WRONG HEADED
(1889)
(Title
of the original: Ο Αναποδιασμένος)
By Alexandros
Moraitidis
Adapted by
Vassilis C. Militsis
On Christmas Eve
Old-Spyraina had excited common curiosity. Indeed, according to the
most precise observations of the old gammers – who are the most
observant of all living beings everywhere – she had appeared twelve
times from dawn till the forenoon upon the Cliff, the highest point
in the insular town, from which one could gaze at the expanse of the
sea.
“What’s come
over that woman there?” The old women repeatedly wondered seeing
Old-Spyraina panting up and down the Cliff – she lived at the
Threshing Floors, at the extremity of the town.
Sometimes she
came upon a workman, who laden with his sturdy ladder, having
finished the repairs of some house roof or other, went his way to
another house to that effect. This kind of odd jobs are most common
at the villages in winter, when downpours and winds, and above all,
the thick layer of snow, constantly shifted the roof tiles
transforming the poorly-made roofs into sieves.
Some other times
again Old-Spyraina, being extremely absent-minded, stepped
inadvertently on the newly whitewashed threshold of a house or other
incurring, the poor thing, both upon her head and her feet thousands
of blasphemies and curses, which in such cases hover around in the
village like filthy bottle-flies.
But the old woman
was incapable of hearing anything. She could only see. In fact, the
poor woman was staring at the sea standing guard at that windmill,
against which all the winds smashed in brash fury.
“No boat at
sea, no bird in the plain!”, the granny was mumbling on her way
back, deep in sorrow, while the gelid north wind was blowing with
unrestrained fierceness, turning the foaming waves into sea clouds.
As the day
advanced, the wind waxed more furious. It had already been blowing
for a week, “driven mad”, according to Old-Spyraina’s
description. The snow shone in the mountains, and the wind raged in
the sea, which assumed a picture of dancing billows crashing against
each other from time to time, especially at the whim of the wind, and
spouting a rain of foam, which sublimated in a shrill whistling,
causing the cavernous shore to reverberate. No sail could be seen in
the bleak sea. Small and big vessels remained wind-bound, shunning
the demonic sea ball, which is only content to be accompanied by the
rough and dismal cliffs. And the fishermen themselves despairing, put
their nets into sacks, dragged their fishing gear high up on the
shore, and sitting at the seaside cafes played slapjack dragging in
the meantime sensually at their hookahs.
***
It was already
late afternoon. A sufficient number of islanders, hearing the raucous
butcher’s bugle, the sound of which could be likened to the
shrilling cries of a swine being slaughtered. This butcher, who
served as a bugler in the army, kept this instrument in pleasant
remembrance of his adventurous military life. On the ‘festive’
days of his shop he used to ‘blow in it’, as it were, in order to
summon his customers. It goes without saying that Christmas Eve was
one of the most panegyric days for the store of this
butcher-cum-bugler, as it was the end of a forty-day fasting period,
during which butchers turned of necessity to farmers. And now the
bugle sounded like a breaking clay pot amidst the shrieks of pigs
being slaughtered, and all this butchering tumult was accompanied by
the prevailing violent commotion of rough seas.
“Not even a
flying bird!” Old-Spyraina, upon the Cliff, was again heard
soliloquizing. “The mad north wind has gone even madder”. She
went on staring on the roaring sea, holding fast her black frock and
her even blacker shawl, the folds of which was prey to the wind. She
was about to leave when she was stopped by a young sailor, who was
going to the market, all swathed in his fur coat, his shapka on his
head, and his iron-heavy shoes.
“What’s up,
auntie Spyraina?” enquired civilly the seaman.
“What do you
expect, my son?”
“My eyes have
grown weary scanning the sea
And I am tired
asking the jack tars after thee.”
The good old
woman was fond of responding in couplets, which rejoiced her heart,
sweetening thus the memory of her absent son.
“It’s Georgie
you’re expecting, auntie Spyraina?”
“Accursed be
the carpenters who make a boat
That carries our
handsome lads to lands remote”.
The old woman
replied again with another couplet, drifting in thought as she
regarded the awesome combers breaking viciously at that moment
against a rocky islet in the middle of the bay, as though they were
trying to uproot it.
“Say,
auntie-Spyraina”, asked the sailor, “who is Georgie sailing
with?”
“On Captain
Konstanti’s vessel. We’re expecting him from Salonica. They’ve
sailed with a cargo of salt from Fokies”.
“What? On
Captain Konstanti’s boat!” the sailor burst out laughing. He is a
crabstick, so wrong headed. Don’t expect them, auntie! He got mad
at his men or he was nagged by Georgie himself, such a jester as he
is, and so he stranded his old tub into some rocks or other. You know
how waspish he can get! Merry Christmas, auntie-Spyraina!” added
the sailor descending to the market and leaving the old woman
speechless, who was trying to hold back two big tears sparkling like
diamonds in her eyes.
The old woman
knew something from hearsay about Captain Konstanti, and vague fears
nestled deep in her maternal bosom began to well up, always fishy and
potentially realizable. Although she had decided to go by the
butcher’s to buy some pork, she now grew so concerned and anxious
that she returned home empty handed. There she set about carrying to
the bakery the Christmas bread, which she had found already “risen”,
along with that manikin-like bannock, with a white egg in its middle,
a Christmas present for her son whose return she was looking forward
to.
At home she found
her two little grandchildren expecting her, shivering, their two arms
hanging limp at their sides with hands blue with the cold and their
fingers like the hooks of a harpoon used to fish sea urchins. They
were her widowed daughter’s children, poor orphans, living in their
grandma’s poor house, which they filled at times with their chatter
and their weeping. Their mother used to work on the villagers’
fields to procure the daily bread.
“Hasn’t papa
come yet, ganma?” they both would ask at the same time after their
expected uncle, who on his return would always bring them various
gifts from his travels.
The old woman did
not reply beginning to be busy making two more bannocks for her
little grandsons.
“Do they eat
meat tomollow, ganma?” asked one of the little ones, standing on
one side of the low table on which the old woman was kneading the
bannocks.
“Ganma, has the
clow eaten the cheese?” said the other little one, standing on the
other side and referring to the jocular lore of the crow that eats
all the cheese of the household throughout Lent and brings it again
on Easter Day*. Such tales were often told by the old woman bringing
up her two little grandsons. But now aunt-Spyraina was silent. The
jest made a while ago concerning her son upset her deeply.
“Where’s the
goblin, ganma?” asked again one of the little ones.
“Tonight I’ll
sing a song when papa Geogie comes,” added the other.
Thus they went on
unceasingly asking endless questions which the old woman declined to
answer. She was only thinking and her deliberations were always
uttered wailfully:
“Why should he
sail with that crabstick of a captain? No wonder in his anger, such
wrong- headed as he is, he might have wrecked his damned barque. ”
***
Captain
Konstanti, whom the playful and ironic islanders often called him the
crabstick, or wrong-headed, was a dry and strict skipper, sixty-five
years of age, who in his youth was distinguished for his hard work
and his seamanship as well as for his ‘’ntelligence’, as they
used to say in the island. Starting his career sailing along the
coast and improving afterwards his shipping knowledge as far as
Pteleos and Stylida, he was the first to venture to display proudly
his home brig Annunciation, one hundred and five tons, at faraway
ports such as those in the Black Sea and the Danube, and sport his
ancient fez in Marseilles, where, incidentally, on disembarking to
port to get clearance, he was compelled by the port guards to row
back to his vessel on his longboat, three miles off, to smart himself
up dressing more decently. However, Captain Konstanti returned to
port – the selfsame – only that he turned his valued fez upside
down donning it a little way above his ears. He attributed his
epithet to this incident trying to ignore the other cause, which made
the witty islanders award him this title. And he was very fond of
relating the story himself.
“As soon as we
got to the port authority,” he used to say, “being dead tired
after hard rowing, the port official asks:
“Which is the
captain?”
“I am!” I
stood up telling them. What, don’t you know me?” And I stood up
straight. “I raised my fez a little bit up;” Captain Konstanti
was wont to wear it as far down as his ears and eyes.
“Let me give
you a piece of my mind, captain” replied the guard. “Your fez
might be just right for you, but the port master won’t like it at
all, unless you want to appear as a collier.” And Captain Konstanti
used to blow his top off laughing, while recounting that incident. At
the village he was known otherwise. He was burdened with many
‘ornaments’. His breeches, blue once like a beautiful cranesbill,
were bleached by the weather. As you see, clothes grow old, too. And
the raiment was afflicted not only with old age, as its owner’s
moustache, but also with sea salt, which, as in the case of
fishermen, was attached on the fabric and formed between its sparse
pleats different brownish spots, like dim stars. Thus sailors grow
old, as Captain Konstanti’s breeches do, both by the Time and the
sea. The years bend their backs and the brine turns their hair white.
Again, his sturdy yellowish capelet, bought once in Salonica, began
to blacken deplorably, and his fez, forfeiting its bright color,
while its sky-blue tassel at the top degenerating into a nettle, was
recognizable only by its surrounding broad black line formed after a
thirty-year-old sea-worn career. And, God bless him, he was very fond
of his fez. He almost adored it.
“Here, look at
this!” he would say to the youngsters who teased him. “This is
the fez I was wearing when I sailed to Marseilles. Come on, can you
sail there, too?” he added ostentatiously making the thumb down
sign.
Indeed, Captain
Konstanti from a clever deckhand promoted himself to skipper.
Starting with a bulky boat in which he carried prayer beads, seals
and flasks from Mount Athos, he so wisely studied the stars, the
winds and the climate that he could predict all weather changes. As
to the compass reading, he claimed he knew other ‘signs’, far
safer, familiar exclusively to him. In addition, being frugal and
always with a view of self-advancement, he competed his fellow
islanders, as a dolphin races his mates during their course, bearing
always in mind one end, that is to have his own brig built, which he
succeeded in doing.
What joy washed
over him, like a March sunshine, on putting in the island in his new
brig from the Danube for the first time. He boarded the longboat
rowed by his sailors, while he flaunted like a peacock standing at
the stern, shining in the red hues of his fez – he had just bought
it – with the sky-blue tassel waving in the breeze, preserving
still the white piece of paper put there by the manufacturer to
protect the silk threads from being tangled and consequently damaged.
However, Captain
Konstanti was possessed by a great singularity of character
originating in his extreme self-confidence in his seamanship: he
could not tolerate counseling or remarks from his sailors concerning
either the handling of sails or the general course of the vessel.
Whenever a sailor, unaware of his character, allegedly intended to
instruct Captain Konstanti in a certain way, the latter did the
opposite, many times even to the detriment of his ship.
Three times he
ran aground the Annunciation, because during the voyage he was warned
by a sailor to watch out for a shoal, which Captain Konstanti fully
knew. He knew every shoal and reef, as he claimed, and he could swing
his ship around with closed eyes; but he took it very hard to be
coached by his children.
When once someone
pointed out a shoal: “Who are you to teach me, ignoramus?” he
said in anger, just at the moment, being an able seaman, he was about
to give the shoal a wide berth. But for the remark made – the
coaching as he was wont to say –, he went straight on his course so
as not be seen guided by someone, he who had gulped the sea in
handfuls. And then, crash went the Annunciation onto the shoal while
at the same time a furious Captain Konstanti was saying: “this fez
knows a lot more than your hard heads.”
Fortunately, at
all three times he had run aground, no harm was inflicted in the
wooden hull of the vessel, to which Captain Konstanti gave vent his
queer whim.
At periods of sea
calm and fair weather, when both ship and sea heave to, and the
sailors are at a loss to know how to beguile their unbearable
boredom, or when the vessel is before a light breeze while the waves
lap its sides like wisps of cotton with a gentle whimper, and the
cool dew falling on the sails makes the sailors so gay that they
unobtrusively begin to sing; it is not, at such sweet hours, unusual
for them to play with Captain Konstanti’s perilous peculiarity. In
such cases, the captain would release his ire either onto the black
sides of his ship or onto his fez. However, during wind-swept,
ominous heavy seas, the sailors hung around speechless and docile,
fearful lest a word uttered randomly would have a pernicious impact
upon the beastly instinct of Captain Konstanti, who undoubtedly was
liable to sink ship and hands, ‘just for fun.’
Old-Spyraina,
either because of her inchoate fear or because of too much hope –
you see, too much hope is wearying – she was exhausted and at the
hour of vespers did not appear at the Cliff. In addition, it was
bitter cold! Nevertheless, harking to the unceasing blowing of the
wind, she would often repeatedly say: “Not even a flying bird!...”
She must have forgotten the favorite couplets, which she left
incomplete.
And again she sat
by the fire deliberating: “I’m afraid it isn’t unusual they
might have thwarted the Wrong Headed One and gone with all hands to
the bottom!”
At that moment
both her grandchildren, carrying in their arms the still oven-fresh
bannocks from the bakery, were heard shouting: “The papa, ganma,
the papa,” choked with joy and barely able to breathe.
No sooner had the
old woman been roused from her torpor than she sprang up from the
fireplace she was sitting by and headed to the door, where she was
met by her neighbor.
“My
congratulations, Georgie has come!”
“Has he, my
daughter?”
She could only
give this short answer, and then she ran to the seaside followed up
to a certain distance by her two little ones warming themselves with
the bannocks.
Captain Konstanti
always used to celebrate Christmas in his home island. He always
found a way to return home at Yuletide. On that morning a shepherd
saw a ship sailing down from Thermaikos Gulf and announced it to the
old woman, who had been gazing at the sea since morning. And indeed,
around evening a ship in full sail made its appearance, bypassing the
rocky islet in front of the harbor, and tacked to secure a berth, as
at that time it was blowing hard from northeast. Since the wind was
blowing against the vessel, the sails flapped dangerously to the
point of being ripped while the waves crashing relentlessly upon the
bows tossed and pitched her as though they were going to founder her.
It appeared as if a marine demon slapped the blackened face of the
prow with hands of steel. The boat, however, was well maintained and
was able to stand that awesome commotion; the gentle and playful sea
can sometimes change into matter harder than iron.
The less Captain
Konstanti neglected himself, the more kept the Annunciation in full
trim. His favored color was black, therefore, the Annunciation shone
in pitch-black luster. Her sails were always new and snow-white.
Pleased as he was with his patched breeches, he hated to see patched
up sails, none the less. Furthermore, when he sailed back home – he
loved his home town and he was very proud of it; on the 30th of
January, the town’s feast day, he even contributed to the church
collection with five drachmas – he was in the habit of hoisting not
only the flag, which was large with mellow colors, but also those
‘signals’ employed for sea communication; the latter were used by
the captain for the exclusive decoration of his brig.
“Hey, I like to
announce my coming!” he used to say.
It goes without
saying that the Annunciation was soon recognized; therefore a crowd
of people had already assembled at the market place, amid the pigs
being slaughtered, and it was a nice spectacle for them to watch the
small brig heroically defying the fury of the sea. Captain Konstanti
was very popular with his townsmen, and whenever they saw his ship
sailing in, they always gathered in crowds at the seaside to watch.
Besides, they were always expecting some hitch of his or other to
amuse themselves. Now due to the festive period the welcoming was
growing panegyric. Even the butcher stopped his work and assumed
blowing at the bugle, amidst the witticisms of the mirthful throng.
“Luff-a-lee,
Captain Konstanti”, someone cried.
“Hey, cut it
out! He might do some mischief in this storm”, someone else added.
The weather went
on the same, the wind was blowing over the bow, and yet the
Annunciation managed to approach the entrance of the port, and with a
dexterous tack, she could berth safely. The ship was so close that
captain Konstanti himself was made out clearly, standing proudly at
the helm.
All had their
eyes turned to her, when they found out to their terror that the
smart brig had approached the rocky islet so dangerously that there
might be no way back.
“There! There!”
the crowd was heard crying. Amidst this entire disturbance some
people hasted to the islet, which was joined to the town by a bridge,
ignoring the flooding, which the northeast wind had completely
covered the bridgehead.
“He’s done it
again!” cried someone from the crowd.
And then a
hideous crackle was heard on both sides of the ship as if the dry
bones of a huge prehistoric skeleton splintered.
The butcher
dropped his bugle.
The assembled
islanders were in the habit of laughing with the vagaries of this
hard-headed man, but never to the point so that a sad accident might
result.
However, the
accident occurred.
The Annunciation
had run aground on her beam ends upon the rocky islet.
Awe overcame the
islanders, some of which were fully confident that the disaster
happened because of the skipper’s familiar peculiarity of
character; and in fact, they were absolutely right. For Captain
Konstanti’s raucous voice could still be heard after the stranding:
“This fez knows
a lot more than your hard heads.”
***
This is the story
how the disaster was brought about.
At the last
tacking, Georgie, full of joy with returning to his home town and
eager to disembark as soon as possible, seeing that the skipper did
not maneuver, forgot momentarily with whom he had to deal and cried:
“Watch out what
you’re doing, captain Konstanti!”
Captain
Konstanti, in sooth, at that moment was about to give the order to
swing her around, but harking to that unaccounted for whim of his, he
deemed he would rather crash his brig after this remark than show
incapable of seamanship.
As for the rescue
of the ship, there was no hope, but, though there was no peril for
the five-hand crew save the skipper, an ear-splitting cry rang out in
the market as everyone was hurrying to the islet. And amidst these
ululations old-Spyraina’s wailing was heard. The old woman having
the hem of her dress soaked about two spans in breadth had run
through to the islet crying unceasingly: “Why should he have sailed
under that hard-headed fellow? Why so?” and then again shouting to
her son: “Get out of there, buster! Out son!”
The crew however
remained still on board, believing that with the assistance of the
inhabitants could rescue the vessel.
Captain
Konstanti, as though nothing had happened and not considering himself
the cause of the disaster, was busy running along the deck, from
stern to prow, uttering incoherent phrases.
But all were in
vain. The violent northeaster slapping powerfully on the sides of the
ship, pushing her constantly on the rocks, ripped her finally
asunder, scattering it in the port. Masts, sails, cables, wooden
items and various pieces of ship furniture, became pitiful flotsam,
relentlessly smitten by the waves, colliding, sinking and reemerging
amidst the foam eventually to crash upon the rocks. The whole scene
was an indescribable and horrible picture of a shipwreck. She had
been a thirty-year- old brig. The sailors were able to salvage their
chests in the nick of time.
Night fell, dark
and starless. Heavy grey-black clouds covered the firmament and dense
snow- flakes began to fall whitening the house-roofs and the roads.
The islanders, deeply aggrieved, dispersed and went to their abodes
to rest and get up at midnight to attend the festive Christmas mass.
Because it was bitter cold, the children, who usually go around in
groups to sing the carols, would not budge outside this year. The
only people to stay out were two arrant elderly musicians – one
playing the violin and the other the lute – who managed to go
around the houses singing the carols “for a happy year.”
After a while the
lights in the homes where the people seemingly stayed up longer went
out eventually.
However, over at
the Threshing Floors, a small cottage was still lit, shedding its
faint illumination through the slits of the window shutters. That was
Old-Spyraina’s little dwelling, who wearing on her shoulders a new
shawl was sitting calm, serene and exultant by the fire and under
the dim oil lamp light was shining her son’s shoes. Her son, also,
by the fire was fitfully sleeping as if in his slumber reflected that
he had been the cause of the disaster. Nearby the old woman’s two
grandchildren were fast asleep together on a rug holding their
bannocks tightly in their arms, while on either side of the rug there
were two pairs of shoes made of green suede, brand new and still
joined with a cord, gifts of the newly returned sailor.
Meanwhile, an old
man, bareheaded, soaked and snow-covered, was walking through the
market place, his noisy heavy shoes leaving their imprints on the
thin layer of snow. He was proceeding slowly, bent and wringing his
sea-logged fez, which during the doleful shipwreck lost the last
vestige of his tassel.
* Apparently, the
little boy confused Christmas with Easter (Translator’s note)
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