειρτεν να κάτσει με το μωρόν της Ελενάκι μέσ’την γειτονιάν μα μέσ’το όφτζιερόν σπίτιν στην άλλην μερκάν τ’Αη-Γιορκού που, αν συντηχάννεται σωστά, έππεφτεν π’όξω που τους αναόλους της γειτονιάς μας. Τζι’όϊ μονον τζιείνον. Είπεν την Γούλλα σιηράτην, πού’ταν αλλη’μιά πελλάρα γιατί που’τζιείνα π’άκουσα τζι’έμαχα ο άντρας της έν’ηταν πεχαμμένος τζιαί χαμμένος μέσ’το νεκροταφείον, σαν τζιείνον της σιηράτης Ελένης, μα έφυεν τζι’αφηκεν την που έν’την έκαμνεν σιηράτην μα χωρισμένην γεναίκαν, όϊ πως τ’όνομαν που της έωκεν έκοφτεν με τζιαί τσά πολλά κοντά στην άλλην τζιαί μιαλλίττερη πελλάρα που μού’πεν, πως α Πελλοηλίας, ένας αρκάδρωπος, εν’νά’φηννεν μιάν γεναίκαν να του κλέψει την καρκιάν του. Τζιείνον αποκλείετουν να το δεχτώ. Μα γιά’ναν η άλλον λόον, εν’νά’ταν τζιείνα π’άκουσα που τον Αντώνην που την’ε’κουρτίσαν μέσ’τον νούν μου γιατί ήταν που τζιαμέ τζιαί να πάει π’αρκίνησα να γυρέφκω να μάχω όσα περίτου έμπορα για την Γούλλαν, μπορεί για να’ώ αν’τζιείνα π’ακουσα που τον Αντώνην είχαν καμμιάν αλήκειαν μέσα. --Δεν ξέρω τίποτα γι’αυτήν, ήταν η απάντηση της μάνας μου.—Δεν την έχω συναντήση ακόμα. --Ηντα’που σού’δοξεν πάλε; ο Γιάννης ενεβρίασεν μου. --Για την σιυράτην. --Εν’εί’ξέρω τίποτε... Χάννου που δαμέ τζι’άησμαι ύσυχον. Τζι’αρώτησα τζι’άλλους, τζιαί τον Αντώνην, μα δείχα να μάχω τίποτε τζουνούρκον. Εν’να’ταν για τζιείνον πού’πα που’μέσα μου ότι εν’νά’ταν καλλύτερα αν’εξείαννα την Γούλλαν. Εκτώς που τζιείνον, ήταν τζι’η εποχή πού’χα άλλα τζιαί μιαλλίττερα τράβαλλα μέσ’στον νούν μου—με την κάχε μέραν πού’ρεσσεν το πλάτζιασμαν των κουνουπιών εσιηρωττέρφκεν τζι’εγιώ, σαν τ’άλλα ούλλα κοπελλούκκια, εξώκκιαζα τον περίτου μου τζιαιρόν ν’ανάφκω κοτσιροφωκιές για νά’βρω νάκκον παρηορκάν που τες δακκαμακκιές τους. Τζι’ήταν τζι’οι τζιαιροί που νϊωννούνταν πολλά που τα τρυφερά τζιαί ζουμερά αρκόχορτα, σοβαρή επόχεση φαγιού για μας τα κοπαιλλούκκια τζιαί καλή αλλαξιάν που το ψουμίν τζιαί πατάτες που τρώαμεν κάχε’μέραν, τζι’έπρεπεν να τσιαϊρέφκουμεν μέσ’τα χωράφκια για να τά’βρουμεν τζιαί να τα φάμεν. Τζι’ήταν τζιαί τζιείνον πού’καμνεν η Γούλλα. Η, άν’σωστά λαλείται, τζιείνον που έν’το’καμνεν. Αντζιαι εν’νά ρέξαν περίτου που τέσσερεις εφτομάες που την ημέραν πού’ρτεν, έν’την’εία νεκατωμένην με τες άλλες γεναίτζιες μέσ’την αβλήν μας. Τζι’έναν κόμα περίτου καχαρόν σημάην, μεσ’τζιείν’τον ούλλον τον τζιαιρόν έν’την’εία ούτε μιάν φοράν. Ετσι, μπορεί νά’ν’τζιείνον που την έκαμεν νά’ν ‘έξω που το δείν έξω που τον νουν’ για λλόου μου. Μα μιάν ημέραν εσσιάστηκα κάτι που μου τά κουάλησεν ούλλα πίσω--έναν δείλης, άμμαν επάαιννα γυρόν τών κοπριών της γειτονιάς γιά νά’θκιαλέξω τους κοτσιρογάουρους που’ρκάζουμουν να κρούσω πάσ’την καπνοφωκκιάν μου, εία τον Πελλοηλίαν τζιαί τον Μηνάν να τσακκώννουνται σαν τους αρκόκαττους μέσ’την αβλήν τ’Αη Γιωρκού τζιαί την Γούλλα να τους αμπλέπει που μέσ’ε’μιάν στενήν χαραμακκιάν πάσ’τα πορτούκκια του παναχυρκού της. Ούτε μέσ’τα αρκόττερα μου ορώματα εν’νά φαντάζουμουν να’ώ ήνταν που τ’αμμάκκια μου εμαρτυρούσαν. Τζι’οι κκυό τους ήταν τζιησούριες τζιαί φοητσιάριτζιοι αδρώποι, μα πάντα επωγυρίζαν ο ένας τον άλλον. Τωρά ετσακκωννούνταν σαν’τους αρκόκαττους, που μου λάλεν εν’νά’χαν πολλά σοβαρόν λόον. Μ’άντζιαι το δείν κκυό τέκκοιων άρκαδρώπων να πουνιαρίσκουν ο ένας τον άλλον δείχα φόον τζιαί λύπην έκαμνεν τ’ακτίπημαν της καρκιάς μου να παλαρίσκει, ήταν τζιαί πολλά επικύντινον τζι’έσκασα τα που τζιαχαμέ δείχα κολιαντίρισμαν (βαρυκώλιον’. Μα μέσ’τες λλίες μέρες που ρέξαν, με το πλάτζιασμαν των κουνουπιών να φτανηνίσκει τζιαί με τ’αρκόχορτα του τσιαηρκού μας να σκλερινήσκουν τζιαί να χάννουν την ζουμάαν τους τζι’είχα περίτου τζιαιρόν να καταρίψω, αρκίνησα να ανακαλύφκω πως, μητά του τζιείν’του ανεξήητου τσακκωμού μέσ΄την αβλήν τ’Αη’Γιωρκού άλλες τζιαί μιαλλίττερες παραξενειές εγενούνταν μέσ’την γειτονιά, με τ’αλλάματα που’στάνουμουν πάσ’τες γεναίτζιες που σωρεφκούνταν μέσ’την αβλήν μας να μέν’εν’ναι’ν’τα μιτσιόττερα. Ομπρίττερα οι γεναίτζιες ποττέ τους εν’αντραπούνταν να πούν ήνταν’πού’χαν μέσ’τον νούν τους. Τζι’ούτε τες έκοφτεν τζιαί τσά πολλα ποιός έν’νά τους άκουεν. Τωρά εσωρέφκαν τες κκελλέες τους τόσον κοντά τζι’εμουρμουρούσαν τόσον χαμηλά τζιαί μυστήρια έν’εμπορα ν’αρπάξω ούτε λέξιν ήντα’πουν’λαλούσαν. Τζιαί τζιείνη πού’ταν η περίτου αλλαμένη ήταν η Πεππού. Ούλλην μου την ζωήν έξερα την σαν’έναν φοητσιασμένον τζι’απερπισμένον πλάσμαν, μιαν γεναίκα που πιλέ εσυντήχαννεν με τ’αμμακκια της γυρμένα κάτω σαν’που ν’αντρέπετουν να καρτζιυνήσει κανέναν μέσ’τ’αμμάκκια. Τωρά ήταν σάν’που νά’βρεν έναν τζιουνούρκομαν που όϊ μόνον έωκεν της την εκτίμησην μέσ’τες γεναίτζιες της γειτονιάς έκαμεν την τζιαί να συντηχάννει τζιαί να χαχανίζει τόσον πολλά τζιαί γυνατά όσον τες άλλες ούλλες. Τζιαί τούτον, είμουν σίουρος, ήταν γιατί ο Πελλοηλίας όϊ μόνον έν’εγιατρέφτειν που τζιειν’την αλλαήν του, όπως επίστεφκα τζι’εκαρτέρουν να’ώ, έδειγνεν να ππέφτει περίτου βακκειά μεσ’τζιείν’την σούρταν της μοναξιάς τζιαί του πόνου δείχα να’θκιά σημάην πως εμάχετουν, ούτε πιλέ πως έχελεν, να φκεί που μέσα. Εμεινεν τόσον αλλαμένος που τζιείν’τον αρκόκαττον που δόξαζεν την ασέβιαν τζιαί την αθκιαφοράν γιά ούλλους μας μέσ’την γειτονιάν, κάχε φοράν που τον εχώρουν έλειεν’τον η μίλλα μου τόσον πολλά τ’αμμάκκια αρκέφκαν να τρέχουν. Εστηλλώννετουν μου. Ετσι αρκίνησα να κολιαντιρίζω (σπιουννέφκω) γυρόν των γεναικών για ν’ακούσω ήντα που’λαλούσαν. Τζιείνον αντάμεψεμεν με κάμποσες αφστυρές θκιαταγές που την μάναν μου, τζι’άμμαν τούτες έν’τα’καταφέραν να με σταματήσουν, μ’έναν πάτσον μεσ’τ’αφκιά που την Μιναρούν. Τωρά ένας πάτσος μεσ’τ’αφκιά είσιεν τες τζιενκές τζιαί την προσβολήν του, μα έν’ηταν τίποτε τζιουνούρκον γιά’ναν που νιώννετουν μέσ’έναν κόσμον που’πίστεφκεν το ραφτίν νά’φκειν που τον Παράδεισον τζι’ούλλοι εμπιστεφκούνταν το σαν το καλλίττερον δασκαλέματα για το σωστόν νίωμαν κοπελλουκκιών. Ετσι όϊ μόνον έν’εσταμάτησεν το σπιουνίκκιν μου, εγύρισεν ούλλον το χέμαν σ’έναν οχτρόν πού’πρεπεν να τον νιτζιήσω, τζιαί μέσ’τες ερκόμενες λλίες μέρες εκατάφερα να αρπάξω λλία παράξενα κομματούκκια κουβέντας σαν, η σιηράτη καταπείννει αδρώπους σάν’τα λοκούμια, η σιηράτη εν’σάν την σιύλλαν που τρέσιεται, ο νούς τους αδρώπους κρέμμεται μεσ’τ’ασσιέλια τους, ούλλοι οι αδρώποι εν’σαν τους ξαπώλητους σιύλλους που’έν’τα καταφέρνουν να αντισταχούν τες εβοθκιές μιας σιύλλας που τρέσιεται, που μονιχά τους έν’εσημαίναν τζιαί τσα πολλά για λλόου μου. Μα άμαν τά’σμια με τζιείνα που μού’πεν ο Αντώνης, εμπείαν μέσ’τον νούν μου μιαν ζωφφήν, μα πολλά εξαφτιτζιήν, γνώμην πως οι γεναίτζιες εσυντηχάνναν γιά το ήντα που τζιείνες εκάμναν με τους αντράες τους, τζιαί κόμα περίτου πληρεξούσειμα, ήντα’που ο Πελλοηλίας έκαμνεν με την σιηράτην. Μα, ως τζιαμέ, τζιείνα πού’ξερα πάσ’τούντα πράματα έν’ηταν περίτου που τζιείνα π’ανέμισα πό’ξω που τα βρωμόλοα π’ακουσα τον Αντώνη τζιαί τ’άλλα, μιαλλίττερα μου κοπελλούκκια να λαλούσειν τζι’ούλλα εμείναν τουλουππισμένα μέσ’σ’έναν πολλά μυστήριον κορνιαχτόν που ούλλον τζι’ετσίλλαν με να πάω τζιαί να πω της μάνας μου να μου το εξηήσει. Μα ως τζιεικάτω ούλλα τζιείνα επιάσαν τζι’έναν αέραν προστυσιάς, που τα κούντισεν μεσ’τζιείν’τον απαγορεβμένον τόπον που μου λάλεν πως η μάνα μου εν’να’χώρεν τέκκοια ρωτήματα που μέναν σαν ‘βρωμώλογα κι’αγένειες’ τζι’αντίς να μου τα εξηήσει εν’νά μ’αντάμεφκεν με κκυό-τρείς πάτσους πάσ’την κελλέν για την ‘αναίδειαν’ μου. Ετσι εβούλλωσα το στόμαν μου, μ’ούλλες τες ορπίες μου βαρμένες πάσ’το ρέξειμον του τζιαιρού να ξεκιαλύνει τα πράματα για μέναν. Μα η υπομονή (βάσταγμαν) έν’ηταν ποττέ της μιά που τα αξιώματα μου τζι’όσπου η μέρες ερέσσαν τζιείν’τ’αλαβρόν τερπιέ που’κατάφερα να βάλλω πασ’τζιείν’το εκκρηκτικόν σιηλάριν, καμωμένον που σιεητταννίκκην τζι’ορμήν, αρκίνησεν να γλυάζει που τον τόπον της. Ετσι έναν δείλης επεία στον Γιάννη. --Ηντα’που χαρκέσαι έν’η σιηράτην Γούλλαν, ρε Γιάννη, αρώτησα τον μήσιημου να μέν’μ’εκοφτεν καχόλου. Ο Γιάννης εδείκλησεν να με δεί μ’αρπαμένα αμμάκκια τζιαί με την μούρην του να κοτσιηνίζει, σάν’που το ρώτημαν μου έμπειξεν μέσ’την κελλέν του μόνον έξαψην τζιαί νεκατωσιάν. Μα τζιείνον έν’εξεκιάλυνεν την κατάστασην για λλοου μου, έτσι είπα του ήντα’που τού’πα τοροπής. --Αν’τύχη τζιαι κοντέψει μου καμμιάν φοράν, έν’χε να μ’έκοφτεν καχόλου άν’τζι’εγιώ εσιουμάλιζα νάκκον τα πυπόνια της, αναστέναξεν αντροπιαμένα τζιαί μ’έναν παράξενον φεντζιασμαν μέσ’τ’αμμάκκια του. Πυπόνια! Η σιηράτη εγιώρκαν πυπόνια; Μα όσπου νά’βρω τα σωστά λόγια για να τον αρωτήσω επιάαν τον Γιάννην κάτι νέβρα αρκίνησεν να μου φακκά πάτσους άσ’την κκελλέν. –Να μάχω έναν τσακροπιτίλλην σαν’εσαί’ναν να νεκατώννεται μεσ’έτσι βρωμωδουλειές, εμουχούνεισεν μου την εξήησην άμαν τζι’αρκίνησα να μουνκαρίζω. Μα ύστερα που κόμα λλίους πάτσους, εσταμάτησεν να με δέρνει--αν’τ’ανάωξεν γιατί εμουνκάριζα, η γιατί επεριφάνεφτικεν που τον εθεώρουν τόσον ψημένον που να ξέρει τέκκοια μυστήρια πράματα, έν’εμπορα να πώ. Οπως τζιαί νά’ταν, ύστερα που λλίον βαθύν συλλοησμόν άρκεψεν να εξημολοάτε πως πολλοί που τους αδρώπους αγαπούσαν την σιηράτην τζιαί πως έν’για τζιείνον που οι γεναίτζιες της γειτονιάς αζουλέφκαν της. Αντζιαι επίστεφκα πως ο Γιάννης έκαμνεν όσα έμπορεν για να μου εξηήσει έναν μυστύριον που ολοκάχαρα του έθκιαν μόνον έξαψην, η εξήηση του ούτε με βοήχεισεν να καταλάβω ούτε με παρηόρισεν καχόλου. Τζιείνον πού’χελα να μάχω ήταν ήντα’που οι γεναίτζιες εκάμναν με τους αντράες τους, τζιαί κομα περίτου ήνταν’που ο Πελλοηλίας έκαμνεν με την σιηράτην, τζιαί γιατί οι γεναίτζιες αζουλέφκαν τζι’έμισούσαν την σιηράτην γιατί είσιεν αδρώπους που την αγαπούσαν. Από’σα έξερα ο τζιύρης μου αγάπαν με τζι’εμέναν, τζιαί κανένας έν’με’μίσαν για τζιείνον. Τζι’έχελα να τον ρωτήσω μα ύστερα που τζιείν’τους πάτσους πάσ’την κελλέν εσκέφτκα αν’μεν’μου’συφφέρισκεν περίτου να μέν’κουντίσω την τύχην μου μακρύττερα τζιείν’την ώραν. Ετσι έφαα το ξύλον δείχα να μάχω τίποτε παραπάνω πασ’τζιείν’το μυστήριον πού’κρουζεν την καρκιάν μου. Μα την άλλην Τζιυρκατζιήν μια τζιουνούρκα εφκαιρία αννοίχτεικεν ομπροστά μου, άμμαν άκουσα την μάνα μου να λάλει του τζιουρού μου πως’εν’νά πάαιννεν να επισκεφτεί την σιηράτην. --Για να την καλωσορίσω μέσα στην γειτονιά μας, εξηησεν του μ’έναν παράξενον γιελιούϊν. Αξιππα, τ’αμμάκια του τζιουρού μου εστυλλωχείκαν πάνω τζιαί τζιείνος τζι’η μάνα μου αρκινέψαν να καχείσκουν κρυφές αμμακιές ο ένας τ’άλλου πoυ μου’λαλούσαν πως τζιείνοι οι κκυό έν’να’ξέραν καμμιάν μυάλην αβανιάν για την Γούλλα τζι’έν’εχελαν να την ξωμολοηχούν ομπροστά μου. Τζιείνα εταβρείσαν μιάν τζιουνούρκαν τζιαί περίτου κυρτιλλωτήν σηλλουρκάν γυρόν ούλλης τζιείν’της υπόχεσης--για λλόου μου η Γούλλα ήταν πάντα έναν κομμάτιν τζιείν’του μυστηρίου μα ως τζιαμέ το κομμάτιν της πάντα έρκετουν δέφτερον τζιαί πουκατινόν τζιείνου του τζιυρίου παίκτη, πού’ταν ο Πελλοηλίας. Μα τωρά, τζιείνες οι κρυφές αμμάκκιες που οι γονιοί μου εθκιούσαν ο ένας τ’αλλου, εκουαλήσαν την Γούλλαν που’μέσ’τζιείν’τα κατάγυρα τζι’εφυτέψαν την τέλεια μέσ’την μέσην, που φόρτωσεν περίτου γομάριν πάσ’την πίστην μου τζι’έκαμεν την να μιαλύνει, πως αν’μέν’εμαχεννα πολλά περίτου για την Γούλλαν το μυστήριον πού’ταν η αλλαξιά του Πελλοηλία έν’χε’να λειέτουν. Τζι’όϊ μόνον τζιείνον. Επόχουν τόσον πολλα να’ώ που κοντά τζιείν’την γεναίκαν πού’μπορεν να συκώσει τόσην πολλήν νεκατωσιάν μέσ’την γειτονιάν, τζιαί που κατάφερεν να κλέψει την καρκιάν του Πελλοηλία, άντζιαι κόμα έν’ειμουν καχόλου σίουρος πόσην αλήκειαν τζιείνον είσιεν μέσα. Ετσι άρπαξα την εφκαιρίαν να κολληχώ τζι’εγιώ πασ’τζιείν’την επίσκεψην της Γούλλας. Η μάνα μου εφώναξεν το όνομαν της που την αβλήν τζι’η σιηράτη έβκειν έξω για να μας καλωσορίσει. Την μόνην φοραν που την εία ήταν, άμμαν εχώρεν το τσάκκωμαν του Πελλοηλία τζιαί του Μινά μέσ’την αβλήν τ’Αη’Γιωρκού που μέσ’τζιείν’την μιτσιάν σιησμαθκιάν πάσ’τα μισοβαωμένα φυλλαράκια του παναχυρκού της, έτσι είπα που’μέσα μου πως τούν’την φοράν έπρεπεν να της δώ πολλά καλλίττερα άντζιαι έν’ειχα καμμιάν ιδέαν ήνταλως έπρεπεν νά το κάμω η ήνταν’που εκαρτέρουν νά’βρω. Μπορεί νά’ταν που’τζιείνον γιατί η πρώτη μου αμμακκιά πάνω της εχάντωσεν με τόσον πολλά. Τζιαί το περίτου που τζιείν’την χαντοσιάν έφκειν που το πόσον μιτσιά μου’φάνικεν, όϊ τζιαί πολλά μιαλλίττερη που την Τίναν, την πρώτην κόρην του Πελλοηλία. Μ’αντίς την Τίναν, που η πέτσα της μούρης της ήταν βουλλωμένη που την εβλογιά τζι’ήταν τόσον ξεραντζιάρισσα, ψηλή τζιαί πιττακώκκελλη έμοιαζεν νου φουρνόφτζιου, η σιηράτη ήταν κοντοκόλα, στροντζιυλωτή τζιαί με μιαν τόσον κοτσιηνιστήν πέτσαν πάσ’την μούρην της αθθύμιζεν μου το κοτσιηνίσματα πάσ’τον κολούκκια των πομιλορκών πριν να ψημένα για να κόφκουνται. Τζι’είσιεν τζι’έναν άλλον που την έκαμνεν πολλά θκιαφορετιτζιήν που την Τίναν. Ηταν έναν μάβρον μουστακούϊν που κάσ’την μούττην της, που’χάννετουν κάχε φοραν που’γέλαν--τζι’εγέλαν ούλλην την ώραν. Ούλλα εδείγναν μου την νά’ν’πολλά μιτσιά, μόνον νάκκον μιαλλίττερη που μιάν κοπελλούα, για νά’ν’παντρεμένη, χωρισμένη που τον άντραν της τζιαί μάνα μιάς μιτσιάς κόρης, δείχα του νά’ναι τζιαί τόσον δυνάμενη που να μπόρει να κλέψει την καρκιάν νου αρκαδρώπου σαν τον Πελλοηλίαν. Μα, ολοφάνερα, η Γούλλα ήταν ούλλα τζιείνα, μιά πολλά θαβμαστή λίστα. Μα τζιείνον πού’μπεικεν το περίτου βακκειά μέσ’τον νούν μου ήταν η εβοθκιά της, που στην ορμήν, γλυκασιάν τζι’εφκαρίστησην, έρεσσεν πιλέ τζιαί τζιείνης μιάς ανθισμένης πορτοκαλιάς.. Μα τούτα ούλλα έν’εκαλάραν, ούτε εμέναν ούτε το σπιουνίκκιν μου. Αντζιαί επεία τζιαμέ γυναξιήτικα, να κραείσω τον νουν μου μονότοπα για να μάχω όσα περίτου έμπορα για την σιηράτην, μα η μυρωκκιά της, τζιείν’το μουστακούϊν της που’φαίνετουν τζι’εχάνετουν που που’κάσ’την μούττιν της ούλλην την ώραν, εσυκώσαν τόσα πολλά παρακιάνταλα τζι’εξαφτικά αιστήματα που’μέσα μου, αιστήματα που έν’τα ξαναγνώρισα ποττέ μου, εκάμαν τον νούν μου να γυρίζει γυρόν-γυρόν τόσον γλήορα έν’μπορα να κάμω τίποτε άλλον που να στέκουμαι τζιαχαμέ σαν τον κούκον τζιαί να χάσκω πάνω της με ζωφφομένα αμμάκκια τζιαί την σαούναν μου κρεμμασμένην. --Τ’όνομαν μου είναι Μαρία, είπεν της η μάνα μου, και το σπίτι μου είναι εκεί πέρα, δίπλα στον δρόμον. --Εφχαριστήχεικα πάρα’πολλά πού’ρτες Μαρία, η Γούλλα είπεν, μ’αλλό’ναν που’τζιείν’τα γλυτζιά γελιούθκια της να κάμνουν το μουστακούϊν της να’ξαφανιστεί πάλε. Εμπάτε έσσω. Η μάνα μου εφκαρίστησεν την μ’έναν εφκενεικόν γύρμαν της κκελλές της τζι’έππεσεν τ’απισών της Γούλλας. Μα εγιώ έν’τα κατάφερνα να πιάσω ούτε μιάν πακκιάν, τόσον ζαλισμένος τζιαί φοητσιαμένος είμουν πως αν ετάρασσα που τζιαμέ εν’νά’βρεχώ αμπρούμουττα πάσ’τες πλακατζιές της αβλής. --Ενόμιζα πως ήθελες να έρθεις, η μάνα μου εμουχούνεισεν σαν μου κάχεισκεν έναν ειρωνεφτικόν δείν που πασ’τον νόμον της. Εχελα τόσον πολλά να πάω τζιαί να μπω έσσω της. Τζιαί κόμα περίτου ήνταλως να της το δείξω, μα όϊ μόνον τα πόκκια μου μα τζι’η γλώσσα μου κόμα αρνιούνταν να κάμουν ήντα’που τους ελάλουν. --Ατζιαπείς σου αντρέπεσαι, κότζια’μου κοπέλλην σαν’τζι’εσέναν, η Γούλλα εγύρισεν να μου πεί μ’έναν γλήορον δείν που που’πάνω που τους παχουλλούς της νόμους τζιαί μ’ένα γλυτζιήν γελιούϊν πού’καμεν το μουστακούϊν της να ξαφανιστεί πάλε. Για έναν η άλλον λόον, τζιείνα εγιατρέψαν την ζαλάαν μου τζι’εξομανκώσαν την γλωσσαν, τζιαί τα πόκκια μου. --Εν’αντρέπουμαι, άρρωσα της άσκεφτα σαν έπιανα μιαν γυναξιήτιτζιην πακκιάν ομπρoστά μου. Αμμαν τζι’είμαστειν μπαμένοι έσσω, η Γούλλα έβαλεν τσαέρες νάκκον αππό’σσω της πόρτας τζι’επροσκάλεσεν μας να κάτσουμεν. Μα αντίς να κάτση μητά μας, τζιείνη επείεν μέσ’την γονιάν πουτζιείττε μιας σιερένης σούσας, τζιειμέσα που εν’νά’τζιοιμάτουν το μορών της, τζι’άρκεψεν να κάμνει κάτι, που μού’ωκεν τον τζιαιρόν να’ώκω μιάν φκιαστητζιήν εξέτασην του σπικκιού της--το ξύλαινον τραπέζη, οι λλίες τσαέρες, το πουρόν με το γυαλλίν της νοσσιάς πάνω, οι καδρωμένες φωτογραφίες που κρεμμούνταν πάσ’τους σπρογιασμένους τοίχους, πιλέ η σιερένη σούσα που τζιοιμάτουν το μωρόν της μέσα, ήταν έπιπλα τζιαί πατσαρίτζια που’βρεισκούνταν μέσ’ε’πολλά που τα σπίκκια της γειτονιάς. Μα όϊ η καρκόλα με τες κουνουπιέρες που την πουτζιείττε μερκάν τ’αννοιμένου παναχυρκού, π’αρπαξεν το δείν μου. Εν’εία ποττέ μου έτσι πράμαν. Ηταν τόσον μυάλη εγέμωννεν το μισόν σπίτιν τζιαί με τον νήλιον, πού’ρκετουν που τ’ανοιμένον παναχύρην, να πέφτει πάνω της, οι μπρούντζιηνοι στύλλοι της εγυαλλίζαν τζι’εμιτσοκαμμούσαν μου σάν’που νά’ταν καμωμένοι που γρουσάφι. Τζιαί στρωμένον πάνω της έν’ηταν το παμπατζιερόν πάπλωμαν που βρείσκετουν μέσ’άλλα σπίκκια, μά’ναν ταντελλένον σιέπασμαν με τόσα πολλά σκέδια τζιαί τζιυρτζιηλλούκκια πάνω έν’έμπορα πιλέ να τα μετρήσω. Τζιαί που πάσ’τζιείν’την καρκόλαν ανεμίζετουν η ίθκια εβοθκιά μιάς ανθισμένης πορτοκαλλιάς π’ανεμίζετουν που πάσ’την σιηράτην. Το τράβειμαν τους τζιείνους ούλλους ήταν τόσον δυνατόν κόμα έν’ει’ξερω ήνταλως τα κατάφερα να κραείσω τες άουρες ορμές μου πίσω τζιαί να μεν πάω να τζιυλιστώ πασ’τζιείν’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν—μπορεί νά’ταν η Γούλλα που με γλείτωσεν που’τζιείν΄τ’αβάνιν γιατί σαν επάλεφκα μητά τους τζιείνη εξετζιήνησεν πάλε που την γωνιάν τζι’αρκίνησεν νά’ρκεται κατά πάνω μας μ’έναν ξύλαινον δίσκον πάσ’τα σιέρκα της.. Πάσ’τζιείν’τον δίσκον εχώρουν πιατούκκια με σπικκιάσιμον γλυκόν, το καχ’έναν με το δικόν του κουταλούϊν τζιαί καντίλαν με νερόν, το καχημερινόν τραττάρισμαν που μόνον επροσφέρκετουν στους μυάλους επισκέφτες. Μα άμμαν τζι’είρτεν κοντίττερα, εία ολοκάχαρα πως πάσ’τζιείν’τον δίσκον έν’ηταν κκυό πιατούκια μα τρεία, που για λλόου μου εσήμαινεν πως με θεώραν τζι’εμέναν μυάλον. Τζιείνον επεριφάνεψεν με τόσον πολλά, έχελα να της δείξω πως εσκέφτικεν σωστά, πως αληχεινά είμουν μυάλος τζιαί με τες εφκένειες τζιαί σειράν που γιούταν, μα πάνω’σ’άνεμον οι σαούνες μου εμανγκώσαν πάλε τζι’εν’ν’εμπορα να φκάλω λέξιν. --Εσσ’αρέσκει το γλυκόν, η Γούλλα αρώτησεν μ’αλλό’ναν γλυτζιήν γελιούϊν, με την μάναν μου να’τ’ακολουχά μ’έναν αφστυρόν δείν πάνω μου. --Ναί. Εν’πολλα καλόν, εμάσσεψα ύστερα που κατάφερα να κουντίσω κάτω τ’αμάσητον κουάρι του γλυκού πού’ταν κολλημένον πάσ’τον ουρανίσκον μου. Η μάνα μου έωκεν της Γούλλας μιαν που’τζιείν’τες αμμακκιές πού’ν’ηταν έφκολον να εξηήσω, πριν να γυρίσει τζιαί να με δεί εμέναν μ’έναν παράξενον γελιούϊν να παραμορφώννει τα σιείλει της. Τζι’ύστερα που τζιείνον είπεν κάτι για το μωρόν τζι’ή Γούλλα επείεν χορεφτή στην σιερένη σούσαν, έφκαλεν το μωρόν της που’μέσα τζι’έφερεν το για να το βάλει μέσ’τ’ανκάλια της μάνας μου. Τζιαί για κάμποσην ώραν έν’εκαμναν τίποτ’αλλον που αγούκκια, καμώματα τζι’άλλες μωρίστιτζιες κουβέντες με το μωρόν, παιγνίκκια τζιαί μασκαραλίκκια πού εγιώ ποττέ μου έν’τους έθκιουν τζιαί τσα πολλύν αφτίν. Μα τζιείνον που με νεβρίαζεν το περίτου, εκάμναν τα τζιείνα ούλλα ομπροστά μου τζιαί σαν’που να μέν’ήμουν τζιαμέ καχόλου. Εκατζιώχεικα με τζιείν’το μωρόν. Μα άμμαν επιάσαμεν την στράταν πίσω, εξανάβρα λλίον που τον πούσουλαν μου για να ρωτήσω την μάναν μου αν η Γούλλα ήταν πολλά αρκόντισα. --Και γιατί ρωτάς; --Γιατί πρέπει να’ν’πολλά αρκόντησσα για νά’σιει μιαν τέκκοιαν θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν, εξήησα της συλλοησμένα. Μα η μάνα μου μόνον επωτάνεισεν τα σιείλει της, δείχα να φκάλει λέξιν. Αν’ει’λοαρκάζω μόνον κέρτος, τζιείν’το σπιούνικκιν μου πάσ’την Γούλλαν έν’μου’ωκεν καχόλου. Ως έναν σημάην εσιηρωττερέψεν τα πράματα για μέναν γιατί όϊ μόνον έν’εμαχα τίποτε τζιουνούρκον που τζιείν’την επίσκεψην, τωρά είχα τζιαί να καρτζιυνείσω τζιείνα ούλλα τ’ανεξήητα αιστύματα που μού’ωκεν η Γούλλα, η μυρωκκιά της τζι’ή θαμμάσια καρκόλα της. Μα έν’άρκισεν νά’ρτει η παρηορκά. Γύρισ’ημέρα το δείλις, σαν επάαιννα να παίξω με τα κοππελλούκκια πού’ταν που’κάσ’τες τερατσιές της αβλής τ΄Αη’Αντρόνικου, άκουσα θκιαολιές τζιαί ξητημασιές ν’άρκουνται που πό’σσω του Πελλοηλία. Τζι’ούλλα ακουούνταν τόσον γνωστά, εσιουρέψαν με πως ο Πελλοηλίας εγιατρέφτειν που την αλλαήν του. Ετσι αρκίνεισα να βαρυκολιώ κατάγυρα της καμαρώπορτας του, σίουρος πως εν’χε’νά’ρκουν να τον δω να φκέννει καβαλλητζιεμένος πάσ’τον γάαρον του. Τζι’ύστερα που νάκκον έκαμεν τζιείνον που καρτέρουν. Μα αντίς να γυρέφκει πλάσματα για να τους κκιαολίσει τζιαί να τους ξητημάσει σαν ομπρίττερα, ελάμνησεν τον γάαρον του ολόϊσια στην κατέφτισην τ’Αη’Γιωρκού. Αντζιελοσιασμένος ήντα’που λοάρκαζεν να κάμει τζιεικάτω, τζιαί θαρρούμενος που την μυστιτζιήν ορπίαν να κλέψω λλίες αμμακκιές πάσ’την σιηράτην τζιαί να ρουφίσω μέσα νάκκον που τζιείν’την μεχυστητζιήν εβοθκιάν, άφηκα τον να πάει νάκκον ομπροστά πρίν να ππέσω τ’απισών του. Επείεν να μπεί ολόϊσια μέσ’την άβραχτην αβλήν της σιηράτης τζιαί ν’αρκινήσει να βουννά ξητημασιές τζιαί κατάρες πάσ’το σπίτιν της. Τζι’ύστερα που νάκκον η σιηράτη έφκειν πό’σσω της τζι’επείεν να του συντήσιει. Τζι’ύστερα που αλλο’νάκκον ο Πελλοηλίας ήταν ξεκαβαλλητζιεμένος που τον γάαρον του τζιαί να πααίννει τ’απισών της σιηράτη, με τες κατάρες τζιαί τες ξητημασιές του κόμα να σιείζουν την σταλωσιάν. Μα μιάν τζι’οί κκυό τους ήταν μπειμένοι έσσω οι κατάρες τζι’οι ξητημασιές έν’ακουούνταν πιόν. Τζιείνον έν’τό’βρεισκα δύσκολον να εξηήσω ήνταλως η Γούλα εκατάφερεν να βωβώσει τον φοερόν Πελλοηλίαν άμμαν ήταν μεχυσμένος, που ομπρίττερα κανένας άλλος έν’τα κατάφερνεν να το κάμει. Μα μιάν τζιείν’το σπιουνίκκιν μου έιρτεν πίσω τζι’αθθυμίχεικα ήντα’που η μυρωκκιά τζι’ή θαμμάσια καρκόλα της σιηράτης εκάμαν μου εμέναν, είμουν τέλεια σίουρος ήνταλως η σιηράτη εκατάφερεν να τον μουλλώσει—ολοκάχαρα άφηκεν τον να πά’να’τζιυληστεί πάσ’τζιείν’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν της, τζι’εν’νά’ταν τζιείνον τζιαί τα αιστύματα που νεκατώσαν που’μέσα του που μανγκώσαν την γλώσσαν τζι΄έν’εμπορεν να φκάλει άλλην λέξιν. Τζιείνα επιρκολείσαν που’μέσ’μου μιαν τέκκοιαν φοερήν αζούλαν εναντίον του Πελλοηλία για πρώτη φοράν εμίσουν τον μ’ούλλην μου τηεν καρκιάν. Τζι’έν’είμουν μονιχός μου που πειράκτικεν με το ήνταλως τα πράματα εγυρίσαν. Ούλλα τα αιστύματα της γειτονιάς αρκινήσαν α σιηροττερέφκουν, γιατί τωρά, όϊ μόνον οι γεναίτζιες μέσ’την αβλήν μας εχάσαν τζιείν’τον φόον ν’ακουστούν, εφωνάζαν την Γούλλα μιαν πωκιάντροπην πουτάναν που πρόσβαλλεν την τιμήν ούλλων των γεναικών της γειτονιάς τζι’ούλλες εμαχούνταν ποιά εν’νά’ν δείξει την περίτου καλοσύνην της Πεππούς τζιαί ποιά να δείξει ήταν το περίτου ανκρισμένη τζι’ορκισμένη με το ήνταλως τα πράματα εγυρίσαν. Πιλέ άκουα τες ν’αναφέρνου, άφοα τζιαί με τσακριστές φωνές, τον έναν η τον άλλον που τους αδρώπους τζιαί τες νύκτες, που ο καχ’ένας επείεν να ππέσει με την Γούλλαν τζι’ότι ο Πελλοηλίας αζούλεφκεν τους τόσον πολλά όπου τζιαί να πάαιννεν επάαιννεν είσιεν μιάν τσιάκκαν χωσμένην μέσ’την πούνκαν του. Τζιείνον έφκολα έκοφκεντο ηξερή μου. Αντζιαί τα τζιοιμείσια των αδρώπων με την Γούλλαν έν’σημαιναν τζιαί τσα πολλά για λλόου μου, τα τζιοιμείσια τους πασ’τζιείν’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν της ήταν μια τέλεια θκιαφορετιτζιή υπόχεση. Εν’για τζιείνον πους τους αζούλεφκα. Μα η μάνα μου έδειγνεν να μαραζώννει τζιαί να στενοχωρκιέται περίτου για την αζούλαν του Πελλοηλία τζιαί για την τσιάκκαν πού’χεν χωσμένην μέσ’την πούνκαν του. Τζιαί μιαν ημέραν άκουσα την να λαλεί της Πεππούς --Πρέπει να του πάρεις το μαχαίρι, Πεπού. Μπορεί να κάνει κακό του εαυτού του. --Που το στόμαν σου στου Θεού τ’άφκιά, Μαρία, η Πεππού εππουφφούρισεν φουρκασμένα τζι’έκαμεν τον σταβρόν της. –Εν’νά γλειτοχώ που λλόου του για πάντα. Βακκειά μέσ’την καρκιάν μου έν’εβρεισκα φταίσημον της Πεππούς που συντήχαννεν μ’έτσι τρόπον για τον άντραν της. Η φτωσιή γεναίκα υπόφερεν κάμποσα που λλόου του. Τζι’έν’ελαλεν τίποτε περίτου που τζιείνα που οι γεναίτζιες της γειτονιάς εσκεφκούνταν τζι’αιστανούνταν για τον άντραν της. Τζι’έν’ηταν μόνες τους οι γεναίτζιες. Πιλέ τζι’ οι αδρώποι, που ως τζιεικάτω εχωρούσαν την υπόχεσην σαν λόος για γέλεια τζιαί κεβεζελλίκκην, τωρά όϊ μόνον αρκινήσαν να το χωρούν θκιαφορετικά αρκινέψαν τζιαί να σκέφκουνται ήντα πού’πρεπεν να κάμουν. Τζιαί μέραν με την ημέραν τούτη η νεκατωσιά ασιηρωττέρεφκεν, όσπου μιαν ημέραν επέψαν τρείς που λλόου τους, τον Ηρωα Πολέμου, τον Μηνάν τζιαί τον Εφεβρέτην, να πάρουν τζιαί την βοήθκειαν του τζιουρού μου για να κκιώξουν την σιηράτην που την γειτονιάν. --Γρωστούμεν το των γεναικών μας τζιαί της τιμής ούλλης της γειτονιάς, είπεν ο Ηρωας Πολέμου. Εν’επαραξενέφτικα που τ’άκουσα τζιείνον. Εν’εκαρτέρουν τίποτε καλλίττερον πο’ναν άδρωπον σαν τον Ηρωαν Πολέμου. Τζι’ούτ’επαραξενεφτικα άμμαν άκουσα τον Μηνάν να τραβά με την μερκάν του Ηρωα Πολέμου, όϊ ύστερα που τζιείν’το τσάκκωμαν του με τον Πελλοηλίαν που’εία μέσ’την αβλήν τ’Αη’Γιωρκού. Ηντα που μου κακοφαίνετουν ήταν να’χωρώ τον θκειόν μου τον Παναήν να κάχεται μητά τζιείν’τους κκυό—άντζιαι ο θαμμασμός μου για την μιαλοφυίαν του για εφεβρέσεις υπόφερεν λλίες τακκουρκές ως τζιεικάτω, τα αιστήματα πού’νιωχα για λλόου του έν’αλλάξαν κόμα τζι’έν’εκαρτέρουν τον δώ νεκατωμένον μεσ’έτσι βρωμωδουλειές. Αντάσωρα’τζιεί, οι τρείς αδρώποι έν’επετύχαν--ο τζιύρης μου ενεβρίασεν τόσον πολλα μητά τους όϊ μόνον έν’τους’έωκεν τζιείνον που χέλαν είπεν τους να φύουν που τζιαμέ τζιαί να μέν’του ξανασυντήχουν γιά’τσι πράμαν. Είμουν τόσον πολλά περίφανος για τον τζιύρην μου, άντζιαι μέσ’την καρκιάν μου εν’εκαρτέρουν τίποτε θκιαφορετικόν. Μα οι φωνές για το κκιώξειμον της σιυράτης έν’εσταματήσαν. Τζιαί τωρά ήταν η Μιναρού, η Πεππού τζιαί κάμποσες που τες αλλες γεναίτζιες που πιάσαν την αρκήν τζιαί που την μιάν μέραν ως την άλλην οι φωνές τζι’οι απαιτήσεις τους αρκινήσαν να συγνάζουν τζιαί ν’ακούουνται περίτου γυναξιήτιτζιες. Εκάγριζα που’μέσα μου. Αντζιαί αζούλεφκα τζι’εγιώ γιατί έν’έμπορα να πάω να τζιοιμηχώ πάσ’τζιείν’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν της σιηράτης, το κκιώξειμον της που μέσ’την γειτονιάν κόμα εδείγνετουν μου σαν μυάλον κρίμαν τζι’έχελα να κάμω ήντα’πού’μπορα για να την προστατέψω. Μά’ξερα πολλά καλά πως’γιά’ναν στα γρόνια μου έν’είσιεν τζιαί τσα πολλά πού’μπορεν να κάμει τζιαί τού’τη η μισκηνιά (αδυναμία) μου εστείβαζεν τζι’απελπισιάν πάσ’τα νέβρα μου. Το καλόν έναι’ τζιείν’τον τζιαιρόν εγιώ τζι’οι φίλοι μου εσκαρώσα μεν έναν τζιουνούρκον παιγνίϊν που το λαλούσαμεν ‘ν’αππηάς της σιηράτης’ π’αλάβρωνεν νάκκον το κακόν μου τζι’έθκιαν μου λλίην παρηορκάν. Μα έν’με’γλείτωννεν τέλεια. Υστερα που λλίες μέρες ακούσαμεν πως ο Πελλοηλίας εκουαλείχειν έσσω της σιηράτης τζιαί μόνον η ιδέα πως εν’νά’ναπνέεν τζιείν’την μεχυστητζιήν εβοθκιάν (μυρωκκιάν) της τζι’έμπορεν να τζιυλιέται όποτ’έχελεν πάσ’τζιείν’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν της, επνίαν με που το κάγριν. Μα, παράξενα, τζιείν’τα νέα εώκαν μου τζιαί μυάλες ορπίες—μ’έναν τέκκοιον αρκάδρωπον σαν τον Πελλοηλίαν να ζιεί μητά της κανένας έν’χε’να τόρμαν να κκιώξει την Γούλλαν που την γειτονιάν. Τζιαί πάσ’τούτον εβρέχεικα σωστός, γιατί άξιππα τζιείνες ούλλες οι φωνές τζι’οι φασαρίεις για το κκιώξειμον της σιηράτης έν’ακουούνταν πιόν. Μα ο Πελλοηλίας έν’εμεινεν με την Γούλλαν, σάν’που όρπιζα τζι’εκαρτέρουν. Πριν το τέλειωμαν της εφτομάας ήταν στραμμένος πίσω έσσω του πάλε. Μα που τζιαμέ τζιαί να πάει έν’ηταν ο ίθκιος άδρωπος. Μεσ’τζιείν’τες λλίες ώρες του κάχε Σαββάτου ήταν ο αρκόκαττος της γειτονιάς, έναν τρομερόν ξώανον που μας έπεμπεν να χωστούμεν βουριτοί. Τωρά επάαιννεν γυρόν τζι’έκαμνεν ούλλες τες δουλειές του τόσον σιανά τζι’αφηρημένα ήταν σάν’που νά’ταν τζιοιμησμένος. Τζιαί τωρά έν’ήταν τζιείνος μα η Πεππού που κάχε τόσον ετζιυνείαν τον γυρόν της αβλής μεν την βέρκαν. Πιλέ τα κοπελλούκκια του εκάμναν τον χάζιν. Ηταν σάν’που μιά μυάλη δύναμη άρπαξεν την πελλάραν του τζι’εμέρωσεν την. Οι παραπάνω ελαλούσαν, με τον Αντώνην μητά τους, ότι τζιείν’η’μυάλη δύναμη ήταν η ομορκιά της σιηράτης. Αλλοι ελαλούσαν πως, που ύστερα που τα βάσανα που υπόφερεν, η Πεππού έμαχεν ήνταλως να τον κανονίζει τζιαί πως έν’τζιείνον που γιάτρεψεν την πελλάραν του άντρα της. Τζι’άλλοι εθκιούσαν άλλες εξηήσεις. Μα για λλόου μου κανένας τους έν’εξερεν την αλήκκειαν. Για μέναν έν’ηταν τίποτ’αλλον που το μαράζιν του πού’χασεν τζιείν’την ζαλιστητζιήν εβοθκιάν της σιηράτης, τζιαί την εφκαιρίαν να να πέφτει όποτ’εχελεν πάσ’την θαμμάσιαν καρκόλαν της, π’αρπάξαν τον Πελλοηλίαν τζι’εμερώσαν τον.. Εν’τζιαί πως έν’εσιαίρουμουν που η Πεππού έν’επαρπάταν πιόν με την κκελλέν της σιηφτήν τζιαί τ’αμμάκκια της χαμηλώμενα τζιαί γιατί η Γούλλα τζι’η θαμμάσια καρκόλα της έν’εκκιωκτίκαν που μέσ’την γειτονιάν μας, μά για μέναν τούτα ήταν μιτσιές παρηορκές. Γιά μέναν η γειτονιά μας έχασεν έναν που τα φοερά της ξώανα τζιαί που τζιαμέ τζιαί να πάει ο μιτσίς μας κόσμος μας εφαίνετουν μου στενεμένος τζιαί περίτου φτωσιηκός π’ομπρίττερα.

CHAPTER FOUR

George Tsappis. This chapter is part of "What Now!", a novel I put together in the spring of 1981. The novel revolves around and describes events of one day in mid-November 1975, taking place in a privately-owned Hotel in Central London. The plot and the characters I drew from my experiences in the Hotel industry and the Trade Union Movement in which I was heavily involved at the time. Chapter Four Edward Ley, Chairman and Managing Director of Ley Hotels Ltd, was asleep in his bed in the Penthouse suite, perched on the roof of Ley Hotel, when a screech and a knock, like someone clumsily trying to fit a key on the lock of his bedroom door, had suddenly exploded in his ears, likes a succession of screams and canon blasts, and woke him up. Startled he shot his myopic eyes open. But all he could see was an elastic loom which keep shifting and weaving about and making his head swim and ache, as if it was full of wriggling maggots feeding on his brain, and forced him to shut them again. He remained absolutely still, suffering the attack and struggling to discover whether it was real, or whether it was the previous night's binge playing tricks on him, when suddenly out of the pain and the anguish emerged a voluptuous figure, and an explanation, and his heart began to race with excitement ad sweet anticipation. "Isabel," he gasped, "My sweet, brave Isabel..." Overcome with anticipation, he threw the bed-clothes to one side and pulled himself up, but, as he prepared to leap out of the bed to go and open the door for her, a loud bang broke out and was quickly followed by the door flying open, and the surprise of it threw him back against the headboard. And there he remained, blinking and twitching with sweet anticipation, waiting for Isabel to come to him. But it was not Isabel who appeared in the doorway. It was the fuzzy figure of a waiter holding a tray in front of him. "What do you want? You...you scoundrel!" he shrilled. Ley's shrill was immediately seized by the paneled walls, the heavy velvet curtains, the mahogany furniture distorted it, amplified it, and returned it to his ears like a series of ferocious screams. But by now Ley felt so wretched and so let down, he suffered the onslaught without even the smallest thought about his personal discomfort. "What do you want...You...You scoundrel!" he repeated, even louder now. "Bring breakfast, sir." The waiter's flat, hesitant voice was almost lost in the whirl of furious echoes that Ley's second shrill had released in the bed room. And yet, somehow, it had reached Ley's ears with forceful clarity and compelled him to take note of it. Taking care to keep his aching head as still as possible, he leaned to one side, switched the bed light on, snatched his spectacles from under it, fixed them on his nose and gave the man another look. Unlike the waiter he expected to see, this man was short and squat, the white-linen jacket he was wearing at least one size to small for him and it dangled, unbuttoned, either side of his protruding belly. He also had a fat, idiotic face with bushy eyebrows which reached so high they seemed to part of his hairline, Every inch of him looked what a waiter ought not to look like, and Ley's sense of grievance had suddenly turned into pure malice. "You are not Barney" he growled, wincing. "Who the hell are you?" "Garcia, sir.." "Who?" "Garcia, sir. From the restaurant." "Where is Barney?" "He not here, sir." "I can see he's not here. Where is he?" The waiter's shoulders rose and fell in quick succession, making the tray he was holding pitch and shake, and the cutlery and crockery on it clash and jingle. "Take care you imbecile. You are going to drop the bloody thing," he hissed venomously. "You kicked my door. Why did you kick my door?" "Sorry, sir." "Sorry, sir," Ley mimicked, sarcastically. "Well, what do you want?" "I bring breakfast, sir" "Breakfast? What do you mean you bring breakfast? Do you know what the time is?" The waiter's shoulders rose and fell again, and the tray released into Ley's painful head another set of stabbing jingles. "I told you to be careful." "Sorry, sir!" "Don't keep saying that. You call yourself a waiter?" he sneered. "Look at you!" But the waiter did not look at himself. His only reaction was to adjust on his feet, as if to share the weight of the tray more evenly on his arms, confirming the belief in Ley's mind that the man had to be an even thicker imbecile that he had hitherto assumed. "What a mess!" he sighed, with uplifted eyes. "I'm plagued by idiots." He then lowered his eyes back to the waiver and hissed, "You're here now, aren't you?" "I'm here two years," the waiter answered, after a short silence. "Two years? You mean to tell me that you've been working in my Hotel for two whole years?" "Yes, sir." "Then how come I haven't seen you before? You are lying." The waiter's shoulders rose and feel again, the tray releasing more jingling, and Ley's sense of grievance had suddenly turned into pure malice. "You're foreign, aren't you?" "Spanish, sir!" "I thought so! Another one of Franco's cast-offs. Now, Car...or whatever your name is, who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night?" The waiter looked up abruptly, a mocking smile flitting across his swarthy face, forming a series of dimples on his fat cheeks. "Your find the whole affair amusing do you?" Ley hissed. "No, sir." "Then why are you smiling?" "Sorry, sir." "That's better. Now, who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night? Answer me." "Not night, sir. Day." "What?" Ley exclaimed, thrusting his arm up and bringing his left wrist closer to his eyes. He aimed to confound the imbecile with the evidence of his wristwatch, but to his amazement he discovered that the watch was not on his wrist. At a loss why it was not there, he cast a quick glance at the bedside table. It was not there either. And worse, he had no idea where it might be. "Are you completely mad? Can't You see that it is still dark? Answer me! Who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night?" "Mr Luigi say - Breakfast for Mr Ley," the waiter answered, turning his face away as if to hide another smile. "Oh, God!" Ley exhaled, slapping the duvet. "How many times do I have to tell that idiot Luigi that under no circumstances am I to be disturbed before nine in the morning?" He paused to draw in a deep breath. Now, he had another reason to be angry and he was determined not to let that idiot go until the injury he had suffered was fully compensated. "Well, don't just stand there!" he continued. "Do your job. Put the tray on the table over there and pour me a cup of coffee." "Yes, sir." With short, careful steps, Garcia went to place the tray on the teak half-table leaning on the wall, a short distance away from the bed. He then poured coffee in the cup and offered it to Ley. Ley took it disdainfully and raised it to his lips. "God, what is this? It's stone cold!' he spat, thrusting the cup back into the waiter's hands. "Sorry, sir," the waiter said. "I go down and bring fresh coffee for you?" "Sorry, sir? What do you mean, Sorry, sir!. If you've done you job properly in the first place..." "I do my job, properly," Garcia interjected. "When I bring coffee, coffee hot. You shout and shout and coffee get cold. No my fault." Ley looked at the waiter with a start. The waiter's prompt interjection made Ley reflect how alone, how frail, how vulnerable he was at that moment, but the contempt and sense of superiority he felt over that man soon took care of all that. "Don't be insolent," he hissed. "Now get out. I'll deal with you later." But the waiter did not go. Nor gave a sign that he intended to obey. Instead he gave a jolt, adjusted abruptly on his feet, then began to glare angrily at him, and Ley was instantly tormented by terrible images of being attacked, of having his throat cut, of his blood squirting out and staining the soft duvet. "Thank you, waiter. You can go now. And don't worry about the tray. I'll see to it," he offered meekly, all the while blinking and twitching and slipping lower into the bed clothes. But that too failed to appease the waiter, and the fear of an imminent attack had reduced Ley into a squirming fidgeting thing in the bed. But as the tortuous seconds stretched away, and the attack did not materialise, hope began to give him courage. "You're not going to do anything foolish, are you, waiter?" he flung the challenge at him, and sank even lower into his bed. For Ley, this was the last shot, but thankfully it worked. Slowly the waiter's expression changed from anger into contempt. He then swung about, went to place the cup back on the tray, picked up the tray and carried it briskly away. Ley watched himself go on sighing with relief, for, by now, he freely admitted to himself that he had pushed the imbecile too far, and that he was extremely lucky to escape the consequences. And the moment the waiter was out, he leapt out bed, and went to close the bedroom door. Feeling much safer now, he switched the bed light off and climbed back into his bed, dismissing all possibility of regaining his interrupted sleep. Even with the aid of his beloved Armagnac, sleeplessness proved a far too difficult and elusive an enemy to defeat. And now he was too alert and too angry to even think about it. Instead, he rested his giddy head on the headboard, cursing the fact that it was not already morning. If it were, he would summon James Reeves, to explain why he employed such imbeciles, and that idiot Luigi, to account why he flagrantly disregarded his instructions and had sent that imbecile to bring him breakfast in the middle of the night, and put his personal safety into jeopardy. He could... And Isabel would come. The thought of Isabel made his heart wrench with self-censure. If only he could gather enough courage to confess his love to her. If only... Suddenly quick, muffled footsteps penetrated the silence of the bedroom and startled him. Cocking his ears, he listened for a moment, trying to make out to whom they belonged, and in which direction they were heading. But they were too brief and too faint to resolve the issue for him, and the void was immediately filled with dark and frightening conclusions: the imbecile had changed his mind and had come back to murder him in his bed. This plunged him into a frantic search of how to protect himself. He thought of hiding under the bed, he thought of locking himself in the bathroom, he thought of going to the window and crying for help... Suddenly a whiff of perfume penetrated the many layers of cigar debris lining his nostrils, and took his breath away. "Isabel!" he gasped. To see her, to be near her, was what he wanted most in the world at that moment. And yet he hesitated: a question, a confusing and disorientating question had suddenly leapt into his excited brain and held immobile. What was it that had brought his sweet Isabel to the Penthouse at that time of the night? At length, from all the possible answers, only one stuck immovably into Ley's dizzy head: she was tired of waiting for him to make the first move and she had come to slip into his bed and satisfy her passion for him. But, if that was the case, why didn't she come directly into his bedroom? But that answer, too, was not hard to find. No doubt, the murderous imbecile had taken her prisoner. No doubt, she was already gagged and bound on the floor, and her clothes were ripped to shreds, and the Spaniard was clawing her frothy, white flesh with his filthy paws and slobbering all over her.. Frantic with anxiety, he leapt out of bed, but by the time he reached the middle of the room he realised that he was in no condition to tackle the murderous Spaniard on his own, and was nailed to the floor. He had to summon help. That was the first priority. But how? He had no telephone in his bedroom. He had it removed years ago, to stop its infernal ringing and its intrusion of his privacy. Now the nearest telephone to him was the one in his office. But that was across the passage, the very place in which, he was sure, the criminal Spaniard was torturing his sweet Isabel. How was he to get to it, without being seen? No, that would be too foolish and too dangerous. The only way to save his Isabel, was to open the door, dash to the stairs and reach the floor below... Settling on that solution, he gulped in a quick breath, crept to the door, unlocked it, pulled it ajar and took a cautious look into the passage. The passage was ablaze with light. The oily scent of Isabel's perfume hung heavily in the still and hot air. The main door to the Penthouse suite was wide open. But, to his astonishment, neither the Spaniard nor Isabel were there. The coast was clear. He could reach the floor below in perfect safety. But as he came out, and saw that the door of his secretary's small office was also open, he stopped himself: that's where the brutish Spaniard had dragged his sweet Isabel, or more likely in the bigger space of his own office beyond it. He cocked his ears, fully expecting to hear strangled cries of help, but nothing came out of there. Only Isabel's intoxicating perfume and soft footsteps swishing on the carpet. Perhaps he had strangled her already. Perhaps he ought to go and take a look, supply himself with the evidence of his own eyes before he went down to seek help. Tip-toeing cautiously, he went to take a look inside Isabel's crammed, small office. Neither of them were in there. But Isabel's perfume, now stronger than ever, was flooding in through the open door of his own office, a few feet in front of him. He was right. That's where he had dragged her. Gulping in a deep breath to steady himself, he crept to the open door of his own office and stuck his cheek on the door post. The Spaniard was not there either, but Isabel was, engaged, and fully clothed in a short skirt and tight-fitting blouse, in laying out the conference table. But, instead of feeling relief, Ley was wracked by a new question which had suddenly exploded in his head: what was she doing there laying the conference table instead of coming to him? And the answer? That, too, came without the smallest delay. Obviously, she was on her way to his bedroom, but had come across the fleeing imbecile and was forced to tactically retreat into his office and wait there until he was gone. "You can come now," he croaked excitedly, stepping in and thrusting both hands out to her. "He's gone." Ley's voice seemed to have taken Isabel by complete surprise, because she looked up so abruptly, her bountiful bosom shook and bounced wildly under her tight-fitting blouse. "Did I disturb you?" she gasped, her tone oscillating between surprise and apology. "No, no. You didn't disturb me. You can come now. He's gone," Ley croaked and advanced boldly at her. Isabel cast a quick, ruffled glance at his outstretched hands, clearly at a loss of what to make to of it all. But then she shook her body, as if reviving to a new thought, placed the pile of paper pads she was holding on the conference table, skirted around it and went to Ley's large desk, across the floor. From there, she picked up a watch, then came to stand in front of Ley "You must have been working late last night," she explained with a suppressed smile, placing the watch in one of Ley's outstretched hands. "I found it on the floor. Over there." Ley glanced at the watch wildly, his head swimming. He had recalled coming into his office to perform his nightly duty of saying goodnight to his Grandmother, and of taking his indispensable nightcap of a large Armagnac from the hospitality cabinet before going to bed, and of knocking himself against one of the chairs, and of a sharp pain on his wrist... "Yes, I had some work to do in here," he mumbled, fumbling awkwardly to fix the watch on his wrist. "I must have dropped it. Come. He's gone," he went on when the task was completed, and thrust both hands out to her again. But instead of surrendering into them, as he expected, Isabel shrunk back a couple of steps as if anxious to increase the margin of safety between them. "Who's gone?" "That imbecile. Come! He won't be back. We're all right now. We won't be disturbed." "Which imbecile?" "Gar..whatever his name is? Come." "Come where?" "Into the bedroom of course," he answered and made to take hold of her elbow. "Come." "But I don't understand,' Isabel reflected, nudging her elbow out of his grip. "What's in there?" The nudging of that elbow out of his way, the look of confusion on Isabel's face, had planted in Ley's head the faint, but persistent suspicion that perhaps things were not as he thought they were, and began gnawing at his confidence. "But then, what are you doing here at this hour of the..?" he mumbled, confused. "This hour?" she exclaimed, puzzledly. "But I'm only five minutes early." "Five minutes!" Ley gasped, his eyes involuntarily shifting from Isabel's face to the half-turned reproduction ormolu-clock which stood on his desk. It was showing just after a quarter past nine, questioning him, telling him something which he ought to know, but which nonetheless remained confused and beyond his grasp. Disgruntled, he withdrew his eyes from the clock and landed them on the window. The venetian blinds were drawn up and the glass panes looked curiously translucent. It was the evidence that his excited brain seemed to need, because he suddenly remembered reading somewhere, or someone telling him, about the weather forecast and the expected fog. With a sharp fall of his heart, he realised that he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake. At once, he swung his eyes away from the window and sunk them to a spot under the conference table. He dared not face Isabel. And he dared not meet the stern eyes of his Grandmother, whose eyes he felt glaring critically at him from beyond the conference table. Not yet. Not until he was calmer. Not until he found a way to redeem his mistake in the eyes of both of them. "I'd better get a move on," he heard Isabel say. "Mr Reeves and his team will be coming up soon. You'll be chairing the meeting." "Meeting?" Ley reflected, and looked up. But not at Isabel. He directed his misted eyes to his friend and ally, his beloved forty-year old Armagnac, waiting for him in the hospitality cabinet. If only he could get to it, then everything would be all night. "The meeting. Of course I will. Of course. Is the fog as bad as..?" he faltered. "Pretty bad, that's why I left home an hour early." "I'm sorry, my dear. It's all my fault," he said, slowly returning his eyes to her. "You could have stayed in the hotel last night, you know. It's not that we are ever full at this time of year. I meant to call you, you know, ask you to come. We could have had a spot of dinner together, but Archie, that is Captain Harvey, came. I don't suppose you know him?" Isabel shook her head negatively. "He's an old friend from my army days. A bit of a rake, if you ask me, but fun to be with. Anyway, he comes to visit me from time to time, for a drink and a chat about the old days. I meant to call you afterwards, but it carried on and on... Well you know how it is. One thing led to another, it was past eleven by he time he left, by which time, of course, it was too late to call you. But never mind - there will be other times, won't there?" "That's very nice of you, sir!" "Oh, my dear Isabel. There's no need to be so formal...Edward. Call me Edward," he implored. Isabel's face went distinctly red under her make-up. "If it pleases you," she breathed, dropping her eyes away. "But..." "It would please me very much. After all, we've been together for so long..." "Not that long!" she smiled. "What is it, four months?" "Seventeen complete weeks and one day, to be exact. That is, counting today of course." "You certainly are counting the days," she giggled. "Surely you're not surprised!" You must know by now how I feel about you?" "Thank you. It's nice to be appreciated by..." "No, no I mean it," Ley interjected, and with a sudden move took hold of her hand and squeezed it warmly. "In fact, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Isabel." "Thank you. But, I would bet a pound to a penny, you say that to all the girls," Isabel teased, withdrawing her hand from him. Ley cast her a wounded looked. The withdrawing of her hand traumatised him. And now it was that smile. It seemed to be suspended between pleasure and mocking. "What girls?" he breathed. "Well, there must have been other girls," she answered, flippantly and pulling away started on her way back to the conference table. "Your past secretaries, for example. Before me you had other secretaries, didn't you?" she went on, after picking up the pile of paper pads and resuming where she left off. Ley watched her jumpily for a moment, wondering whether that was meant as a brush-off to him, or whether it was merely an expression of Isabel's diligence and conscientiousness. "A whole string of them, but none of them were like you," he answered shortly. "So, there..." "Oh, Isabel, stop teasing me. Surely you know how I feel about you?" But Isabel continued with her task, making it absolutely clear to Ley that she had no intention of answering that question. "You do believe me, don't you?" he begged. But again, Isabel did no answer. "You do, don't you?" Isabel stopped abruptly and looked up to observe him critically for a moment. "You make things very difficult for me, you know," she said at length. "But why?" "Because," she replied. "But I thought you liked me!" "I do, but not that way." "Not that way!" he reflected, his eyes misting. "Which way do you like me then?" Isabel, though, continued to observe him critically for a moment longer. She then dropped her eyes away and resumed her task without a word, leaving Ley's self-control in tatters. "I love you, Isabel. I love you very much," he whined, and dashed across the floor to go to her, tears running down his face. Isabel, clearly moved by Ley's emotions, stopped to watch him come for a moment. She then placed the last pad and pencil into place, skirted hurriedly around the conference table and came to meet him. "Oh, come here, crying like a baby," she said, opening her arms wide for him. Ley surrendered into her arms, burying his face in her soft neck. I know I'm not what one would call a catch for a woman like you, Isabel.." he sobbed. "But I love you. I love you very much..." "I know, I know. But I'm a married woman." Ley gave a jolt, as if that statement was a stab in the belly. But he knew he could not back out now. He could only go forward, risking everything. Quickly he unburied his head from her neck and looked pleadingly in her eyes. "Divorce him. I want you to divorce your husband and marry me, Isabel," he began. "You can have the hotel, everything, have everything." "I can't do that," she cried pushing him back. And circling round him, strode briskly towards the door. Ley swung about to watch her go, in his head tumbling the long list of secretaries that Reeves had supplied him with, during the past twelve years since his father died and the hotel had passed to him, recalling, some of those who had succumbed to his advances and some of those who threw their arms up in horror and walked out on him. And, as he was recalling them, the second lot seemed a lot more numerous than the first. But he did not care. None of them mattered to him. But the mere thought of losing Isabel make him tremble. "Don't leave me, Isabel. Please don't leave me," he sobbed. Isabel stopped by the door and turned to cast him a weary look from over her shoulder. "I'm only going to my office." "I don't mean now. Don't ever leave me. Please Isabel..." She heaved in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not leaving," she said at the end of it. "What would be the point? Everywhere is the same. But, at least, you didn't grab me like all the others. And anyway, I can't keep running. I have to work," she added, and, swinging back, went out, pulling the door behind her. Ley stared reflectively at the space that Isabel had just vacated, for a moment. The air in the office was hot, dry, and redolent with Isabel's perfume and the images of her, a combination that parched his throat and drove him to the hospitality cabinet. In the past, Ley turned to his Armagnac to help him sleep, chase away his loneliness, his anxieties, his sorrows, or simply because he enjoyed the taste and the effect it had on him. On this occasion, he was turning to it in celebration. For seventeen weeks he held back from expressing his love to Isabel for fear of losing her, but now all that was behind him, and without losing her..! Trembling with excitement, he poured himself a stiff measure of Armagnac from the decanter. But, as he was raising the glass to his mouth, he felt his Grandmother's searing stare burn the bald patch on his head. "Don't say a word Grandma. I'm not in the mood for it," he snapped, but without looking at her. "How can I keep quiet when I see you making such a fool of yourself," came the answer. "Look at you. You're fifty-one years old, half blind, bald, and you can't see a single day through without reaching out for that damned decanter. And she, what age is she? Thirty five? And beautiful. Why should she leave her husband and her children for someone like you? Come on! Why don't you pack it in before you ruin everything?" "I can't. I love her." "Love is it? Is that what's making you behave like a foolish teenage? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? And what for? All for a bit of crumpet? You can buy as much of that as you want." "Keep quiet, Grandma. I won't have you talking about Isabel like that, do you hear me?" "I can hear you, but you'd better hear me also. You're a fool, that's what you are. A fifty-one year old fool. Can't you see that there is no future in it for you? Apart from one husband and her three brats, there is the generation gap standing between you. How are you going to overcome that?" "The age difference is nothing. Love overcomes everything." "Love or lust? Get some sense into your bald head. Why don't you leave things alone? They were not all that bad before. That young masseuse, what's her name, that one with the blond hair and small tits, who visits you every so often... Won't you miss her? And what about that other woman, that one that Barney fixes you up with from time to time? Are you sure you want to give all that up?" "Keep quiet, Grandma. They don't mean anything to me. And anyway, it has nothing to do with you. I'll always respect you for what you have achieved, and of course I'll always be grateful to you for taking care of me after my mother died, but I won't have you interfering this time. It is far too important to me." "Gladly, if what you are doing only affected you. But what right have you to promise the hotel away? You didn't build it. I did. You have no right. No right at all." "Don't be such a misery, Babs Ley! I'm in love. Don't you understand? I'm in love. How can you think of such things in a time like this? What does it matter, eh! What does it matter?" he chuckled, and lifting his eyes to the portrait of Babs Ley, keeping stern vigil over the conference table from above the hospitality cabinet, he raised his glass to it in playful salute. "To you, Grandma, and to my sweet love," he said and clapped the glass to his mouth

REVENGE

GEORGE TSAPPIS For many years I wrote in Greek, my mother tongue. I began to write in English in the early eighties. The tragedy inflicted on Yugoslavia bears such a strong resemblance to the tragedy inflicted on another small country in the region, Cyprus, my birthplace, it brought back the bitter memories of one event which had taken place in my village, Akhna, during the winter of 1956. Revenge THE YEAR OF MY birth is not in dispute. And neither is the fact that I was born a British subject. What is in dispute is the day and month in which I was born. My parents, and everyone else who is old enough to remember, insist that I was born on the fifteenth of June 1938. My birth certificate, however, states unequivocally that I was not born until the fifth of September of the same year. This discrepancy is the direct result of his Britannic Majesty King George VI’s disinterest in one particular set of numbers: that is the number of subjects he had living in Cyprus at the time. If I was a house, a piece of land, or even a tree, my parents would have had to register me. The law required it: to establish ownership, pay taxes and avoid disputes between the natives of course. But since I was human, that was deemed unimportant. In 1940, however, the Colonial Authorities had decided that numbers were important and that they must know how many we were, of what age each of us was, and how many we were likely to be in the foreseeable future. So they made the registration of births and deaths compulsory. (This may have had something to do with the regulation of production and consumption of foodstuffs which were introduced at the same time- similar regulations were introduced in all the colonies, which resulted in high prices, hunger and at least three million deaths in Bengal- but that might be conjecture on my part.). Of course they could have counted heads, but that seemed to offend their fidelity to accuracy. So they thrust about to find any written records which might be available. And they found one: the Church Register. (Were there similar registers for the Turkish, Armenian and Maronite communities? I do not know for sure. But I suppose so.) So they copied it. But there was one small problem with this register. It was not accurate. Being compiled by the local priest, the date entered on that register was not the date that the event had actually taken place but the date that the priest got involved in it. Consequently, according to this register, a death did not take place until the day the body was brought to the church for the pre-burial ceremony, and a birth until the day of the christening. So, for all those of us who were born before 1940, we are the beneficiaries of the dubious distinction of having two birthdays. Shame my parents did not anticipate this and christened me at the age of five, then I would legally be under the age of fourteen and I would not have to go! These absurd, and completely irrelevant thoughts, were involuntarily flashing in my befuddled head as I sat in my bed, listening to the crackle of a loudhailer saying in Greek: "Women and children stay in your homes. All males over the age of fourteen must go to the square immediately. Women and children stay!" I knew exactly what was happening. I read about it. I heard about it. I felt it. The British army had thrown a ring around the village. They had done it to innumerable other villages and towns. Now it was our turn. There would be arrests, beatings, ruined houses, molested women, death! I gave a shiver. The cold, moist air of the pre-dawn, February morning, had suddenly jumped in from somewhere and glued itself on my bare arms and chest. Through the corner of my eyes, I could see my trousers, shirt and homespun woollen jumper still jumbled up on the chair beside my bed, on which I had thrown them the previous night. On the floor beneath them were my shoes with my socks sticking out of them, urging me to get out of bed, get dressed, prepare myself for what was to come. Yet I sat there, frozen, contemplating over those absurd thoughts and my father’s parting words before he escaped to London with my two elder brothers- ‘Now you are the man in the house.’ "Women and children must stay in their homes. All males over the age of fourteen must!" "You are awake!" The sound of my mother’s voice made me turn and look round with a start. She was glaring at me from just inside the door of my bedroom. Her face was still and pale, her eyes round with terror, her lips trembling. Huddled behind her were my two sisters and my two younger brothers. They too were glaring at me with round eyes and pale faces. My mother’s habit of getting up before dawn every day, had served them well. They were all dressed and ready. Except me. I was still in my bed. Until the harsh loudhailer sounded, I had no reason to leave my bed so early in the morning. Time was not important. I was behind with the payment of the school fees and I was sent home. My mother had written to my father asking him for the money. I had no idea when it would come or whether it would come. My education was disrupted. My future was uncertain. "Women and children stay in your homes. All males over the age of fourteen!" Now the crackling loudhailer sounder closer and more menacing. My mother gave a sudden jolt, the terror on her face compounded by an expression of frantic urgency. Still I could not move. My two brothers were twelve and ten. My youngest sister was only eight. All three of them would get a fright, but they were safe. But Christina was sixteen. And my mother was still young. They were not safe. They needed protection. I was the only one who could provide that protection. I could not just abandon them. If only my parents foresaw this and christened me at! "I am not going," I cried. My mother pulled herself up, and fixed me with a severe stare. "What are you saying? If they catch you here they will!" She stopped abruptly, as if too frightened to put words to her thoughts. "Women and children stay in your homes. All males over the age!" The loudhailer broke the short silence, and revived my mother. "Come girls. Let your brother get dressed." There was no ambiguity in my mother’s voice. I had to go. After they left me I jumped out of my bed, got dressed and came out. The eastern horizon was crimson. The sun would not appear for some time yet. The cold February air was pinching my face and hands. My mother, brothers and sisters were huddled together in the middle of the yard, looking at me stupidly. There was no sound. Even the chicken coop was silent. From over the low wall enclosing our yard, I could see a man in a policeman’s uniform, a loudhailer obscuring his face, wading through the green wheat growing in the field stretching beyond the wall and advancing towards the house. Behind him waded a line of soldiers, with guns in their hands. Behind them was another line of men. These too were in military uniform, but instead of guns, they clutched heavy truncheons in their hands. They were the dreaded auxiliaries. Sticking out of the hollow beyond the green field were the hoods of military vehicles. Beyond them stretched the open countryside, flat, green, motionless, and deceptively peaceful. "Women and children stay!" "Don’t go into the house. Stay together in the yard. And leave all the doors open. They smash down close doors," I cried. I was employing the easy palliative of advice, to hide my fear, shame and humiliation for not standing by them. But there was nothing more I could do for them. I could not even tell them when I would be back, or even whether I would be back. In the year or so, since Eoka picked up arms to chase the British Colonialists out of Cyprus, the Greek Cypriots had ceased to be just recalcitrant subjects. We were now the enemy, and the old concepts of guilt, innocence, fairness, objectivity had merged so indistinguishably together they ceased to posses separate identities and, justice, always the domestic servant of the British was now a domestic servant with a gun in her hands, dispensing internment, judicial hangings, oppression of all kinds, violence and death. The future had become so elastic, arbitrary and violent, no one could say with any certainty what could happen to him from one moment to the next. "Don’t worry about us. Take care of yourself. And don’t try to show how big you are. Say nothing to them. Do as they tell you. Now go," she said and gave me a frantic shove. I rushed out of the gate, looking wildly about me. The line of soldiers and auxiliaries had already broken into groups of three or four, and were now advancing on individual households From over the low yard walls and thorn bush fences I could see women and children, running about in their yards, yelling with terror. But no men. It seemed I was the last in the neighbourhood to obey the order. "Run, run!" An angry bark suddenly broke behind me and made me stop and turn round. A soldier had broken away from one of those small groups and was advancing in my direction, his gun pointed at me, and with his finger on the trigger. I obeyed instantly, unthinkingly. Once I cleared the eucalyptus grove growing out of a hollow beside our house, and gained the metalled road going through the village, I saw ruffled young, middle aged and old men rushing out of their houses, fixing their belts or fumbling with buttons on their shirts. They were joining the others already on the road and making towards the centre of the village. Proprieties were kept. Greetings were exchanged. There were even bursts of laughter, but loud, exaggerated laughter, without humour or warmth, mingling with the thud of hurrying feet, and hanging in the moist, perfectly still air like hoarse barks of frightened dogs. Amongst them was my cousin Nicholas, a big, lumbering man in his fifties with a weak heart. He seemed to have had given up trying to keep up with the rest, for he was already falling far behind. Quickening my steps, I caught up with him. "What are you doing here?" he gasped, visibly surprised, in his habitually laboured manner. "Why aren’t you at school in Famagusta?" "I’ve had an attack of grippe and the headmaster sent me home to recover," I said, unwilling to tell him the truth and expose our financial problems. "But I feel much better now." He did not say anything more. The terror, cold and humiliation, seemed to have had stifled his capacity to speak. But I could not speak either. I was busy telling myself that my mother, brothers and sisters, were strong, resourceful and resilient, and that I should not feel guilty for abandoning them. But I could not deceive myself. They had no experience of such blind and irrational violence. They would not know how to cope with it. Suddenly out of side street in front of us emerged a string of running men. Some were fully dressed while others were partly dressed, with only a shirt and underpants on and no shoes. Mingling with them were soldiers and auxiliaries, prodding, kicking, shoving, and shouting at them to run. "Why do they have to do that!" Nicholas sighed angrily. I looked at him with alarm, intending to warn him to be quiet, but I had no time. One of those soldiers, must have had heard him for he suddenly stepped out of the melee and advanced menacingly on us. He looked so young, in his closely-cropped hair, blue eyes and pink complexion, and strange, unsolicited, thoughts began to flash through my mind. Without that gun and that uniform, he could be just another young man, perhaps even a fellow student. We could have talked about girls, debate Demosthenes’ rhetoric art, go for a walk on the beach, even go swimming together. Instead his blue eyes were full of suspicion and fear, the kind of suspicion and fear that breeds violence, and I knew that he was quite capable of hurting us, even killing us, at that moment. "Run! run," he growled at us, lifting the gun in readiness to deliver a blow. His voice sounded so thin and childlike, it belied its own harshness. "What did he say?" Nicholas inquired stupidly in Greek. "He’s telling us to run." "Who me, run? I can’t run." The gun suddenly jumped higher in the air then fell with a dull thud. "Holly Virgin!" Nicholas gasped, as he was collapsing to the road. I looked down on Nicholas’s convulsing body, then at the soldier furiously. He blinked defensively, then stepped back and levelled the gun at me. I saw the dark hole at the end of the barrel, the sharp, shinning blade attached to it. Is it going to be a bullet, or a stab in my belly? Will I feel the pain? I froze, staring blankly at that dark hole and the shining blade attached to it. Yet, inexplicably, I could also see, with perfect clarity, the soldiers and auxiliaries prodding, kicking, shoving, and their victims jumping about and trying to escape from the blows, as well as the men who were running furiously down the metalled road. Is this how everyone feels as they are about to die? Suddenly the soldier shifted, dropping the gun and the steel blade attached to it a little lower, and made me look up. The menacing fear I saw in his blue eyes was now masked with indecision, giving me the distinct impression that the mortal danger I was in had now passed. "Get up. Get up!" the soldier cried, and thrust his foot out as if to kick Nicholas. Again that thin, unlikely voice belied the harshness of his command. It gave me courage. Stepping purposefully forward, I placed myself between the menacing boot and my prostrate cousin. "He’s my cousin. His heart is weak. If he runs he will die," I heard myself say in English. The soldier blinked with surprise. Whether it was the sound of my bookish English or the discovery that I could speak his language which surprised him, I could not tell. He then looked round and said, "Sarge. This man says his cousin’s got a bad heart. What shall I do with him?" "Tell him to lift him up and carry him," came the impatient answer from amongst the milling crowd. Immediately, the soldier swung back to face me, his posture stiffening, that menacing fear returning to his eyes. "You heard what the sergeant said? Lift him up and carry him," he said stepping back and bringing the gun and the bayonet up again. Once on his feet Nicholas felt much better. Nevertheless, I insisted that he should use my shoulder for support, explaining that that might save us from more blows. As we came closer to the centre of the village, the soldiers and auxiliaries seemed to be everywhere. They were on the streets, in the yards, in the houses, chasing, shouting, kicking, shoving and beating every one who did not run. From the houses came women’s laments, children’s shrieks, the barks of dogs. Yet Nicholas and me went through that mayhem and joined the small queue waiting at the northern entrance to the square, completely unscathed. Through the gaps of those standing in front of us, I could see that the square was already crammed with people: some fully dressed, others in their underclothes and barefoot. The entrance at which we were waiting our turn, as well as the other three leading into the square, were barred with rolls of barbed wire, leaving a narrow opening. In front of each of those openings stood two soldiers with guns, and an auxiliary. On the inside of each of those narrow openings, stood a small tent, an officer with a baton in his hand and a group of auxiliaries. As the man standing at the head of each queue was signalled over by one of the soldiers, the other would step out and bar his way in with his gun. Then the auxiliary would search him, then push him to the other soldier who would drive him thought with either a kick or blow from the gun. Once inside, the man would then be picked by the arm by one or two of the other auxiliaries, and made to go and stand in front of the small tent for a second or two. Then the officer would signal with his baton and the man would either be released into the square, or driven to the line of men who were already facing the police station wall with their hands raised above their heads. Strolling behind that line were soldiers with thick canes in their hands, which they freely used against anyone who moved or whose hands began to slacken. And this process continued with cold efficiency, augmenting both the line of the men facing the wall and the large crowd of fully-dressed, half-dressed, or barefoot men who hanged listlessly about in the square, slapping their thighs or stumping their feet, trying to keep warm. "Are they going to shoot those men on the wall?" Nicholas breathed beside me with a alarm. I did not think so. I could not see a firing squad. Yet I was not sure. So I did not answer. "Are they all Eoka men?" Nicholas asked again, after a short silence. I thought the same thing. That there were Eoka fighters in our village, it was beyond dispute. But since I was not one of them I could not tell for sure who they were. But we lived in a small community. There were rumours, and signs. So I had a good idea who they were. But even a plain yes or no would indicate positive knowledge. And that could make me a target for both sides. So again I did not answer. When our turn came, Nicholas and me went to the opening together. That seemed to make the soldiers angry. "Esi (you)," one of the soldiers spat, and pointed at me He sounded as if that was the only word in Greek he knew. I hesitated. Going in tandem, had saved Nicholas and me from a lot of blows. "Esi, ela (you come)," the soldiers cried impatiently, waving his gun at me. I gave a quick wipe to my mouth with my hand, to hide my laughter. I had done him an injustice. He knew at least two words in Greek. Somehow my mistake struck me as hilarious. "Go. I’ll be all right," Nicholas breathed, pulling himself apart from me. By the narrow entrance, I was searched and kicked though like all the others that went before me. And like the rest, I too was taken hold of by one of the auxiliaries, and made to go and stand in front of that small tent. I drew myself straight in front of that tent, suppressing a sudden laugher. What I suspected so far was now a fact. On the side canvas of that tent were two small holes, peering at me. But I was not particularly threatened by them. Though I hated the British Colonialists for what they have done to us in the past, and what they were doing now, and I had taken part in many demonstrations against them, I had nothing to do with guns, explosions and the killing. And that was well known in my village. So I was sure that whoever was inside that tent would have known this also, and that I would be released into the square. Suddenly I saw the officer’s baton drop. I took it to mean that I was being released into the square. But as I made to go the auxiliary pounced on me and grabbed my right arm and twisted it behind my back. I was unjustly being driven to the wall. Wait, he made a mistake! I wanted to cry. But I could not. At best it would have been futile and stupid. At worse it would have exposed me to the eyes of my fellow villagers as weak. And there was the pain on my arm and shoulder. It was so fierce, I could not even breathe let alone articulate speech coherently. Anticipating the push, I moved unresistingly. This softened the pain somewhat. As I was being driven closer to the wall, and I could recognise each of the men on that line, all my previous assumptions were suddenly shattered. Up to that moment, I shared Nicholas’ opinion, that the purpose of that dragnet was to discover illegal guns, explosives and to net at least some of the Eoka fighters in the village. But not a single one of the dozen or so men lined in front of that wall was reputed to be an Eoka man. Then what was their purpose? "Terror? Revenge?" I asked myself bitterly. On approaching the wall, two of the soldiers came to us. By now I was so weakened by the experience, I could not have offered resistance even if I wanted to. Yet the soldiers pounced on me, twisted both of my arms behind my back and literally threw me against the wall. "Put your arms up," one of them growled, thrusting his open palms into my armpits and pushing my arms up. I stood motionless, staring at the wall, with malicious satisfaction. The fresh coat of whitewash had failed completely to obliterate the old slogan on that wall and I could still clearly make out the Greek words: Eoka. Freedom or Death. Dighenis. From behind me came the stamping of feet and the subdued murmurs of the incarcerated crowd, as well the crunching footsteps of the patrolling soldiers. Through the corner of my left eye I could see the police sergeant and a couple of constables, looking on sheepishly from beside the sandbagged entrance of the police station, Greeks, collaborators, part of the oppression, looking jumpy and ill-at-ease. They had good reason to be nervous. From the onset, policemen were the first to die. I thought it wrong. But now I wished I could kill them myself. Through the corner of my right eye, I could see Michalis, a lad of sixteen, a farmer’s son, and the rest of the other victims. Beyond them, the other side of the barbed wire and blocking the street, stood the menacing bulk of an armoured car, bristling with soldiers. The lowering of my arms, even the slackening of my posture would have earned me a swift and painful blow on my back, shoulders, buttocks, legs, arms. But it was not fear of that blow which kept my body straight and my arms stiff and motionless above my head. It was hatred, pride and the cold determination, to show my oppressors that I was not going to be defeated by them, that they were not going to win over me. This was such an effective antidote, it sustained me for an hour or so. But then the pain came, on my arms, shoulders, chest and back, a slow, spasmodic but remorseless pain against which my antidote was proving progressively useless. Then came that moment when not only my body but also my brain had slipped into their own natural rhythms and functions, demanding respite and relief from that relentless pain and I could think of nothing else except of how to lower my hands. This was the last stage before my brain clouded, my body had become completely independent of my will and my arms dropped. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, when the barbed wire was pulled apart and we were allowed out of our prison. How many times I let my arms drop and how many blows I received, I was not sure. Not that I cared. My first concern was to get home as quickly as I could, to make sure that my mother, my brothers and sisters were all right. As I limped past the eucalyptus grove, I saw my mother, brothers and sisters waiting for me by the yard gate. Physically, I could see no wounds on them. But I knew that there were other, hidden wounds, which would take a long time to heal, if ever.

WHO IS WHO

I am a Cypriot, born and raised in Achna and live in London since 1956, and I write novels and short stories for adults and children in English. I am also a founding member, and chairman, of Newham Writers Workshop, a collective of writers, dramatists and poets—more details of which can be found on the Workshop website. I have also donated manuscripts, including the translation of A peasant boy in Cyprus into κοτσιηνοχωρκάτικα, to the archives of Cyprus Library and of course copies of all my published works. Recently United p.c. has published four of my works: 1) A peasant virgin in London, a novel in paperback—an idealistic young man is compelled to escape the escalating violence of the colonial conflict in Cyprus and comes to live in London with his brother, with clear intention of qualifying as an Economist and returning to help lift his country out of its poverty. But London is not what he thought it would be, a disappointment aggravated by the lack of forthrightness he suspects in his brother, the dirty and noisy flat he shares with him and the drudgery of the job he ends up with, linking sausages in the meat processing factory where his brother and his girlfriend also work, all of which culminate in a disastrous sexual experience and a complete reappraisal of his future… 2) A Peasant boy in Cyprus, a periodic novel in paperback—the inventor, who makes things his wife wishes he did not, Andonis, the fat boy extortionist with limited ambitions, the taming of the fearsome Mad Elias, the sweet smelling Goula and her most wonderful bed, the death of the giant War Hero, the traumas of death in the family, how the Freemason got a husband for his aging daughter, the love and punishment of the peddler Costakis, the daring raid on the Moneylender’s grapes, the Rogue Wrestler who demands hospitality from all and gets his comeuppance, the terrors of a curfew and a host of other extraordinary events, characters and situations seen through the eyes of a boy growing up in a Cypriot village during the nineteen forties and fifties… 3) Tales from my Street, a collection of short stories in paperback—from the theorist, who offers analysis, explanation, illumination or contortion to any subject and is also an exquisite satirist, the nice woman who lives down the street, who always smells nice and offers the promise of risqué interludes, the unhappy teenager diversion and fulfilment in an antiwar demonstration, the mysterious and deceptively fragile old lady who comes for help with a bundle of banknotes, the handsome drifter whom no kind-hearted women could not want to mother, the lonely woman who allows herself to be trapped into boarding freeloader to the beautiful August afternoon when bloody violence comes to the street… 4) The honoured Guest, a children’s novel in paperback—an eleven-year-old girl’s life becomes increasingly troublesome, after her father’s decision to take his invalid mother out of the nursing home she lived for many years and bring her to live with them, especially the secrecy she suspects in her parents over that move and the squabbles that eventually erupt in the extended family over Granny’s field, and whenever the pressures become unbearable she finds relief and escape in fantasy…

A PEASANT BOY IN CYPRUS

A Peasant boy in Cyprus, a periodic novel in paperback—the inventor, who makes things his wife wishes he did not, Andonis, the fat boy extortionist with limited ambitions, the taming of the fearsome Mad Elias, the sweet smelling Goula and her most wonderful bed, the death of the giant War Hero, the traumas of death in the family, how the Freemason got a husband for his aging daughter, the love and punishment of the peddler Costakis, the daring raid on the Moneylender’s grapes, the Rogue Wrestler who demands hospitality from all and gets his comeuppance, the terrors of a curfew and a host of other extraordinary events, characters and situations seen through the eyes of a boy growing up in a Cypriot village during the nineteen forties and fifties…

THE HONOURED GUEST

The honoured Guest, a children’s novel in paperback—an eleven-year-old girl’s life becomes increasingly troublesome, after her father’s decision to take his invalid mother out of the nursing home she lived for many years and bring her to live with them, especially the secrecy she suspects in her parents over that move and the squabbles that eventually erupt in the extended family over Granny’s field, and whenever the pressures become unbearable she finds relief and escape in fantasy…

TALES FROM MY STREET

Tales from my Street, a collection of short stories in paperback—from the theorist, who offers analysis, explanation, illumination or contortion to any subject and is also an exquisite satirist, the nice woman who lives down the street, who always smells nice and offers the promise of risqué interludes, the unhappy teenager diversion and fulfilment in an antiwar demonstration, the mysterious and deceptively fragile old lady who comes for help with a bundle of banknotes, the handsome drifter whom no kind-hearted women could not want to mother, the lonely woman who allows herself to be trapped into boarding freeloader to the beautiful August afternoon when bloody violence comes to the street…