Deathwind Breathing on Cupela, Thanasis Triaridis
Excerpt translated by Clio Weber and Michael Weber
1.
It all starts as it should, as the pupils find what they must
Domenica Frantzi was found dead on the morning of February 5
nineteen seventy eight; after five days of irresolution and speculation, the
coroner’s team finally agreed that she had died from that evil disease that
had devoured her insides. However, we knew fully well that this was a lie;
what had happened to Miss Domenica on the night of the fourth to the
fifth of February, was the final act of a terrible curse, spoken with the dying
breath of a mother slain by her son, three months prior to Domenica’s
birth, and of a fiery meeting under the poplar in the Empty Lot of the 105 th
Primary School yard, on a night in May of nineteen seventy five; and she
could have avoided that meeting, but she had chosen the path of death. So,
we all knew that it was going to happen, and she, herself, before anyone else;
besides, she had told us exactly one year earlier the date of her death in
reverse and where we would find her. And, naturally, we had never spoken
to anyone of our secret; even if we had done so, who would have believed
us? Especially if one takes into account that, when, ten months later, Velias
started to chat with Mrs. Anemoula, talking in general about the evil plan of
a witch who lived on Syros, she, who loved us so, had smiled
condescendingly and ended the conversation saying “… maybe it’s just like
you think…” – undoubtedly she had taken him for a naïve dreamer. Be it as
it may; the point is that Miss Domenica had rushed to bare her breast to
welcome the black arrow of fate, and had she done differently, she would
not have been our teacher. Yet, she left us stranded, all alone, at the onset of
a deranged February, searching for the trembling touch of her fingertips on
our cheeks, holding freezing vigils, squatting on Cupela, her favourite place –
where almost every night the howling wind is heard rustling through the tree
branches, forming crystal-clear human words, as though night herself is
speaking; words like “leave”, “return”, “kiss”.
And it is an actual fact that we had truly loved Miss Domenica; we
had worshipped her with indescribable intensity and attention, and after she
had died our lips bled with her memory (even as I speak to you of her now,
they bleed once more), as she was for all of us the Mother that led us to the
wonderful nightmare, the cursed woman that took us up the dark hill of
passion, the priestess of our cruel spring, and something much more: she
was our teacher, the one who taught us how to blindfold ourselves before
the game, so that our eyelids wouldn’t half open nor our wild dreams bolt,
the one who taught us to anticipate the return of lust, fear and the deathly
wind, the one who spelled with us its incomprehensible howl and who
showed us it is worth letting love devour your body. And when, in the years
that followed, we climbed Death (don’t be scared my love, this was not
actual Death, but the name of the path leading to the top of Cupela; the
first time we walked it, it looked dark and impregnable, as if leading
nowhere, and then, while we were walking up, Manolis said: “This isn’t a
path, it’s pure death" - that was February of seventy seven), when we were
walking up that path, every time we would read Miss Domenica's last word,
carved into the trunk of the last almond tree of the row: “tonight”. And a
weird chill would run through us every time we saw the word carved into
the living wood, as though Miss Domenica who had talked to us was alive
and well; she who told us that that night might be the greatest for any one
of us, the night that would lead beyond doubt, pain or love…
So, Miss Domenica died shortly before dawn on the fifth of February
of seventy eight. The next morning during third period, the principal, Mr.
Horn, entered our classroom and interrupted Miss Dew who was writing on
the blackboard the phrase “The Amazon River…”. As soon as Horn
entered the classroom he gave a loud dry cough; behind him, through the
door opening, we saw an unknown middle-aged woman, undoubtedly
beautiful for her age and well-dressed, and next to her a policeman with a
glowering look and a handlebar mustache. “Sorry for interrupting”, the
principal said hurriedly, and from his tone, as well as from the fact that he
wasn’t talking to us in snotty posh Greek-officialese, as was his usual
practice, we realized that something serious was going on. “I would just like
to ask you something”, Horn continued. “Would any of the children, on the
off chance, know where Miss Domenica is?” We all remained silent. “I'll tell
you again”, he added, a touch more strictly. “We have to find out where Miss
Domenica is; she has been missing from her home since yesterday; the
police have been searching for her”. “She’s away on a trip…”, Fatal Nick
mumbled; he was sitting at the front desk and suddenly a sharp pain speared
through us all, like a snakebite to the heart, and we felt our cheeks burning;
like a madman, Giorgos opened his pencil case, where a year earlier he had
noted the six figure number which Miss Domenica had told us herself held
the date of her death; I leaned over to look, and Soter and Manolis leaned
over from behind, and Otto and Velias from the front, and Big Prodromos,
supposedly the tough one, got up from the desk at the very back of the next
row of desks and in his hurry to come over he knocked over his chair; there
was a great uproar in class and Horn and Dew were dumbfounded. That is
when the words that our own teacher had uttered once to Aiuto, “…in
labyrinths walk backwards, from the exit points to the centre… and if you
want the truth you should walk the world backwards…”, I remembered
those words of hers and started shouting “it’s backwards… it’s backwards…
read the numbers back to front…”. Immediately Giorgos read in a
trembling voice the numbers in reverse order: “five, two, nine, seven, eight”
and immediately after that Soter whispered the date those numbers were
hiding, “the fifth of February, nineteen seventy eight” and he held his face
in his palms and said in a dry, expressionless voice “so, it was today…”.
Twenty minutes later we were running up Death like madmen to
reach Cupela. After Soter’s words all us boys poured out of class, as though
possessed, pushing aside Horn, Dew, the well-dressed lady, and the
policeman, who was waiting a little further outside. We started running in a
frenzy. We reached Death in half our usual time, and breathless we entered
the dark path – this time not holding on to the shoulder of the one ahead
of us. First on the trail was Otto, running like the puma in Jack’s magic
pictures, and behind him we all followed in a panic, the hope rooted deep
inside us that Giorgos had not jotted down the right number inside his
pencil-case or that Soter had made some mistake in interpreting the six digit
number or that, in any case, something else had happened and we would not
find the lifeless body of Miss Domenica in the pit where she had
passionately embraced Gilda, in that place where a year ealier, on February
first, nineteen seventy seven, she had knelt before us all and, using a stick,
had written in the dirt the phrase
HERE AND EVERYWHERE
And while this secret hope flared up inside me and gave me strength to
continue climbing up Death, I suddenly ran into a body; it was Jimmy who
let out a cry of pain – he had obviously twisted his ankle somewhere and
had tumbled to the ground. To avoid him I moved slightly to the left; I
stepped out of the dark path and stumbled: my foot must have caught a
root; I lost control, hit my head on the trunk of an almond tree and rolled
down the hill. I rolled for twenty metres, crashing into tree trunks and
grazing myself on branches, until I fell and got stuck between two tree
trunks; the soil was dry, as it had not rained for about a week. I turned onto
my back and, out of breath, I looked up: through the dense tree branches I
saw a patch of sky – it was an unnatural purple colour, as if not real. And
then I realized that it had been five days since we had entered that
featherbrain and shameless month, that short month, during which truths
are taken to be lies; then, it came straight to my mouth, that song Miss
Domenica had taught us two years prior, on the very last day of the leap
year February, the day when Soter revealed that he, too, was in love with
Miss Pandora: “February, limp February, how I've awaited you, to wildly kiss
the lips I desired; and you came wearing a red ribbon round your neck and
made the almond trees blossom on Cupela…”. And in an instant, in a mess,
as though swirling in a crucible, through my memory came flying everything
we had experienced with Miss Domenica over two and a half years: I
remembered the silver watch that was lost under the black handkerchief, the
chase of the swallows, the curved steel sword that shone bright red in the
afternoon sun, the eagles bearing severed heads in their talons, the blackclad traveller with the covered face and the horrible voice, the one who hid
his right hand under his cape, the marble Virgin Mary who cried red tears; I
remembered the ladybirds climbing out of her handbag, the little wooden
hearts she used to hand out to us, the funnel she used to place against our
chest to see which one of us was most in love, the linden tree that was to be
burnt down by whomever was left last, her somber song, her terrific kiss,
which I couldn’t handle even behind the blackened glass, the wrinkles of her
split lips, the cracking of her knuckles, her naked breasts without nipples,
the beauty spot on her left cheek, the black ribbon that imprisoned the wild
dreams, the anemone of her neck and the violet of her belly, the steamy
horizon of her eyes, her enchanting voice, her wonderful sweet smile, which
you thought she had stolen from the devil, her frantic embraces with the
wind – all that and so much more… And as I recalled the horrific naked
dance of the wind, which a year earlier had been howling at her footsteps
before our very eyes like a demonic call, I heard Otto from the peak of
Cupela shouting with all the power of his lungs a word that belonged to the
wind: “kiiiiiiiiiss…” I knew immediately that our teacher’s war with the wind
of Cupela was finally over.
2.
A white envelope beneath a black stone
Miss Domenica was the fourth of our people to leave our red
soiled neighbourhood forever. The first one was – alas – Miss Pandora
on the twenty ninth of November of seventy six, the second one was
terrible Jack Tarnanas on April fool’s of seventy seven; then it was Peter
Forty-one , who, on the nineteenth of September, rushed into an
abandoned furnace that had caught fire to rescue a weird-looking
wooden statue, and the fourth one was Miss Domenica, stark naked,
lying face down in the Little Nest of Cupela, on that morning of the
fifth of February, nineteen seventy eight. In fact, that was the first time
we had seen a human corpse (chance did not have it in for us on any of
the other occasions; Miss Pandora was sneakily buried on a Sunday
without us catching wind of it – in fact I was away from the red soiled
neighbourhood that day; Tarnanas was sucked into the quicksand and
disappeared, and Petros never returned from the furnace of
Marialoukas - I don’t know if he stayed there or if he entered the Great
Labyrinth that leads to the heart of the earth. Father Lep Tair used to
say that the human body stays behind when the soul starts on its great
journey and Giorgos would interrupt him; “Tell us the truth, Papa Lep
Tair,” he would say; “Don’t tell us about journeys and such nonsense…”
And Father Lep Tair would take a gulp of his ouzo and say: “Who
knows the truth?”) So, on that morning of the fifth of February,
nineteen seventy eight, one after the other, with me bringing up the rear,
we saw before us, for the first time, what is left: the body that we once
touched alive was now lying lifeless, a sack of blood and shit which
would return to the ground and would then become a small stone, a
handful of water, a breath of wind (and where, I wonder, did the one
who incited all this go, where did he nestle and where is he enjoying his
pleasure? “Let the ground drink the juices of my body, it’s not like I
bought them myself anyway”, Tarnanas had said shortly before the
Swamp swallowed him). Next to the body of Miss Domenica there was
a regular white envelope under a wide black stone - you couldn’t miss it.
Giorgos then let out a mad cry and attempted to run towards her, but
Big Prodromos, although heavy and slow, dove and grabbed him; they
both rolled onto the ground. The rest of us fell to our knees; there was
utter silence. An inexplicable feeling had taken over me at the view of
her lifeless body: I felt calm, tranquil and completely lucid; I think that
the rest felt the same. Quite some time went by, until, at a certain point,
Soter got up, moved forward and bent over her naked corpse; her eyes
were shut, her cracked lips kissing the earth – or was our teacher kissing
someone on the other side? Right then a booming voice was heard,
“Halt! Don’t touch anything”. It was the policeman who had followed
us. Behind him, gasping, was Horn. And Soter stood still. He then
raised his right hand high, but before raising his left, with a magician’s
dexterity, he pulled the white envelope out from under the black stone
and dropped it inside his shirt.
A short while later they forced us off Cupela; more policemen
and gendarmes had turned up and had cordoned off the hill and its
edges. A lot of people had gathered, most of them busybodies, thirsty
for crime, murders and rapes, and then there were others, mumbling
spells in fear of the evil that had fallen on our neighbourhood. Not
much further away, to the side, stood the well-dressed lady we had seen
outside our classroom; she looked misty eyed, but she was trying her
hardest to remain standing. However, at some point, when Miss Dew,
who had been holding her by her arm, moved away, the lady faltered
and passed out. There was no doubt now: that woman was Avra Frantzi,
Miss Domenica’s mother, about whom we knew so much from our
teacher’s stories. People rushed to revive her and they then took her to
the police car, which sped off noisily raising a cloud of dust. At some
point, the policeman with the handlebar moustache asked for Horn;
they discussed something and suddenly the headmaster called out:
“Class, you are to return to your classroom”. And as we returned to the
classroom, filed in pairs, the word spread among us, that, whatever they
asked us, we knew nothing, just that one day Miss Domenica had taken
us on a walk to Cupela, only that.
This is what we said to the policeman with the handlebar
moustache over and over again, when, shortly later he insistently asked
us, in the classroom, how we knew with such certainty where the corpse
of Miss Domenica was, “only the culprit knows with such certainty”, he
said and glared at us, but we didn’t say a word. Then the policeman
would turn to Giorgos: “What did you read in your pencil-case and get
upset?” “Today’s date, sir…,” Giorgos would respond. “And how did
you know it?” the policeman would insist. “I copied it from the board,
sir.” “And why did you shout it out loud?” “Because I was at a loss for
words, sir” Giorgos continued; “Don’t you ‘sir’ me,” the policeman
would erupt. “And why did you shout that it was today?” he turned to
Soter. “Um, but it was today, what else was I supposed to shout?” he
would respond, and then it would start all over again. The policeman
tried time and again and lost his patience and left with no results. Yet,
before leaving, he glared at us one by one: “Rest assured,” he said, “that,
if I catch you lying, you should know that I will lock you all up”. And
when he had left, Horn started talking to us, angrily: “You had better
not be lying: God will rain fire on you!” That was the sort of thing he
would say, and Zissis looked at the classroom ceiling in fear. Eventually
the Headmaster stopped talking, huffed and told us to go home. But as
soon as we left the classroom, almost all of us came face to face with
our mothers, who had learnt about the events of the day and had
arrived worried at the 105th Primary; naturally, they took us by the hand
and we left for home without getting a chance to agree on anything.
Only Big Prodromos had a chance to raise his left hand with his palm
open and only his thumb was half bent, a gesture that our meeting at
the Barrels would be at half past four, while our parents would be
having their siesta.
When at half past four that afternoon we went to the Barrels,
everyone’s eyes were puffed up and bright red, like when you try to hold
back you tears, pressing you face into the pillow with all your strength.
The weather was cloudy but relatively dry and it wasn’t windy at all;
nobody could make up his mind to talk. Eventually – an hour must have
passed – Giorgos broke the silence: “It’s my fault”, he said, and buried
his face in his hands. “Why is it only your fault?” Velias said. “On the
contrary, you did what you could. The rest of us, it’s our fault, for
believing the story she came up with that night in November with the
blue full moon, as if everything she had been filling our heads with for
two years had been just fantasy, the curse weighing down on her, her
unavoidable death, her poisoned lips that stole life, all of that was a
flight of fancy – that’s what she told us wasn’t it? – that she had some
spots on her face and to cure them she would go find a black stone in
the Strymon River…” Velias was out of breath, but continued: “… and
none of you can say that we didn’t know she was lying…” He remained
silent for a while and then spoke quietly, as though he was making a
great confession: “We all knew she was crossing her fingers under the
white coffee table…” Giorgos remained still without raising his head for
a moment, as if he had not even heard Velias’ words; only when Velias
had stopped, Giorgos said in a sobbing whisper: “…It’s my fault for
loving her so much and in the wrong way…” But at that point, Soter’s
voice was heard: “Nobody loved in the wrong way…,” he said curtly,
“…nor was anyone at fault”. We all turned and looked at him. “…It
took the centuries of blood…,” he continued in a dry voice, using some
of her words, and then he took a deep breath and looked at us. It was
obvious, however, that he saw the question drawn on our faces and he
then raised his voice: “Don’t you understand?” he shouted; “Everything
happened as it was supposed to: we had to believe her false story, we
had to pretend not to see her crossed fingers under the table and we
weren’t supposed to go to the daisies to see if they would bloom razors
instead of petals. I’m telling you, she, Miss Domenica had to stay away
from everyone, to arrange her final business and then wear the red
ribbon round her neck and climb up Cupela last night to hear the wind’s
last breath…” “And die?” asked Zissis then. Soter sighed, looked out to
the horizon for a while, at the twilight slowly disappearing, and then, in
a slow voice, he said: “Yes, and die…” Then we all kept quiet for some
time; Soter was right: everything – alas - had happened as it should have.
Since our teacher had wanted to entangle herself in the nets of love, she
had to go all the way and seize the truth in the belly of hell; “Then it
was God’s will…,” said Zissis at some point, crossing himself. “No”,
said Big Prodromos who had remained silent until then, “it was her
will”.
When, quite some time later, Soter took out from under his shirt
the white envelope Miss Domenica had left next to the pit of Little
Nest, shortly before her last embrace with the wind, darkness had
properly descended, so much so, that I had to stand next to Soter and
every so often light a match so that he could see what he was reading.
Soter, with shaking hands, tore the side of the envelope and from in it
took out a sheet of paper folded in four; he unfolded it straight away
and I, as I lit the first match, immediately recognized – or so I thought
at least – the slanted handwriting of Miss Domenica, her letters ending
in sneaky, cunning tails. Soter started reading in a hoarse and hesitant
voice:
“Whoever is reading these lines will learn that they are the last wishes of a
dying woman. For that reason he should deliver this paper he is holding to some boy
– any boy – from the third grade of the Hundred and Fifth Primary School in the
district of Malakopi, and stop their tactless reading here.
»To the boys of this class, my life's sole friends, I leave seven red notebooks
that are locked in the second drawer of my desk and I appoint them executors of my
last wishes.
»I was born with a mark, I lived among black shadows and, despite my
death, I haven’t abandoned them. I have nothing to distribute to those I leave behind,
apart from my few possessions – clothes and furniture. Father Lep Tair can dispose
of them in whatever way he thinks best. Just the black silk handkerchief that I left
two and a half years ago on my desk in the classroom covering my step father’s silver
watch, whoever has been keeping it should now give it to my mother; it is hers. And
as long as she lives, once every year, on the day of the Annunciation, on the twenty
fifth of March, that same friend of mine (who has his father’s blue eyes) should go
early in the afternoon to her house, knock on the door and give her a soft kiss on the
cheek. Then he should leave.
»As far as my body is concerned, no one should spare it, since it will be found
ruined. It is not mine, nor does it trouble me any longer. And if old-Alexandra
wants to, she may cut it with her knife and she may tear my guts out and feed them
to her birds – I will feel no pain. Only the remains left – whatever is left – I would
like them to be buried, not at the cemetery, but in the Little Nest of Cupela; let
them rot there, where my body used to twist in pleasure; that will be the justice of
nature. May the hole be shallow, so the hungry jackals can dig it up with ease. And
neither a cross should be placed there, nor a tomb, nor even a fern to shade thier sleep.
»And every autumn someone should come and drop a handful of grain on
the ground where this body was buried. And every July reap the ripened wheat that
has grown over it. And the wheat – it should be about two handfuls – should be
scattered in the wind that same night, for the nightingales disturbing the dark peace
to pick at.
»This is my will.”
When Soter finished reading, the only thing we could hear was
the buzzing wind. Night had fallen and the cold was tightening its grip.
None of us spoke. We felt our bodies drugged, our mouths bitter, our
teeth made our lips bleed, our noses and ears were freezing and they
hurt. Suddenly the buzzing of the wind stopped and a beautiful music
could be heard. Immediately our ears pricked up as though we were
enchanted; it was the song of a nightingale – where did a nightingale
come from to sing in the heart of winter? And that song was so sweet
that we had no time to think of anything, the sound dripped like balm
onto our hearts. When the very last note had ended, Giorgos stood up –
his eyes were red – and said “That was her will…”