LOVE THY NEIGHBOR by Eleni Ladia (Title of the original: Η Αγάπη του Πλησίον)

Rendered by Vassilis Militsis

I want to be honest with you; maxims do not always apply to life. I have realized this since my adolescence; that blessed time when I first read Dostoyevsky’s Underground. The hero of the novel proves in a blatant way that it is not a good thing to know thyself. His arguments are indeed so stirring and upsetting the standing process of human thought that the work is considered the product of a genius.

As far as I am concerned, I have never cared about knowing myself; after all, I do not possess such intellectual capacity. I am a simple soul who has never aspired to tackle such lofty issues and prevail upon an area more than eighty square meters.

Neither do I boast of being a good Christian; I am simply moved by the beauty of the Greek Orthodox texts and rituals. And yet unwittingly I have applied to my life the utmost Christian teaching:

Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. This experience was not conceptual but moral, the implementation of which engendered a great moral paradox. I am left all alone now on the day of Christmas pestered by a tantalizing question: Since I loved her as myself, why did she have to revolt after so many years and one nice morning – literally it was rather a nice afternoon – she declared point-blank to me, without rancor or tears or effusions that she could no longer stand our relationship.

At first I was surprised and did not believe her. I made up and implemented several probing methods to find out that she was telling me the truth and unfortunately she was. I panicked and the whys fell unto me neck like guillotines. What on earth had I done so that she could revolt to such a degree as to declare that her patience had been taxed? I loved her truly as myself.

To begin with, I imposed on her my ideas about marriage and childbearing, where I easily succeeded because she was also of the same mind. Given at times to philosophical vagaries and living in an imaginary future she considered all present events conventional and evanescent. However, to be precise, she sometimes proposed marriage to me – this woman had the astonishing power to transform herself into a knight – in times of great grief and tribulations for me. In a curt and brusque fashion I suggested that she follow two paths: either she stay on the terms I had imposed on myself – i.e. not marrying – or she leave. She had a free choice. Nevertheless, she always stayed and many Christmasses passed.

As the years went by and she reached a certain age, apparently apprehensive that she would be beyond her competence for procreation, she began asking for a child, even out of wedlock. Being conservative and reared with staunch moral principles, I hardly restrained myself from sending her to the deuce. However, I pointed out to her that neither of us was capable of bringing up a young child into being a proper human being, also adding that she should stay on my own terms she had naturally accepted or leave. She stayed and many Christmas and New Year’s days flew by.

We had finally agreed on the big issues of matrimony and procreation. However, she had not been able to abide by the almost unimportant ones. What had nagged her? Perhaps it was the fact that I imposed upon her to keep our affair secret? But it was I who had to go through it first. I had never said a word to anyone about it, despite what my circle realized; no confession from my part was divulged to anyone. I was not concerned with the views held by present day people. An affair that ends up to no matrimony must be kept secret.

Naturally there was no objective cause for this conspiracy of our secrecy – that was something she could not comprehend; discretion does not always originate in an objective cause. I personally hate confessions and trust, and I often go by a pseudonym for trivial situations such as when my barber knows me as Mister Alexandros when I really respond to another name. Certainly, I do not act in this fashion out of treachery nor do I employ villainous devises; I just wish to preserve my anonymity. I love to keep a low profile, because this is a source of grace and liberty.

Now you may ask me, dear reader: are you so modest that you wish to be unobtrusive? No, I am not, but since I do not have a name of the magnitude of Newton, Einstein or Dostoyevsky, I have no need of belonging to the sphere of mediocrities, such as being a village mayor or an obscure author read only by few. Therefore, my aversion to small magnitudes has led me to my utmost anonymity. Why should my beloved one be disturbed? Was she perhaps annoyed by the protection of our affair or by the days and hours assigned by me for our meetings? But those days and hours were also available for my leisure; all the rest were filled with my professional occupations and household tasks, for I lived alone.

I remember now that after a long time she dared protest about the broken bed we always lay on the days and hours I had assigned for our meetings. I am not needy or stingy; I am just Spartan and indeed so much so I do not like glittering and superfluous things in houses. I slept on the very same bed every day and I could not complain. The bed-sheets had certainly some holes but they were due to the frequent washing; that is why they were always so spotlessly clean and smelled of lemon fragrance. Whatever I could provide for myself so could I for her. I loved her as myself. For this reason I bade her wash her hands often and diligently and dry them meticulously. I demanded that she not touch fallen objects on the floor without wearing plastic gloves, expounding to her the reasoning behind cleanliness ignored unfortunately by the majority of the people. At first, she grew frightened and protested but eventually before my threat take it or leave of my conditions she submitted. I initiated her in everything in an almost ritual fashion of how to avoid germs. Because she did not know which were the most unclean points of the house such as the bath-door knob touched a decade ago by a charwoman hired by my late mother or the part of the washing-machine on which a plumber had placed his jacket or some other parts, I indicated a path for her to move on. From the bedroom to the bathroom there was a narrow strip on which she was allowed to walk. Once when she deviated from her beaten track, we were on the brink of splitting up.

I loved her very much and I liked to see her asleep so I could whisper to her as many tender words as I refrained from uttering while she was awake. However, she was a very nervous creature, got up from the bed and sat in the armchair I had reserved for her as the most clean.

She complained that she sat there for hours almost still, for she was not allowed to make any noise and go into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee or to drink a glass of water. I had told her to wake me up in case she was thirsty, for I was immediately roused from my slumber and fetched her a glass of water.

She was prey to many obsessions, and when I pointed it out to her, she grew vexed. She complained she felt cold but that was only her idea; how could she possibly be cold when I wasn’t since she and I were the selfsame person? I remember sometimes she protested about the way I treated her, made scenes and left. I never insisted on her staying because I well knew her next step: a quarter of an hour later the bell rang. She entered the house remorseful, her rebelliousness crushed, and she hugged me in tears, because the dilemma hung dangling above her head like a Damocles’ sword. In the main, I was certain that in this manner I steeled her character. That is why I do not regret about a scene that I have just remembered. We had gone to a country restaurant to eat and I let her order the meal. I liked seeing her eat with relish because she then became my real self. And to think that when we first met and fell in love with one another, I was afraid to touch her in fear of fracturing her ribs. I fattened her and she grew into a pretty girl, overweight all right, but certainly pretty.

At that restaurant, a summer night, we had ordered the meal. The garden was decorated with some kitschy earthenware jars. Suddenly, she showed me an enormous rat. “I thought it was a kitten,” she said aghast, “but it is a rat. Let’s get out of here right now!” I knew that another of her obsessions was her fear of rats and mice. Therefore, I remarked severely. “Don’t make any scenes. We’re staying; we’re not going to be the center of ridicule in front of the other patrons, who go on eating unperturbed.” So we stayed. Naturally she was right because the garden was swarming with rats as large as kittens; they crawled among the jars and dangerously close to the tables. She had climbed on her chair dreading to step on the ground; she went pale and assumed an expression as though she was going to be sick. However, setting a brave example, I was trying to eat. It was true that the spectacle had disgusted me, too, but I did not show it.

Perhaps that evening something broke inside her because she told me she was unimaginably wearied by my whims and my behavior. I protested telling her that I was no lothario or a knave; let alone a gambler or a boozer. She looked at me sadly and answered: “You can easily do away with big vices; it is the trivial ones that gnaw at my life within the daily routine.”

I paid no attention, dear reader; but to whom do I turn to? I hate delivering my secrets to the public, for it is a trait of weakness. No other person was dearer to me than she. No one ever learned how much, nor did she even suspect, how much I had loved her. There had been times when my love was the most powerful feeling on earth.

Indeed on earth. She complained I was never jealous but she never understood that every moment I dreaded to manifest my weakness, my tormenting jealousy even when she cast her glance indifferently around because I was afraid of losing her. And I lost her in an unexpected manner.

Her last words were: “I’ve never doubted that you’ve loved me; what I can’t stand is the way you’ve loved me.”

I loved her as myself; I imposed on her the terms I had first imposed on myself.

“No,” I exclaim now as did the hero in the Underground, “it is not good for man to know himself.”

Likewise, I burst in tears and confess: “Do not love your neighbor as thyself.” Such love presents high risks.

I have told you the least of what had happened during this affair, for if I recounted everything, I would fill an entire volume. And as I do not possess the magnitude of a Dostoyevsky, I should refrain from doing it, for I am a null; and as a naught, I gain a positive value next to another number. Outside my room, it is Christmas, but like a barnacle I am stuck to an afternoon when everything went to dust. And it was not death that wrought the disaster but our parting, which is also a form of death.

Dear reader, I close with a question that has suddenly come into my mind: have I really loved myself?

I am unable to answer because I enter the philosophical realm of knowledge, where I am at a loss. As a moral individual, I can only deal with moral issues, even without success. I stop here because I hate further confiding. And if this script happens to fall into your hands – I am not going to destroy it as I feel like the criminal who leaves some trace behind – please do not read it; throw it away because it is no use any longer…

Note: I have discovered this text among the uncut leaves of a book I bought from an old-book shop.

27^th December 1992 Eleni Ladia.

From the collection The true Speech (Etymos Logos), Armos Editions, 1998.

She has studied Archaeology and Theology at the Philosophy and Theology Faculty, respectively, of Athens University. She has been exclusively engaged to this day with literature since her adolescent days. She has written a number of novels, short stories, essays and translations whereas her articles have been published in literary journals and newspapers. She has been honored with the 2nd State Award (1981) for her work Brass Sleep. She has also received the Ouranis Award of Athens Academy (1991) for her book Horography, which was proposed for the 1993 European Award. In 2006 she was also awarded with The State Award for her book The Woman with the Ship on her Head. She is a member of the National Company of Greek Authors and an honorary member of the Company of Authors.