Cavafy's Stone and Other Village Tales

CAVAFY’S STONE

AND

OTHER VILLAGE STORIES

by

HARRY MARK PETRAKIS

Copyright 2010 by Harry Mark Petrakis

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Originally published by

Wicker Park Press, Ltd.

P.O. Box 5318

River Forest, IL 60305-5318

www.wickerparkpressbooks.com

DEDICATION:

For Marko and Eleni Petrakis, Manolis and Demetra Petrakis,

Yiannis and Antonia Couides as well as all other beloved relatives

living in the towns and villages of Crete.

http://harrymarkpetrakis.com

Praise for Harry Mark Petrakis...

In his tales, violence is measured by brotherhood, passionate hate by passionate love. And in the end it is man who, despite his weaknesses and his blindness, has the right to victory.

- Elie Weisel

I've often thought what a wonderful basketball team could be formed from Petrakis characters. Everyone of them is at least fourteen feet tall.

- Kurt Vonnegut

Harry Mark Petrakis is good news in American literature.

- Issac Bashevis Singer

I've always thought Harry Mark Petrakis to be a leading American novelist.

- John Cheever

Joy. A strange word when you think of contemporary fiction... or contemporary poetry, or contemporary anything. I am tempted to say that Petrakis is unique in our time because in his stories he can produce it, and he does regularly. It is as if some wonderful secret had been lost, then rediscovered by him.

- Mark Van Doren

Petrakis has something more important than skill; a deep and rich humanity.

- Rex Warner

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

FOREWORD

THE VISION

CAVAFY'S STONE

THE RECKONING

THE BROTHERS

THE FRIENDSHIP

THE SISTERS

THE GRANDMOTHER

THE STRONGMAN

THE HUSBAND

THE RETURN

THE DAUGHTER

THE SON

THE YOUNG WIFE

THE MATCHMAKER

THE PRIEST'S WIFE

BIO/HMP

FOREWORD

During a two-week visit to Greece in the early 1970s, (we made our first trip in 1968 and the last visit in 2004) my companion and driver was a young man named Michalis Hadjaras. We drove from the desolate and rock-strewn Mani in the southern tip of the Peloponnesus up the western coast of Greece to the city of Patras. We crossed the Gulf of Corinth by car-ferry and disembarked to drive north into the mountainous regions of Epirus.

Along the way we stopped in a number of villages, staying overnight and on occasion lingering for a second day so I'd have the opportunity to visit with the villagers in the taberna or coffeehouse. I recall imbibing assorted libations that included light, pleasant wines from the region and on other occasions drinking potions that seemed distilled from dragon’s bones and the kidneys of eagles.

Among these myriad villages we visited in northern Greece, I remember one named Fanaron. I clearly recall the old village priest, a gentle-voiced man with sparkling eyes and the demeanor of a saint. I spent a full day and two long evenings sharing stories with the old men in Fanaron. None of them told me these stories in the extensive detail I use in writing them now. That transmutation is the prerogative of fiction. But what they told me were the seeds from which came the sentences, which then fashioned the story. Knowing something of the passionate and often unfettered Greek temperament, which can be mordantly vengeful or extraordinarily devoted and generous, I haven't any doubt that many of these events which went back decades in the history of the village did indeed take place.

These stories must have transpired over decades in the history of the village so I have intentionally remained vague about the years in which these events took place. If one requires a general time background, perhaps the period beginning after the Second World War and the Civil Wars that followed in the late 1940s through the end of the last century would suffice. The major historical events taking place during this span of years, the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the U.S., as well as the wars in Korea and Viet Nam would probably not have impacted the life of the village in any significant way.

Some twenty years later on another visit to Greece with a different driver but taking the same route, we endeavored to locate Fanaron again but never found it. I was certain we had identified the exact site, but the village eluded us.

After two days of fruitless searching, I phoned Michalis in Nafplion who had driven me on the original journey. He thought he remembered a village named Fanaron but confessed he had trouble recalling with any accuracy after twenty years. Yet villagers in other towns in the area where I was certain Fanaron existed claim never to have heard of such a place.

Yet I firmly believe that somewhere on the slopes of that ancient and sacred mountain of Parnassus, Fanaron exists and that these stories told to me by old men reminiscing on the terrace of the taberna once involved living men and women.

- Harry Mark Petrakis

THE VISION

The village of Fanaron with a population of three hundred inhabitants was built on the slope of the legendary mountain of Parnassus in central Greece. That year the winter rains ended in early April. The chilled weather turned balmy and, in the span of a few days, the mountain burst into life. Starlings emerged from their nests to soar along the cliffs and wild pigeons swooped down the sheer face of rock. The mountain erupted with a profusion of spring flowers, blossoms of rose-laurel, mimosa and the resplendent bougainvillea.

For Father Basil Halakis, parish priest of Holy Trinity Church in Fanaron, the arrival of spring provided many reasons to be grateful. Living to achieve three-quarters of a century was a bounty that had been denied his father and grandfather who had suffered

Illness and accident which caused their deaths while both were in their sixties. Although Father Basil had survived those afflictions, age brought certain diminishments. The time between his 74th and 75th year passed as swiftly as a month when he was a boy He noted pensively that each year his feet seemed further from his hands. He also suffered virulent rheumatism that caused him a pervasive stiffness and pain in his legs and arms. More serious than any other ailment, his declining energy hampered him in dealing with the problems of his parishioners. They came to church seeking his advice with worries about illness and family quarrels, disputes about land, even melancholia. He offered what counsel he could while performing the rituals of birth, marriage and death in Fanaron as he had been doing for the past forty years.

Grateful for the time on earth he had been allowed. Father Basil did not wish to live too long. He recalled the words of Nestor, king of Pylos who lived beyond four-score years and yet, instead of expressing gratitude for his long life, lamented to a friend, What have I done that such cruel immortality consumes me!

Nestor's despair was confirmed by the condition of Gero Panakis in their village. While no one in Fanaron could be sure, the old man had to be at least ninety. One could not be in the poor man's presence without shuddering at the ravages his age had wrought. He was sallow-complected, crooked-jawed, bent-double when he walked, limbs trembling, his body worn-out and shriveled like a fossil.

The greatest joy in Father Basil's life was Presbytera Aspasia, his beloved wife for almost fifty years. Despite strands of gray appearing in her raven-black hair, she was aging gracefully. Although for some years their interludes of sexual union had grown less frequent and then ceased completely. Father Basil accepted that reality as a condition of growing olden He continued to regard his wife as a lovely, vibrant woman, savored her alert and sparkling eyes, and was daily warmed by her endearing smile. They had lived together so long and loved one another so well that a villager could never speak the name of one without, in the same breath, uttering the name of the other.

They were also fortunate that their children were flourishing. Their son Kimon lived in Athens where he managed one of the largest travel agencies in that cosmopolitan city. The previous autumn he had married the lovely daughter of a prosperous shipowner from Chios. The bride’s father had arranged for his Eminence, the Bishop of Athens to perform the wedding ceremony in the resplendent cathedral, a great honor for Father Basil and his family.

Their daughter, Olympia, who had been married in the village ten years earlier, lived with her husband, an engineer, in Thessaloniki. They had two children, an endearing little girl, Adriana, and a stalwart boy, Nikos. Olympia and her husband visited the village several times a year so Aspasia and Father Basil could see their grandchildren.

That spring morning, (despite avowing with Ecclesiastes that God disapproved vanity in a man), catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror. Father Basil could not resist a surge of satisfaction. Unlike poor Father Theron, the parish priest in the adjoining village of Pentemes who was a widower and whose hair was straggly and his beard unkempt, Father Basil's hair was cut regularly by Aspasia who trimmed his beard neatly, as well. His wife also made sure his cassocks were washed and mended.

Meanwhile, despite the proliferation of conflicts and calamities around the world, the rhythm of life in the village moved at a leisurely, untroubled pace under a blessed sun that rose each day into a bright, azure sky. At night the cycles of the moon, slipping seamlessly from crescent to fullness, produced a firmament of star-flecked splendor. He could not imagine living in more blessed surroundings.

Father Basil and his wife went to bed early and woke in that still hour when dawn slowly vanquished the shades of night. The sky lightened and, in the trees around their house, birds wakened, as well, chirping their melodic songs. Shortly afterwards, the tinkling of the bellwether's bell could be heard as Sefakis, the shepherd, led his small flock of sheep through the village street and up the mountain, the creatures shuffling along like wraiths in that first ghostly light.

Father Basil's custom was to depart for his church soon after he rose to conduct a brief morning liturgy. That April morning he stepped from his house into the moist, sweet air of his garden, scented by geraniums, lilies and a lemon tree.

A gaggle of old men were already assembled on the terrace of the village coffeehouse where they would idle most of the day, sipping ouzo and coffee and playing backgammon while their wives worked in house and field. They greeted Father Basil as he approached, engaging in their daily banter.

There are rumors. Father, that the Bishop is sending an energetic young deacon to replace you, Elias, one of the old men smirked.

Perhaps he'll find a way to remedy your laziness, Elias,' Father Basil said, since I haven't been able to do anything with you in thirty years,"

My old woman claims I'm working her too hard,' Andronikos chimed in, Do you think the holy church would forgive me if I gave her a sound beating?"

Be careful, my friend, you don't suffer the fate of Kyriakos, Father Basil said, The last time the poor soul raised his hand to his spirited wife, you'll remember she pursued him through the village with a meat cleaver

Father, my donkey would like to come to confession, Panfelio cackled, Would you grant him a little of your precious time?

Gladly, Father Basil said, It will be a relief to hear some good sense after listening for years to your nonsense,

Father Basil's church of Holy Trinity stood at the edge of the village, its bell-tower the loftiest peak among the terraced roofs of houses. Pushing open the creaking door, he stepped into the shadowed nave, crossing himself devoutly before the austere-visaged saints in their icons who kept solemn vigil over the church.

His sexton, old Yiannis, had begun lighting the candles in the sanctuary,

Good morning to you. Father, the old man's shrill, still energetic voice resonated through the church. As he bent to clasp and kiss the back of the priest's hand. Father Basil inhaled the smells of sweat and wax that emanated from his frame,

Good morning, Yiannis, Father Basil said, Don't forget we have a baptism later today,

I know; I know! the old man bobbed his head; a snigger of licentious mirth rippling between his teeth. Didn't take long for young Thanos to pack cargo into his pretty bride!"

You're a wicked man, Yiannis Father Basil scolded him. I know, Father, I know! the old sexton amiably agreed. My old missus wouldn't have it any other way!

Following church services, Father Basil returned home where Aspasia had prepared a lunch of greens leavened with olive oil to blunt their bitterness, a slice of pungent cheese, chunks of savory bread, and a glass of the soft: red wine the villagers made from their own grapes.

Several times a week, Father Basil and his wife walked up the mountain to eat lunch beside a small stream fed by fresh water trickling from between the rocks. That day his wife chose to remain at home to prune the first sprouts appearing in the garden, so Father Basil walked alone. As he ascended the mountain where heather, thyme and sage flourished, filling the air with their scents, he savored the splendor of the day. All around him the earth gave evidence of God's bounty. Starlings perched atop a hollow log holding water from a recent rain, wet their beaks before taking flight again. Around him the mountain exhaled traces of the life that lived upon it, the smell of olives, pressed grapes, the wooly scents of fleece, the aromas of leaves and flowers.

Near the mountain stream where he usually paused to rest, a small shepherd's shack had been built and then abandoned some years earlier. As Father Basil approached the shack that day, thinking himself alone, he was startled to glimpse a figure beside the water. His first reaction was disappointment at that intrusion

Upon his solitude, when he walked closer, he saw the figure was a girl sitting on a stump of log before a small artists easel She had her back to him, and what first snared his attention was her luxuriant hair, long, golden strands brighter than any jonquil or marigold he had ever seen, enhanced by the gleaming midday sun.

For a moment, fearing he might startle and frighten her, he did not move or make a sound. He was also strangely content just to watch hen She seemed unaware of anything but the landscape she was painting, her hand moving a brush slowly from her palette to the canvas.

He imagined she had to be a tourist, one of the many young people who roamed across Greece seeking spiritual rebirth in the beauty and antiquity of its landscape. He was curious how she had found her way to the mountain above their village and he walked closer,

Good afternoon, Father Basil said, speaking in English, trying to keep his voice quiet and reassuring.

The girl turned on the stump and then rose. Because she was slender and small of stature, at first he thought her a child. When he noticed the sleeveless gossamer blouse she wore fluttering across the swell of her bosom, he knew she was perhaps in her early twenties. He also observed that she was very beautiful.

Her face might have been transposed from a classical painting. Her silky cheeks, tinted by the sun, reflected the shade of her hair. She wore a knee-length, carrot colored skirt, her bare legs tapering into slender calves and trim ankles. She was barefoot, her toes, devoid of any artificial coloration, shining like tiny pearls against the darker earth.

Perhaps reassured by his cassock, she smiled then, and he was awed at how the smile illuminated her face in a pellucid glow. Her eyes were large and a cerulean blue that rivaled the cloudless sky. Her teeth were white and even, her lips moist as though she had just drunk water or bitten into a particle of ripe, sweet fruit.

Fragments of a poem from his youth flew to mind, Girl of the sun, by Aphrodite reared, adorned with the honey of bees and the blossoms of flowers

The girl responded to his greeting in flawless Greek, Good afternoon to you. Father.

Her voice was low, curiously songlike, devoid of any foreign accent he could identify,

You speak perfect Greek! Father Basil exclaimed in surprise, Are you Greek? Although such fair-complected women were uncommon in the villages, from time to time he had encountered such honey-haired descendants of an ancient Hellenistic line,

I'm not Greek, she said, I learned Greek during a year when I lived and painted on Crete,

The girl seemed perfectly at ease while he felt strangely unsettled,

Are you staying in a village nearby? he asked,

I'm living here, she gestured toward the shack, Do you think the owner would object?

No one really owns the shack anymore, Father Basil said, but it is sorely in need of repairs and hardly appropriate for a young woman, He paused, I am Father Basil of the church of Holy Trinity in Fanaron, I am sure someone in our village would be happy to offer you more suitable lodgings,

For a reckless moment he considered offering her lodgings in his house. He was sure Aspasia would welcome her and offer her dinner. Afterwards, the girl might sleep in the bedroom his son and daughter had once occupied. He imagined how she would look upon first rising in the morning, her hair tousled and her enchanting eyes lazy-lidded from sleep.

I'm fine here, Father, she said. I have candles and a sleeping bag. Last night I caught some fish I grilled for dinner.

Standing close to the girl, he inhaled a fragrance, whether from her hair or from her body he couldn't be sure. He was conscious suddenly how women emitted various scents. His beloved Aspasia carried a delicate scent that validated fidelity and devotion. There were also women in the village, their spirits hardened by suffering and death, who excreted the pungent, aggressive smells of men. The girl's scent was mysteriously alluring and disquieting.

Should you wish to visit us, you'll be most welcome, He pointed back the way he had come, "Follow the path and you'll see the bell-tower of my church