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An
Idler’s Christmas
(title of the original: Τα Χριστούγεννα του Τεμπέλη)
By
Alexandros Papadiamantis
(Rendered
by Vassilis C. Militsis)
The
gelid northerly wind was blowing and high up in the mountains was
snowing. One morning, master-Pavlos Piskoletos entered Patsopoulos’
public house to steady himself with an invigorating cup of rum, as he
was ousted from home by his wife, reviled by his mother-in-law,
beaten by his brother-in-law, exorcised by Madam Stratina, his
landlady and shown the open palm by his three-year-old son,
diligently coached by his worthy uncle to do this reviling gesture,
the way parents do among the scum of society – how to revile,
swear, blaspheme, and generally be utterly irreverent to holy
symbols, such as the holy Cross, icons, candles, censers and kollyva.
Tales appropriate for the Athenian public!
The
farsighted tapster had foreseen to display next to the casks and
bottles of grog some bars of soap, starch, rice and sugar in order
for the neighboring decent housewives to come and buy without
creating a scandal. He also had a coffee mill available. However, you
could sometimes see, in the morning or in the evening, ill-kempt,
slovenly women holding a hand under the fold of their dress at the
hip, which meant that the purchase was not soap or rice or sugar.
Many
times in the day, old Vassilo, a poor and derelict stranger, but free
from prejudice, frequented the house to drink her rum in full view.
Another customer was Mistress-Kostaina, the church help, who attended
to the church chores as much as she could, standing by the tall
candle-stand to attach the candles in the proper order, and the
pennies she earned on Sunday she spent all on drinking with
conscientious precision on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Among the
other women customers was the landlady of two houses, Stratina, who
at the gate, the yard, the street and the pub voiced all her secrets,
more precisely the secrets of others. Some secrets fell in the
courtyard and some were disclosed in the pub; most of them were
divulged in the street, where she gave the names: which tenant had
delayed a two-month rent, which debtor had not paid her the interest,
which lady from the neighborhood had borrowed something she had not
returned.
Master-Dimitris,
the frock tailor, was three months behind his rent, Master-Pavlos
Pikoletos five, counting the current month, six. Her best woman,
Lenio, had deceitfully mortgaged her house twice, and now Stratina
had to resort to lawyers and notaries to secure her rights. Katina, a
niece of her ex-husband’s, had pawned to her a silver item in lieu
of ten drachmas, and now according to the assessment of two
goldsmiths, the item proved to be bogus, not worth the two rolls of
the rusty copper coins – which, as was her wont, (this she did not
say, but it was widely known) made old Stratis, her husband, go out
of the house along with Margarita, her daughter, and Lenoula, her
granddaughter; then she opened the stash cache, took out the two
rolls of coins and with secret reluctance, as though the money was
glued to her hands, handed them to poor Katina.
When
Assimina, her former tenant, a songstress by profession, cleared out,
she had owed her three months and nine days’ rent. And her
furniture, which she should justly have relinquished to her landlady,
she gave it away to her recent boyfriend – may she have broken her
leg, may she always be cursed… Stratina received no more than a
worthless, greasy old amulet, which, Assimina confidentially told
her, contained wood from the Holy Cross … As soon as the artiste
had
beaten the hell out,
the landlady, burning with curiosity, opened the charm and instead of
the Holy Wood, what did she find? … a tangle of rags, hairs, Arabic
script, different wizardry – worthless things … Can you hear
that, neighbors?
Master-Pavlakis
(as Pavlos was called by his diminutive) entered the shop shivering
and ordered a cup of rum. The pub’s help knowing him well asked:
The
man shrugged his shoulders ambiguously.
He
had no nickel. Money was all right, so was work, and wine, and good
company. Best of all however was indolence, what fratelli
Italians
called dolce
far niente.
If he were assigned to make out the rules of the week, he would
appoint Sunday as a holiday, Monday for leisure, Tuesday for dawdling
around, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday for work, and Saturday for
rest. Who claims that the Greek orthodox holidays are too many and
the working days too few? This is said by those who have never done
any manual labor and they only know to pass laws for others.
Just
at the same moment, Dimitris, the frock tailor came from across to
have his morning drink. His only consolation was the frequent short
trips, as he used to call his drinking visits to the shop. He made
five-minute pauses from his work, ten times a day, and went over to
have a drink of wine. He also carried his work home and worked in his
room as if he were an apprentice.
The
frock tailor came into the shop and ordered a cup of wine. On seeing
Pavlos, he said:
God
him sent to settle the nickel problem between the patron and the
waiter; the tailor sat next to Pavlos and took up such a conversation
according to the train of his thoughts, but to Pavlos it seemed to
advocate his own grievances.
There’s
not such a thing as a holiday or a day-off, my friend,
master-Pavleto (another diminutive). Neither is there idleness nor
leisure. We had to work on Saint Nicholas’ Day, and on Saint
Spyridon’s Day; on the day before yesterday, on Sunday we also
worked. Christmas is drawing near and I expect to be working, too,
on a holy day as it is…
Pavlos
nodded his head.
I
want to say something, but I don’t know how to say it, as I’m
ill-lettered, master-Dimitris, my friend. It seems to me that all
these leaders and rulers of the world, society in general, have set
things amiss. Instead of work and leisure being equally divided on
working days, either falls lopsidedly. We work hurriedly on holidays
and then we stay idle for weeks and months on workdays.
What
about laziness in the meantime? Interrupted with a sly impertinence
the help boy of the pub, taking advantage of the fact that his boss
was engaged talking with someone at the threshold and could not
listen.
Let
it be; what use is hard work or idleness? Wondered Dimitris. As
things stand, there’s a big slack of employment and little
accumulated work. Master-Pavlos is right, no matter who is lazy, be
he myself, or Pavlos, or Petros, or Kostas, or Ghikas. My whole
family works, I work, my son works, my daughter is a seamstress
apprentice. Despite all this, we can’t make ends meet; we can’t
even pay Stratina’s rent. We work for the landlady, for the
grocer, the vegetable seller, the shoemaker, the trader. My daughter
wants her finery, my son his pastime at the coffeehouse, he also
needs new clothes, his entertainment. And then how can you prosper?
Very
damp, master-Dimitris, said Pavletos responding to his own thoughts.
Too damp down in the tanneries, the place is too low, heavy work,
rheumatism, and colds. Then come, if you dare, to tan hides. Our
hides have already been tanned.
Yours
is well tanned all right, master-Pavlos, the waiter was again being
impertinent, this time alluding to the scenes between Pavlos and his
wife’s brother.
Then
the tapster came over. Master-Dimitris left to resume his work and
the conversation was interrupted. Master-Pavlos became absorbed in
his own imaginings. Today is Saturday, the day after tomorrow is
Christmas Eve and the day after, Christmas. If he only had some money
at least to buy a poult, as everybody did, for the Christmas feast!
Now he sorely regretted for not going to the tanneries the previous
days to work his way into some money so he could spend the season’s
holidays frugally. “Too soggy, the place is too low, the work too
heavy. Dare come to tan hides! Our skin wants tanning!”
He
knew the popular tale about the lazy bloke who was about to hang and
condescended to have his life spared provided his rusk was “soggy”.
He also knew another story about Idlers’
Inn,
allegedly founded by Mehmet Ali in his native town of Kavala. There,
since there was too much, idling, the custodian of the inn contrived
to lay down a mat where he made idlers lie down and then set the mat
on fire. Those who preferred being burnt to getting up were genuine
lazybones, who were entitled to eating the offered pilaf.
Those who got up to avoid being burnt were not real sluggards and
forfeited their rights. There were so many families of benefactors,
such as Vallianoses, Averoffs, Syngroses – thought master-Pavlos –
and none thought to set up a similar establishment in Athens!
Master-Pavlakis
let two days pass by until Christmas Eve came. He did not cease to
daydream and hanker after the poult. How could he procure one?
After
nightfall, driven out of his house, as usual, he ventured towards the
pub through a side alley and was about to get into it. His mind was
constantly on the poult. The fowl would also come very handy as a
means of making up with his wife.
There,
as he was on the point of entering the taproom, he spied a boy
carrying on his shoulder a hamper, which appeared to contain a
turkey, horseweeds, oranges, some butter perhaps and different
groceries. The boy was looking around apparently seeking some house
or other. He was about to enter the shop to ask, and on seeing Pavlos
turned to him.
Then
Pavlos had a bright idea.
He’s
told me the number and just forgotten it, said the boy. He must have
recently found a house in this street … he used to be our customer
… he stayed farther on at Gerani before.
Ah,
Mister Thanassis Beliopoulos’! dissembled master-Pavlos, see,
that’s his house. Call for mistress-Pavlaina, inside the yard in
the ground-floor room … she’s his landlady … how shall I put
it? She’s family … he lets her have a free hand on everything …
she’s very thrifty with his household … she’s his
sister-in-law … I mean, she’s his niece … call for her and
give her the shopping.
And
taking a few steps to the yard gate, he pretended to call:
So
far so good. Master-Pavlakis was rubbing his hands and seemed to feel
on his nose the tickling from the odor of roasted turkey. But he did
not care so much for the turkey as for making up with his wife. He
spent the night in an overnight coffee-house and in the morning he
went to church.
All
day long he joined company after company of old acquaintances in the
pub, which was open for the most of the day but his windows were
shut. He spent the day on some tidbits and many treats.
At
nightfall after many libations, fortified with courage and recalling
the turkey, he knocked his family’s door, which was barred from
inside.
No
response from inside. All in the courtyard was quiet. The
ground-floor premises, the basement, Mrs Stratina’s chicken coops –
all was sleeping. The dog only recognizing master-Pavlos, growled a
little and became quiet. Besides three or four families residing in
the sunless rooms, there were also two goats, a dozen hens, four
tomcats, two turkeys and several pairs of pigeons. The goats were
chewing the cud deep in their sheltered small corral, the hens
clucking in their perches, the pigeons gathered in their cotes
frightened by the tomcats, which hunted them in the night. All these
small sounds were the snoring of the slumbering yard.
Soon,
the thump of footfalls was heard inside the house.
Eh,
master-Pavlos, said mistress-Stratina coming near him. What are you
talking about? What turkey are you babbling and bragging about,
bless you, my lad? We’d been at pains to cover up the scandal, so
that the house would not be insulted … The man who should have had
the turkey came around midnight and cried his head off threatening
all of us, your family in particular, who had already put the turkey
in the pot to cook. They were very embarrassed and didn’t know
what to do … your brother-in-law said that’s
quite a gag of you
… locked
themselves in all day long dreading lest the owner of the turkey
came again and called the police … I was also scared dead about
the reputation of my house. No more of your jests, master-Pavlakis.
I won’t stand such a shame on my house, do you hear?
Now
… is my family in? Master-Pavlos asked timidly.
They’re
all in, locked up, with the lamp turned down for the fear of Jews.
Watch out for that boorish brother-in-law of yours, or else…
Is
he in?
Whether
he’s in or not, he must be coming … there I can hear his voice
someplace.
Indeed
a voice was heard from near about, which foreboded no good to the
nocturnal visitor.
Eh,
master-Pavlinos, someone said, very tasty, your turkey…
The
one that spoke did not show himself. Perhaps it was master-Dimitris,
his neighbor or the dreadful master-Pavlos’ brother-in-law, his
sister’s husband.
Couldn’t
I possibly have a snack from the turkey? Asked our man plaintively.
What
use can the snack be to you, my good master-Pavlakis? Things are
very grim. Let it be. Work is good for you, only work! Brave men are
proved by work. Now it’s all done and over with. You’d better go
and work, so that you can bring the rent due to me. Do you hear?
I
do.
Bring
me the money, and in spite of my destitution, I’ll sacrifice one
my turkeys to feast.
From
within the house a raucous murmur was heard followed by a little
child’s voice saying:
To
yaw health, matte-Palo, lathy dog, bad fatha. We’ve ate de toiky.
So hea, take five fom my open palm, plus five mo’ fom my otha!
Apparently,
his wife’s frightful brother was in the house and had instructed
the child to utter these words.
Don’t
tarry a moment, master-Pavletos, said Stratina, for your own good!
Off you go now and from the day after tomorrow set down to work!
There
was some noise from within as if someone were walking with a heavy
step to the door.
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