T
H E G L E A N E R (title of the original:
Η
Σταχομαζώχτρα)
Translated
by Elizabeth Key Fowden
A
CHRISTMAS STORY
HER
NEIGHBOUR ZERBINIO was most surprised that Christmas Day in 187_
when she saw Aunt Achtitsa wearing a new headscarf and both Yeros and
Patrona with clean shirts and new shoes. And rightly so, as it was
very well known that Aunt Achtitsa had witnessed the sale of her
daughter’s dowry at public auction in order to pay off the debts of
her worthless son-in-law, that she was destitute and widowed, and
that she was rearing her orphaned grandchildren by resorting to odd
jobs. She was one of those people who never get a lucky break. Her
neighbour Zerbinio pitied the poverty of the old woman and the two
orphans. But it was hardly as if she herself had the money to help
them out and be their comforter. The late Barba-Michalios,
who had preceded his wife Achtitsa to the grave, was fortunate not to
have seen the hardships that loomed after his death. He was a good
soul — if only he were still alive, poor man. The two children,
‘our lost ones’, Yorgos and Vasilis, went down with their
schooner and were drowned in the
winter
of 186_
. The schooner was lost with all hands on board — what a tragedy,
what a fate! I wouldn’t wish such a dreadful thing on any good
Christian woman. Her third son, the idler, the good-for-nothing, went
abroad and was living, they said, in America. He had shaken the dust
from his feet. Had anyone seen him, or heard from him? Some fellow
countrymen claimed that he had married in those parts and had taken,
it was said, a Frankish bride, an English-speaking girl, a stranger,
who did not know a word of Greek. What worse fate! But what can you
do? Can you curse your child, your own flesh and blood? Her daughter
died giving birth to a second child, leaving Achtitsa
to
inherit two orphans. Their poor excuse for a father was still alive
(how far could his endless demands go?), but, really, what a head of
family, what a lazy good-for-nothing! A card-player, a drunk, and
with still other virtues to boot. Rumour had it that he remarried
elsewhere, in order to drag down yet another family, the scoundrel!
Such men! . . . She’d found a husband alright, but what a husband!
(a curse on his head!). . . What else could she do? She pushed
herself as hard as she could, trying to make a living for the
orphans. How pitiable, the poor things! Depending on the season, she
collected herbs, pruned vines, picked olives, worked as a day
labourer. She gathered arbutus berries to make raki.
Some scrapings from the pressed grapes here, some maize husks there,
everything was used. Then in October, once the olive presses opened,
she took a fifty-dram tin scoop and a small jug and went around to
the reservoirs where the dregs were deposited and gathered the oil
from the sediment. By this means she saved enough oil for her lantern
to last a year. But Aunt Achtista derived her primary income from
gleaning corn. Every year in June she took a boat, set sail and
crossed over to Euboea. She endured the scornful name ‘boat-woman’
which other women hurled at her because it was still considered a
disgrace for a woman to travel by sea. There, along with the other
poor women, she gathered the wheat that had fallen from the sheaves
of the harvesters, from the loading of the carts. Year after year,
the peasants of Euboea and their womenfolk mocked them to their
faces: ‘Hey! Here come those skirts! The skirts are back again!’1
But
she would bend down patiently, quietly, pick up the fallen grains of
Euboea’s rich harvest, fill three or four bags, an entire year’s
supply for herself and the two orphans, whom she had entrusted in the
meanwhile to the care of Zerbinio, and sail back to her seaside
village. Except that this year the crops had failed in Euboea. The
olives failed on the little island where Aunt Achtitsa lived. The
vines failed and the maize, even the arbutus berries nearly failed,
all around the crops had failed. Then, because troubles never come
singly, a heavy winter set in over those northern parts. Already from
November, when the south wind had hardly begun to blow or the rains
to fall, the snows came. One snowfall would stop and right away
another would start up. Sometimes a dry north wind blew, packing even
harder the snow, which did not melt at all on the mountains. ‘More
was expected.’ The old woman had just managed to transport on her
back a couple of armfuls of dry wood from the ravines and woods —
enough to last two or three weeks — when the heavy winter
descended.
Round
about the middle of December there was a short break in the weather,
and a few timorous rays of sun appeared, shining like gold on the
higher rooftops. Aunt Achtitsa rushed out to the forest in order to
bring inside some firewood while she had the chance. The next day the
winter pressed in on them more bitterly. Until Christmas there was
not a single fine day, no clear patch of sky to be seen, no ray of
sun. A piercing north wind, the ‘snow-bringer’, blew on Christmas
Eve. The roofs of the houses were loaded down with packed snow. The
usual street games and snowball fights had stopped. That winter was
not for game-playing. Dwarf crystals hung from the rooftiles like
ripe fruit, but even the neighbourhood urchins no longer had the
appetite to eat them.
On
the evening of the twenty-third, Yeros had come home from school full
of cheer since lessons were finishing the next day. Even before
taking his school satchel from under his arm, he hungrily opened the
cupboard, but found not even a crust. The old woman had gone out,
perhaps to find some bread. Miserable Patrona sat slumped over near
the hearth, but the hearth was cold. She poked around in the ashes,
thinking in her childish simplicity (she was only four, the poor
girl) that the fireplace meant warmth, even if it was not alight. But
the ash was wet. Drops of water from melting snow, thanks perhaps to
some secret and transient sunbeam, had leaked in through the chimney.
Yeros, who was just seven, was on the verge of tears not having found
anything to sate his hunger. He opened the only window, which was
three spans wide. The entire house, with its low ceiling, half
paneling and loft of sorts, was only about two arms’ breadth in
height from the floor to the ceiling. Yeros lifted a stool onto the
stone window sill, climbed up onto the stool, supported himself with
his left hand on the open shutter and, reaching up daringly toward
the eaves, he stretched out his right hand and broke off an icicle
from the ‘stalagmites’ which adorned the roof. He began to suck
it slowly and with pleasure, and gave one also to Patrona to eat. The
poor things were starving.
A
little while later, old Achtitsa returned carrying something wrapped
up in her bosom. Yeros, recognizing from experience that his
grandmother’s bosom was never puffed up without reason, leapt up
and ran to her breast, stuck in his hand and let out a cry of joy.
That evening the good, if a little strict, grandmother had ‘saved’
a piece of bread — who knows how much she’d had to beg and plead
for it. But what wouldn’t she do, what sacrifices wouldn’t she
make for the love of those two children who were hers twice over, her
child’s children! Still, she did not want to indulge them, to be
too soft with them. She called the boy ‘Yeros’ because he bore
the name of her real ‘yeros’, that is to say, ‘old man’, the
late Barba-Michalios,
whose name it pained her to hear and to say aloud. The hapless little
girl she called by the flattering name Patrona, ‘as the
impoverished lady that she was’, since she could not endure hearing
Argyro, her daughter’s name which had been bequeathed to the orphan
by her mother as she lay dying after giving birth to the girl. Except
for these little nicknames, she bestowed no signs of tenderness on
the two poor creatures, but provided for their everyday needs and
protected them as she could.
The
long-suffering old woman prepared a bed for the two orphans to sleep
and lying down beside them herself told them to breathe down under
their blanket to keep warm. Uttering an untruth, but wishing it might
be true, she promised them that the next day Christ would bring wood
and bread and a kettle boiling on the fire. She lay awake until past
midnight, brooding over her bitter fortune.
In
the morning, after the liturgy (it was Christmas Eve), the parish
priest, Papa-Dimitris,
suddenly appeared at the door of the humble dwelling:
‘Glad
tidings!’ he addressed her with a smile.
Glad
tidings indeed. Who could she expect glad tidings from?
‘I
received a letter for you, Achtitsa,’ said the old priest, brushing
the snow from his cassock and shawl.
‘Come
in, Master!’
‘If
only I had a fire,’ she whispered to herself, ‘or a sweet and
raki
to
offer him.’
The
priest climbed up the four steps and went over to sit on the stool.
He reached into his cassock and pulled out a large envelope covered
with a variety of official seals and postage stamps.
‘A
letter, you said, Father?’ Achtitsa repeated, just beginning to
register what the priest had said.
The
letter which he had pulled out from his breast appeared to be open at
one end.
‘The
ship arrived this morning,’ the priest resumed, ‘and they brought
me this now, just as I was leaving church.’
And
putting his hand into the envelope, he pulled out a folded paper.
‘The
letter is addressed to me,’ he added, ‘but it concerns you.’
‘What,
me? Me?’ repeated the old woman with surprise.
Papa-Dimitris
unfolded the letter.
‘God
saw your suffering and has sent you a little relief,’ said the good
priest. ‘Your son has written to you from America.’
‘From
America? Yannis! Yannis remembered me?’ the old woman cried for
joy, making the sign of the cross and then adding, ‘Glory be to
God!’
The
priest put on his glasses and began trying to read:
‘It
is poorly written,’ he said, ‘and I have a hard time reading the
characters they use these days, but I will try to get the sense of
it.’
And
he started to read, with difficulty and much stumbling:
‘Papa-Dimitris,
I kiss your hand. First of all, I trust that you are well, etc., etc.
I’ve been away for many years and I don’t know what has happened
there, whether they are alive or dead. I’m far away, deep in
Panama, and have no contact with other Greeks living in America.
Three years ago I met (so and so) and (so and so), but they
too
had been abroad for many years and had no news of my family. ‘If my
mother or father is alive, tell them to forgive me, because even
though we always struggle for the good, often things go wrong. I
twice fell seriously ill with one of the nasty infections you catch
here, and I spent a lot of time in hospital. I gave all my money to
the doctors and I only just escaped with my life. I was married ten
years ago according to the local custom, but am now a widower, and
want nothing more than to get together enough money to return home in
time to receive my parents’ blessing. Tell them that they shouldn’t
hold anything against me, for it is God’s will and we can’t go
against it. And they shouldn’t hold a grudge, since, unless God
desires it, man can’t get anywhere. ‘I am sending you the
enclosed bill of exchange written in your name, Father, for your
Reverence to sign and take care to cash for my father or mother, if
they are still living. If, and I dearly hope it is not so, they are
dead and buried, would your Reverence be so kind as to cash it and
give the money to one of my siblings, if they are alive, or to a
nephew, or some other poor soul. And, Father, if
my
parents are dead, please reserve part of the money for the forty
liturgies in their memory. . .’*
The
letter had a lot to say, but it also omitted one important thing. It
did not refer to the amount of money that he intended to be cashed.
Noting the omission, Papa-Dimitris
guessed that the author of the letter had assumed through oversight
that he had already specified the amount of money earlier in the
letter, and considered it unnecessary to repeat it again below. For
that reason he wrote simply, ‘this amount’.
Achtitsa’s
joy was ineffable, receiving news of her son after so many years. As
if it had been sleeping beneath ashes for long years, the spark of
maternal love rose up to her face from deep within her and the aged,
shrivelled and wrinkled visage was transformed, shining forth youth
and beauty. Even if they did not understand what had transpired, the
two children, seeing their grandmother’s joy, began to skip and
gambol about.
Kyr-Margaritis
was not principally a money changer, or lender or merchant, he was
all these together.* He paid tax on one trade, but practised three.
Old Achtitsa, being in urgent need, took her son’s promissory note,
on which there appeared black and red characters, both typed and
hand-written, about which neither the parish priest nor she knew
anything, and went to the shop of Kyr-Margaritis.
Kyr-Margaritis
took a pinch of snuff, dusted off his full breeches onto which some
of it always fell, lowered his cap down to his eyebrows, put on his
glasses, and began to examine the promissory note at length.
‘It
comes from America?’ he said. ‘Your son remembered you, I see.
Bravo. I’m happy for you.’ Then he went on: ‘It has the number
10,
but I don’t know in
what
currency, ten shillings, ten rupees, ten crowns, or ten . . .’
He
stopped before saying ‘ten pounds’.
‘Let’s
call the teacher,’ muttered Kyr-Margaritis,
‘perhaps he will know how to read it. What language is it anyway?’
The
schoolmaster, who was sitting next door watching a game of chiamo,
was summoned and walked over to the shop of Kyr-
Margaritis. Stiff and erect in his gait, he entered and picked up the
letter, asked Kyr-Margaritis
to lend him his glasses and began to sound out the Latin characters.
‘It
must be English,’ he said, ‘unless it is German. Where does this
document come from?’
‘America,
Sir,’ answered Aunt Achtitsa.
‘America?
Then it is English.’
And
saying this, he tried to sound out the words ‘ten pounds sterling’,
as it was written by hand on the cheque.
‘Sterling,’
he said. ‘Sterling would mean taler,
I believe. The word appears to be of this derivation,’ he
pronounced dogmatically. He returned the letter to the hands of
Kyr-Margaritis.
‘That
will be it, then,’ he said, ‘and since the number ten is written
at the top of the page, it must be a promissory note for ten talers.
But to tell you the truth, I’m not an expert in financial matters.
We men of letters occupy ourselves with other things.’
And
with that, since he was feeling a chill in the flagstone-paved shop
of Kyr-Margaritis,
he returned to the coffee house to warm up.
Kyr-Margaritis
had started rubbing his hands and appeared to be lost in thought.
‘Now
then, what shall we do?’ he said turning to the old woman. ‘Times
are hard. Business sluggish. Do I accept it and cash it for you, do I
know that my money is guaranteed, or whether the bill is forged? Does
one expect honesty from over there, from that lost world? All the
frauds, all the counterfeiters come from there. Those vagabonds — I
beg your pardon, I don’t include your son — roam around for so
long there in the land where the sun bakes the bread and they don’t
bother to send home real money, proper cash, they only send worthless
scraps of paper.’
He
took two turns around his enormous accounting office and said: ‘And
it is not a slight undertaking, I’ll have you know.We are talking
about ten talers!
If I had ten talers,
I would get married.’
Then
he went on: ‘But what can I say? I feel sorry for you — a good
woman with those orphans to look after. I’ll keep a taler
and
a half for the risks I’m running and, as for the eight and a half
that remain. . . well, to be sure, so that you don’t go looking for
crowns, I’ll give you five francs to make it even between us. . .
So that makes eight and a half and five francs . . . Oh! and I
forgot! . . .’
To
the contrary, he had not forgotten. He had been thinking about it
from the start of their conversation.
‘Your
late husband Michalios owed me something, I don’t remember what it
was just now . . .’
And
he turned to his accounts book: ‘Ah yes, and I believe your
good-for-nothing son-in-law made off with two talers
from
me.’ And armed with his gigantic accounts register, he added, ‘It
is right and proper, after all, for me to withhold this money . . .
however much you get, it will seem a gift from heaven to you.’ He
opened the register.
The
densely annotated pages of that register resembled fertile fields,
rich earth. Whatever was sown therein bore fruit many times over. It
was like pruning the leaves of a sapling, each time he made an outlay
of money. But the root remained underground, preparing to sprout
forth again.
Straightaway
Kyr-Margaritis
located the record of the two accounts. ‘Your late husband owed me
nine and fifteen,’ he said, ‘and two talers
borrowed
and not paid back by your son-in-law, that makes. . .’ Taking up
his pen he started to add up the amount owed and the conversion from
talers
to
drachmas, and then to subtract the sum from ten French talers.
‘So
it all comes out to my giving you . . . ,’ Kyr-Margaritis
started to say.
Just
then a new figure appeared on the scene.
It
was a merchant from Syros, on their island briefly for business.
With
an air of confidence and self-assurance, he strode up to the desk
where Kyr-Margaritis
stood.
‘What
do we have here, Kyr-Margaritis?.
. . What is this?’ he asked with a quick glance at the poor widow’s
promissory note that lay on the desk. And then, picking it up: ‘A
bill of exchange for ten English pounds from America,’ he said in a
clear voice. ‘Where did this come from? You do this sort of
business too, Kyr-Margaritis?’
‘For
ten pounds!’ Aunt Achtitsa repeated spontaneously, having heard the
word pronounced with no uncertainty.
‘Why,
yes, for ten English pounds,’ the businessman from Hermoupolis said
again, this time turning to her. ‘Is it yours perhaps?’
‘Indeed.’
Usually,
when Aunt Achtitsa wanted to agree with something, she always said
‘yes’. But this time she herself could not quite understand how
it came to her to use the more formal ‘indeed’, or where she
found this word.
‘Or
is it maybe for ten napoleons?’ Kyr-Margaritis
murmured, biting his lip.
‘I
tell you, it is for ten English pounds,’ the man from Syros
repeated. ‘Don’t you understand?’
He
took another long look at the promissory note: ‘It is guaranteed
money, argent
comptant,
(In other words, ‘as good as cash’).I tell you. Are you going to
cash it, or shall I do it here and now?’ he asked, starting to get
out his purse.
‘Could
somebody take it for nine . . . French pounds,’ asked Kyr-
Margaritis, hesitating.
‘French?
I’ll take it for nine English.’
And
turning the sheet of paper over, he saw the good priest’s
signature, checked it against the name that appeared in the text, and
found it to be identical.
Then,
opening his purse, he counted out into the hand of the widow Aunt
Achtitsa, right before her bedazzled eyes, nine shining English
pounds.
This
was how it came about that on Christmas Day the poor widow was
wearing a new white headscarf and the two orphans had clean shirts on
their thin frames and warm shoes on their frozen little feet.
[1889]
1 The
fabric of the skirts worn by the women of Skiathos was more like that
of
the
Europeans, in contrast to the heavy traditional weaves of the Euboean
women.
© Denise
Harvey Publisher.
Courtesy of Denise Harvey (Publisher), 340 05 Limni, Evia, Greece. VAT Reg. No. EL013143429.
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