The story you are about to read is quite old.
I wanted to post it on my blog at Christmas 2015. Something happened, the file got lost, I had to start over again, it was finally posted in early 2016, January 2nd to be exact.
A week later I found out I was going to be a dad.
When life invades your life like this, many things change. Since then I haven't written anything similar. Creation took second place. Until I rediscovered reading and creation found a crack and began to flow in the form of the little texts I write about the books I read. And because of them, you are now reading this text.
I want to thank Andreas Albanis for putting me in touch with Evi Botsaropoulou, and Evi for offering me the hosting of The Common Sense; for my short texts.
I hope you enjoy this little story and we will see you again in the new year with new stories inspired by many wonderful books.
Remember that the meaning of Christmas, beyond and above any religion, is hope. And the love for the other. Whoever he is.
Have a happy and healthy holidays everyone.
…
He fanned the flames with the machete and added another log to the fire. Then put the large pot back on. Open the lid and use a spoon to stir the steaming contents. He covered her again, pulled his chair close to the stove and poured some wine into his glass. He downed it in gulps and took out a cigarette to light it. Suddenly he was heard in the far distance. Muffled voices. Like every night. Months now. So today. A tear rolled down his sunken face. He looked up to see a picture on the opposite wall. He refilled his glass and raised it to the woman who was looking at him from the small frame.
– Merry Christmas you bastard with…
He downed the wine monorufic, turned up the radio and took deep puffs of his cigarette.
He looked with despair and hope into the dark depths. That's where it must have been. There, somewhere in the arms of the endless night. With one hand he was leaning on the wet plastic, and with the other he was holding tightly to a small, frozen hand. As long as the frozen hand squeezed his he was not worried. They would make it. Silent words, in a strange language, swirled in his head. A fear that was receding and a new one that was coming fast from the depths of the darkness before them. He looked back for a moment. He saw the faces of his companions in this fugitive. He saw in their eyes the death that was chasing them. And the hope that kept them still standing, frozen by the air and the sea, but still alive. When he turned his gaze forward again a faint smile lit up his pale face, and his hand tightened on the small, frozen hand. "Steria...", he whispered in the strange language of his homeland. He turned and looked at the woman standing next to him. She was tired, white with the frost of night and hunger, but her face shone with an eerie glow. She smiled at him. He pulled his hand away and placed it on her stomach. They looked deep into the eyes as life made its way into the darkness, under the black sky.
With slow movements he served the steaming soup in a deep dish. He spread a small towel on the wooden table, took the slices of bread warming on the stove with his thick, black hands, and sat down to eat. He made the sign of the cross, and then suddenly fainted, swallowed with a harsh sob, and fell back to staring speechlessly at the little picture on the wall. "Oh, you bastard... Why did you leave me...? What will I become...? How long will this torture last? The words swirled in his snowy head like crazed kites with severed tails. "How much…?"
Insatiable steps hugged the wet earth. Insatiable breaths of a strange freedom. Death was behind them, a distant memory, an eerie reality of another life. And in front of them, in the wet sand, in the small pile of rocks and in the dark foliage of the trees, a new life was opening again. Difficult, uncertain, but definitely better than what they left behind. They knew they might never see their homeland again. Their neighborhood, the places they grew up. What was left of them. Their homeland was now where life was. That sea that washed them here, that sky that spread over them like a blanket, those rocks and trees of another land. He was rubbing her shoulders, her arms, her sides. He was trying to warm her up. He took off his wet jacket and covered her, staying almost naked against the December wind. He was looking around for his companions. He could not tell how many were saved. How many were still fighting the waves. How many didn't make it? He looked at the deep, almond-shaped eyes and then at the round belly that throbbed under layers of wet clothing. in the darkness he spotted a small path between the trees. He picked her up and they started hugging each other. He thought of his companions. They would make it. They would understand. Life couldn't wait any longer.
He ate and took out a cigarette. He moved his chair back to the stove and raised the fire again. He listened. He got up slowly and walked towards the window. He drew the curtain and with his ears probed the darkness more. Suddenly his face darkened, he grabbed a shovel from beside him, opened the door and poured into the night.
– Stop you ass!! Come here you bums!!
Frightened footsteps and mocking laughter tumbled downhill. In front of him, ten meters away, a petite woman was lying on the dirt. She seemed unconscious. Beside her a tall, dark man, husky, with intelligent eyes. He had thrown his body over her to protect her. Now he was looking at the old man in surprise, almost in awe. The old man was still shaking with rage. Wine and tension had colored his face red. Look at the travelers. The round belly of the woman. His face suddenly turned white, his mind went crazy. He threw aside the spade and rushed forward. He knelt beside the woman. She wasn't unconscious. She was pale, white as death. Her clothes, her hair, her whole being was frozen to the core. The old man cupped the little face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. Then he gently stroked her round belly, listening to the life that was struggling to come out.
- Quickly! Grab her and let's take her inside.
The tall man looked at him in horror, but immediately responded to the old man's gestures. They carried her into the shack and laid her on the divan by the stove. The old man put a large pot of water on the fire and disappeared into the doorway leading to the small bedroom.
– Take off her clothes!
He was shouting and making gestures so that the man could understand him. He hurriedly whispered words to her in the strange language of their homeland, stroked her hair and tried to calm her down.
– The child… The child… Coming…
She understood, but she didn't have the courage to fight for both of them. He was afraid. He knew it. But he didn't have to show her. The old man returned to the room with an armful of towels and a large blanket.
- Put them in the water and drain them, he pointed to the man.
He sat next to the woman, caressed her face with his thick hands.
- Do not be afraid. Everything will be fine…
She parted at his touch, at the sound of his voice, relaxed. The old man folded the blanket and placed it behind the woman supporting her waist. He gently lifted her skirt and pulled down her underwear. He looked at the bony man by the stove and then at the woman.
– And now, you have to push…
The old man filled the glasses. He grabbed both and handed them to the couple. They took it numbly.
– Drink. It's a celebration tonight!
They looked at each other until the old man approached them again, his own glass in hand.
- Cheers! A thousand years old! Like the high mountains! My hut is wet with your miracle!
He raised his glass inviting theirs as well. They clinked, and the old man downed his glass. The man imitated him. The wine relaxed him. He looked at the woman who was still holding hers. He smiled at her to receive a small caress into his black hair. Then they both looked down, there, between them, on the small divan, where their daughter was sleeping tucked inside a small blanket. The old man's voice brought them out of their reverie.
- Know how I feel about you. The me you see was born on the street. On the road! When they expelled my parents from their village in Pontus, my mother was on her first month. They walked for days. In the desert. In the capsule. No food. No water. One day, where she was walking, she stopped, sat in a ditch and gave birth to me. They once reached the coast. Then to Greece. Everyone looked at them like outcasts, treated them like animals. And those who offered them a bite of food, a sip of water, a garment to cover their nakedness, remembered them in their prayers until they died.
The old man's eyes were watery. He refilled his glass and emptied it all at once. Light a cigarette. He looked at the baby who was snoring peacefully.
– My father when I was born did not believe that I would live. Every night he took me in his arms and told me stories. Stories about the ancients. For Odysseus, Achilles, Leonidas, Alexander the Great. For battles, for wars, for heroes, for betrayals. I finally lived. And he never stopped telling me those stories. Now and then, among his stories, an ancient one would fly. I kept asking him to explain them to me even when he had told me dozens of times.
He looked at his two guests. Although they did not understand him, they looked at him as if enchanted.
– Why am I telling you all this, you will wonder. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about me. To lighten my soul. I didn't go to school. I learned to talk on the street. The road was my home. Where I was born I learned everything about life. And I succeeded. I survived. I made a family. I saw my children grow up, become men. To die... I lost my wife, my support. We have been together for over sixty years. We grew up together. And we loved each other as naturally as the sun rises every morning. And since I lost her, I broke down, I was left half. And half a man is worse than a soul.
A tear began to flow between the thick wrinkles of his face. He emptied his glass again.
– I forgot to believe in God. I hated him for the life he gave me. I never hurt anyone. And that was my reward. A life full of toil and difficulties. And death. A lot of death... Let it be...
He slowly rose from his chair and approached the divan. He bent down and took in his arms the little baby who was snoring quietly. He cleaned it up as he sat back in his chair with the little girl in his arms.
- Let it be... Tonight everything made sense. My whole life took on substance. My home was illuminated by a light that I had never seen in my life.
Look at the Musafiras. He saw in their faces all their suffering. The death they had seen. The anxiety to escape. And the hope that nestled deep in their eyes. The hope he held in his arms.
– I forgot all those ancient things my father used to tell me. Like I forgot to love others, like my skin hardened from the pain. But I still remember one thing. It is from that story that Leonidas and his crazy lads sat down and were killed fighting the Persians. When I was little, it seemed stupid to me, to sit and kill yourself like that. Free. But in the end it wasn't like that. They may have been killed, but thousands more were saved. And that's enough to still remember them.
He smiled at the little girl breathing softly in his arms. Look at the couple.
– Since my wife died no one has set foot in here. And today you came. And this little creature. To redeem my cursed soul.
The old man stopped. His eyes were filled with tears. He looked at the small frame on the wall. The woman who was smiling at him from up there. Then he looked at the little girl sleeping in his arms. His voice sounded broken as he recited the ancient saying.
- Oh know, the Lacedaemonian angels, that here we are, convinced of those sayings.
Then he looked back at the small frame and whispered into the night that covered his eyes.
- I'm coming damn me... I'm coming...
*Cover photo: A woman returning home with a Christmas tree, 1895, vintag.es