Ioanna Frangia. Idolaters

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY: Ioanna Frangia on Smashwords

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IOANNA FRANGIA

IDOLATERS

Translated by

Manolis Aligizakis

Table of Contents

Copyright

About the Author

About the Translator

Copyright

Copyright 2014 by Libros Libertad Publishing Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other-wise, without the written prior permission of the publisher.

First published by: Libros Libertad Publishing Ltd. 2244 154A Street Surrey, BC V4A 5S9 (604) 838-8796 Fax (604) 536-6819

www.libroslibertad.ca

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Frangia, Ioanna, 1954- [Raphtés tou Poseidóna. English]   Idolaters : a novel / Ioanna Frangia ; translated by Manolis. Translation of: Ho raphtces tou Poceidcona. ISBN 978-1-926763-34-7 (pbk.) I. Manolis, 1947-, translator II. Title. III. Title: O PaΦtHΣ Toy ΠoΣei∆Ωna. English. English

PA5617.R36R37 2014  889’.34 C2014-904894-7

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It was a Dream

First was the heat, then the damn dream that found him this dawn talking to himself; sweaty he walked down the stairs looking around, his nose like a hound, as if some bad omen lurked in the corners of the room. He rushed to the garden. Soon it’ll be daylight soon! He thought, taking courage in the doubtful projection. The lights shone at the far end of the sea on the opposite shore. Everything was undisturbed, the island, the lighthouse with its signals, the little moon, the far away songs of the drunks. He threw himself on a chair and recalled the dream that filled him with agony.

He was a tailor — in fact he is a tailor, a very talented one. Though it was like a dream where he worked, a shadow approached and froze him to death. An old man in rags, with a toothless smile looked at him: sew me something, young man, I’m about to travel! Hairs floated over his shiny head. He took out of his coat something rectangular and showed it to the tailor. It was a bar of gold. Young man, I have no time to spare, I’m about to travel he yelled in his ear.

The way you look, the only place left for you is the other world.

That’s what I mean, the old man agreed.

Damn you, you want me to sew you a shroud? The tailor was startled.

The horrible image took a step and sat opposite him: a long shroud with deep pockets to put in them all my treasures! I’ve lived a miserable life. I have turned all I amassed into this: gold! This life is too short he stretched his bony finger showing upward, the other is more important. I want to take it all with me and I want you to sew me a shroud with deep pockets. He widened his soulless eyes. Hurry, otherwise I’ll take you with me…

The tailor felt a chill and his chest got heavy. He wanted to cry out but his voice wasn’t there. With eyes glued to the out of this world eyes of the old man he managed to at last wake up in the condition we found him earlier.

The sea breeze recanted the events of his dream. Nonsense, the old man, shroud with pockets, what a sham. Shroud with pockets he repeated. God help us!

The sun was ready to peak from behind the opposite island; this was the view from the stately house, eastern. What the dead man said? Suddenly he asked himself. He run back to the house, upstairs to the bedroom, opened the closet and pulled a drawer. Hidden in a brown pair of socks was the key. He pushed the cloths aside. On the wall of the closet he discerned a secret door. He placed the key and opened it. Everything was in its place: the bid box, the velvet bag, the painted vase. He sighted relieved. Of course they are all here, what was I afraid of?

Since the day he discovered that little door often he has visited the place with same religious reverence. He sat on the floor, took the vase close to him he leaned it and let himself admire the treasure inside it. Three thousand six hundred ninety gold liras dropped into his hands.

When he first counted them he found them to be three thousand seven hundred, a rounded amount, easy to remember — at least this way one would think. Not him though: after a while he thought that three thousand six hundred and ninety would be a better number, three, six, nine! And he was left with the obvious, to take out ten liras and hide them in the box along with the bills.

He put his fingers in the golden pile Three, six, nine…three six, nine… he sang in a low tone to accompany the sound of the gold coins rolling: fffrrss, ffrrss…Neither the echo of the sea against the rocks of the lighthouse nor the wind going through the trees of the garden nor the birds’ chirpings could be compared to this morning’s heavenly music: these liras were his passion. He grabbed a few in his palm, threw them in the vase, placed it on its spot, locked the door, put the key in the socks and pushed them to the bottom of the drawer. He straightened the cloths and examined his pale face in the mirror. He went down the stairs and walked out to the garden.

It was a beautiful sunrise. He turned his back to the gleaming sea and gazed his island. Houses, encircled by pine trees up to the top of the hill, looked rosy in the first sunrays with the people dreaming in their sweaty beds. The careenage with skeletons of half-finished boats and caiques was anxious for the workers and tools to start their daily sounds with hammerings, sewing and songs. The same old careenage, since the glorious days when captains threw their moneys to build their frigates during the Struggle, to this day that expert master-crafters accept special orders from every corner of Greece — not to mention the foreigners who get so enthusiastic with the good work and order their own vessel to be ready by the next summer.

He smelled the breeze mixed with the smell of wet wood. Two dogs, one black the other the color of cinnamon were playing down by the shore next to Alexandros, the very old caique waiting for its turn to be fixed for the millionth time. Time for work, he whispers. His instinct hadn’t warned him in vain there was something lurking in his dream. For this he run to his secret place he suspected that the danger was related to the hidden liras. How else could he imagine the words of the old man?

The gods must have been in good spirits when they chose the material to build this tiny island. And this time it basks in its summer glory. The slopes with pine trees, the light blue of the sky and sea but also the archeological sites with the temple of Poseidon as its centre, like magnets, have attracted the visitors during the hottest months of the year. For the rest of the year the island dresses its winter colors. The temperature drops and the rolling shutters of the stores and hotels are also lowered. The islanders stay in their warm homes and the youth boil in their hormones and dream of the fun come next summer.

For the time being the island is swarmed by people. The asymmetric narrow streets call for relaxing walks and the beeches embrace erotically the tired bodies. The houses freshened up for Eastern, with their yards full of verdure and fragrance invited even the most unmatched people in unison. As far as the stately house we visited earlier, in inappropriate time because of the disturbance of its lonely occupant, the visitors admire like a rare jewel. It’s the closest building to the archeological site. It’s imposing with thick walls and arched balconies with its garden full of trees and with that extra decoration, the lighthouse only forty meters away as if it defined in the horizon the east. As the foreigner’s eyes don’t get enough of the people and nature combination so much the local people face with certain understanding the stately house with the past inhabitants and to certain extend the today’s occupant.

The secrets and passions of the island take second step during the summer months when the time of the great passion arrives — the Hour of the Tourist as is called by old Solomon, the owner of Poseidonia the oldest coffee shop in the harbour, who named it as such because of the imposing temple of Poseidon at the cape. The eyes of uncle Solomon would stare straight in the heart — although he wasn’t baptised with this heavy-sounding name but his perception and his words are so keen and to the point that since that night when a patron in his enthusiasm called him Solomon, it has remained in the lips of everyone, so appropriate they thought it was.

Buses weren’t allowed on the island. The narrow roads could put up with the congestion and the tourists wouldn’t like the exhausts and the noise of the busses.

Since the aristocratic days of the captains the island has boasted about its one horse carriages that went by well maintained, with their melodic little bell warning the people to go to the side. They would go over the land from the archeological site to the lighthouse at the cape to the far end of the bay where the neighborhood of the artists was avoiding — how could the animals endure it — the hill where the imposing monastery of Mother of God Evangelistria was located.

The tourists were a big deal. Who could have guessed it back then when the country struggled to catch its breath after of the war, when the eulogies of the church talked of peace and wisdom, when the few dollars was enough to make people smile and clink their glasses to the health and good heart, who could have thought of it that they could dance to the Tourist the way the bear dances to the rhythm of the bear handler throwing away the old values together with a whole era?

The relation that most islanders had with money was almost erotic passion. They lived to make money, to count and caress it and the more they made more they became tight fisted; to them everything was wrong, even the bus, the only bus that the Mayor dared bring to the island just to give them cheap transportation. The people with carriages reacted angrily; they said it would take from their earnings and it would ruin them. And because the Mayor never consulted with them what did they decided, the infidels? One night they pulled the bus to the edge of the quay and threw it into the sea.

There was also the French neighborhood in the island. Yes, a whole neighborhood! Over a hundred families that have come from France or were created because of intermarriages with the locals, or after a summer love story. And when the famous Emil came to the island, member of the French Archeological School in order to supervise the excavations of the Poseidon temple the interest was increased. As if it wasn’t enough that we got flooded by tourists would they now teach us our own history? some said in Uncle-Solomon’s coffee shop. And he answered: Since the Greeks didn’t try to teach us our history, let the foreigners do so.

This was the way things unfolded in this majestic spot the gods have sown in the sea. Mermaids and caiques all around and on the top the people’s pain and joy trying to keep their heads up and their pockets full, so full that Uncle-Solomon who as a child always liked to read comics he named the place island of the Scrootz.

Among the islanders who all day long count their earnings there is also the tailor of the island the one we met earlier: average shape, average height and very skinny. If there is something that sets him apart is his two beautiful eyes with that glance, piercing and enigmatic like his unusual pale skin for a man in such a sunburnt island. His talent in his practice is exceptional he is sensitive and eager and always proposes practical solutions. And he also has a very important asset: he is cheap. Pressed from need to escape from the sidelines, he found his ideal way: few words, quality work, low prices.

After the Sunday sermon of father Trifonas, the gloved priest of the island, people agreed to approach the unsuited figure of the tailor. Unsuited not because of its paleness and the mysterious glance but because of his past: He’s the son of beautiful Thalia the official whore of the island who although had stopped her carrier long ago, none ever had spoken a friendly word to her or her son — until the first hesitant good mornings. Just a few in the beginning, then more until the islanders decided to near the quiet boy and to get surprised by the talent and charm of his personality.

The laws that pulled the threads of the small community were harsh. How could they include among them the son of a harlot? His mother, Thalia, considered him as bad luck as an obstacle to her work; if it wasn’t for Maritsa, unknown what would have been the outcome of this.

Maritsa was a pure woman. The only child of famous family of captains; she lost her parents in young age. Charming, brown haired girl with locks over her little face melancholy eyes and beautiful curves, she was since the days of school god-bearing and ready to support anyone in need. Man’s nature is good she said, what if one takes the wrong path? In depth he has a pure soul.

Fate rang Maritsa’s door in the form of Pantelis, the rich butcher of the island, with his butcher shop next to the fish market. Huge, with jet black hair and handlebar moustache he stole the hearts of girls and one day he stole the heart of Maritsa who loved him and attached herself to him. And him: spoiled and rough found the perfect opportunity to settle down with the charming housewife but to also increase with no effort on his part his wealth and social status.

Pantelis and Maritsa’s wedding took place at the Metropolis, Saint Paul’s church, beginning September, the sweetest time of summer. People with carriages and insignia, the whole community took the opportunity to wish and accept them in their fantastic environment with the sea as a background and every shape of boat possible. The wedding was an exceptional event — was recalled for days and months. And from the first day they settled in Maritsa’s stately house their lives were another special event, in the most unexpected ways.

Father Trifonas, the priest who gladly officiated their wedding couldn’t believe the news about his fooling around, he was a married man after all, because Pantelis who never hid his affection for women kept on stealing the hearts of the island women. And what of Maritsa? Same as God’s lamb imagined her love and marriage as the most important sacrifice. The suffering because of her husband’s affairs day by day brought her closer to out of this world purity feeding her innocent mind, like a pain killer, with the ancient worn out excuse: Some miracle would take place and Pantelis would change, for her sake.

Soon her condition worsened. She never took care of herself, gained weight somehow she couldn’t lose it after the birth of her son. Because Maritsa wanted a child soon after their wedding. Alone with her son — Stavros they baptized him — she spent all her time taking care of him never asked for any help. She became more religious and ended up splitting the 24 hours between visiting monasteries and taking care of two boys, her own, and — if this was possible — the son of the island whore.

Her gracious heart couldn’t stay insensible seeing the boy alone and uncared since his mother threw him out of the house where she accepted her johns. All are God’s children even the unbaptized and the ones born out of the wedlock, she said compassionately.

They all knew what was going on in Thalia’s little house and they all kept silent. What could they say? Could they have any questions? The only wonder for the oldest profession on earth was those of the young boys: for the details of the act, something that sooner or later they would find out on her bed. And as long as Thalia didn’t have a child, the situation was let’s say bearable — it was neither the first community nor the last with its little nightmare. But when the black hour came for her to give birth to her baby, who was the father only god knew, things turned to worse.

During the Easter days the unwanted child came to the world and Thalia was depressed that she had to look after this new life that had its needs. Months went by and she spent her last savings, unable to work in the chubby one room house. As soon as the boy started walking she would send it out when her johns came: Cursed be the hour I became pregnant, whether you like it or not you better get used to it she would say and push him out the door. And if he resisted, she would truly kick him out.

The little man would stand outside astonished. He would cry for hours until sleep would take him by the flagstone of the house. Other times he would walk on all fours or on two smelling and tasting grass and dirt. Of good health though: whether he was cold or had dirt himself or was sweaty or swallowed things or injured himself nothing bad would happen to him.

The island buzzed of embarrassment. And Maritsa was among those who observed things. One morning, like a lady she was, she decided to supress all the dislike she felt towards Thalia. After she had a confession, after the Sunday liturgy she followed the narrow streets behind the central marketplace. She approached the yard of the whore at a time when she was singing in a low tone with her blonde hair undone and a red and white dress she was putting her wash on the cloths-line in the small back yard.

Maritsa having clear understanding of her mission she stared in disbelief. Thalia stopped her singing and looked with the corner of her eyes: You, lady of the good society, have come to see the theater? Rich people, those who have everything like to judge the poor…but if I see you carry on with your visits I will ask you to obtain a ticket before you enter!

However Maritsa wasn’t insulted, her goal was holy: Here is a dirty and infamous woman, yet, do not reject the whore, oh, lord, who was born to a virgin, she said to herself in reverence. Thalia you took me wrong. I came for your child; you have to look after him better. And you need baptise him…I mean, if you need something, I can help. I’m also a mother and I feel…

Maritsa hadn’t finished her sentence. Thalia, supple and haughty put one of her arms on her waist the other over her eyes to hide the sunlight, measured the simpleminded woman from top to bottom and smiled: Look: take care of your own house Mrs. Maritsa and I know what to do with mine.

What was the color of her eyes? Green, gray-green? Maritsa wasn’t sure, as the shadow of Thalia’s hand felt on them. Maritsa was awed by her beauty — first time she saw her as close as this. Thalia picked up the wash basket, turned the other way and vanished into the little house like air slamming the door behind her.

Maritsa walked away shaken but the pleasant sound from the bell of a carriage was heard; it was uncle Sotiris with the jet black horse the famous Serafim. She stopped him and climbed up still shaken. The whore, she thought as the horse galloped toward the stately house, she was a whore in both the soul and body. Woman fallen into many sins, effusion of promiscuity, sinful Eros. Who would examine the number of sins, oh my Lord, soul savior?

She kept on praying never sensed they had reached the road by the seawall and the careenage. Neither when they reached her house. The carriage man ordered Sarafim to a stop and since he didn’t hear her stir he turned and said: Here we are lady. She nodded and stepped down. Walked back a few steps to make room for the carriage looked around as if they had seen her in the deserted area of town and she had lost her bearings.

The fallen into sin, save her of the tossing of sin, she murmur reaching her home. She closed the front door and started an inconsolable cry not knowing what first to grieve. That she reached to — whom — a whore who refused to accept her helping hand and who called her marriage broken! That the whore called her Mrs. Maritsa with that special way she pronounced the word Mrs that referred to women of lower class? Or perhaps although they were of the same age, if one looked at both would consider the whore half in age than her?

Maritsa swallowed the insult, prayed for the whore and her son and confessed to father Trifonas her unsuccessful conversation she had with Thalia but also her wish to stand by the boy. Until one Sunday she spoke to her husband. Pantelis this insult with the unbaptised child has to end.

The butcher was relaxed on the couch with the belt of his pants released. With his head leaned onto the soft pillows he admired between sleep and awaken state the engraved ceiling, exquisite workmanship, brought from Florence one and a half century ago. Four different kinds of wood formed detailed glyphs while in the middle hanged the chandelier. Soon as he turned to look at her he closed his eyes. Maritsa was determined: He roams around like a little animal, my heart aches…

What do we care for Thalia’s bastard?

He’s also God’s child how else can I say it…

I know, he’s God’s child but of course son of one of her johns, Pantelis smiled. Oh, wife, with your soft heart the donations to the Monastery aren’t enough you have turned the nuns into eating with gold utensils!

You’re wrong, Maritsa said in desperation. The sisters are excellent women!

Yes and very smart…

If the head Nun could hear you now?

She should open her eyes to see beyond her prayer book. You lay a fortune there as if we have money to burn. Mitrodora, one of the sisters managed very well, they’re building a two storey house next to St Paul’s. With who’s money, I as, since they never even had a bathroom where to pee?

Shame on you, these are but rumors. Mitrodora is a God fearing woman.

With her big God fearing hand that dips deep into the treasury of the Monastery.

Lies! Her nephews saved the moneys from other sources…

What? From the bear rings the nephew sells in the boats or the bathrooms the niece cleans?

Our subject isn’t what Mitrodora does but Thalia’s child.

Our subject is that I’m dying to go to sleep, he said in anger and yawned loudly. When the dinner is ready wake me up.

Maritsa leaned over him: I went to Thalia some time ago…

He jumped off his relaxed state, startling her.

What did you say? You went to the whore, you, a woman of good status?

Neither his anger nor his insults affected her true belief: I’ll take care of the boy, I’ll feed him a plate of food, and he’ll play with our little Stavros, why not? His mother won’t even learn of it. What is wrong with that? You won’t be in the house while I take care of him.

Pantelis was even angrier than before. You, madam-most gracious, you don’t care if the little brat goes from room to room and he learns where everything is and he eats, he drinks and puts his dirty hand everywhere? You’ll see one day he’ll ask for his own television!

He underscored those last words since his wife considered the television an instrument of Satan. But Maritsa wouldn’t have anything of that. She sat in her favored chair by the window that looked toward the sea and carried on: A little child has no dirty mind like yours…He won’t search into the house to discover where we hide things…

Why not? Then how Stavros discovered the small little door in your closet?

Maritsa was silent, that truly had impressed her a lot. One day she found little Stavros, such a brat, deep in her closet, he had opened the secret door on the wall where she had hidden some of the family treasures, and he yelled in triumph: Mom, come, a door behind the cloths! She run to him with her heart on her lips. She had hidden in the wall some very expensive jewellery left to her from the previous generations and also packs of money and an engraved box filled with gold liras. Since that day she put a lock to the door and kept the key in a pair of socks in the bottom of the last drawer.

Don’t remind me of that, Pantelis, I went through such fear that day, although even if he found the things inside there I didn’t expect him to take them out. That is settled though. I’ll get the little boy tomorrow to come and play with our Stavros.

A swear word came up to the lips of the butcher but he kept it in, a sudden thought burnt him. He started running his eyes around the house, as if asking for the approval of the furniture for the new thought that went through his mind. He looked at his face in the Venetian mirror and turned to her suddenly calmed: Okay wife, I don’t know, perhaps you’re right do what you think is better, under one condition, he looked at her in a conspiring way, I know nothing of all this! It is your thought, your decision. I don’t want everyone to know that we took the bastard and people start laughing at us. If they find out and start asking questions I know nothing.

Maritsa, not knowing what to make of this jumped off her chair and hugged him. You’ll see my dear Pantelis, God will reward us for this!

He pushed her away and asked to end this conversation: Okay, go, get the dinner ready time has passed.

The woman wiped her gratitude tears and run to the kitchen while Pantelis lied on the couch already fired up with the thought that at last without even expecting it he had opened talented Thalia’s door wide open to himself…This was a door that he wished he could have entered for a while now so many things he had heard from Tahlia’s johns. Especially from Antonaros the bargee, a life wasted on gambling, who had said so much about her when he happened to come to the butcher shop. He would sit himself like a master and he would narrate detailed stories and images full of beauty that the master butcher couldn’t really comprehend. His social status was of such esteem that he couldn’t come close to the whore’s door with the bastard crying before it. The boy would had stamped him and in his boyish innocence he could as easily divulge to everyone about his visit, like that tim, with one of the most known couple of the island when he was made the laughing stoke of the community. And now his little wife with her smart ideas all of a sudden gave him the solution. He could visit the beautiful whore as he wished when her bastard was taken care by his Maritsa.

Thalia’s little horse, after a few cookies and caresses on its golden locks followed Maritsa with no resistance — what did he have to lose? No day went by that the little one didn’t cross the front door of the rich house. He oriented himself quite well like a puppy that smells his own odor, even if he had some distance to travel. Neither the heat of summer nor the freezing temperature of winter nor the waves that washed his little body were able to keep him away. The little boy — same as his mother in the face — had discovered a true family.

The games played by the two boys became wild and Maritsa understood the fancies of the new boy. Her attention to him made her own son was uncomfortable since his mother supported the intruder even when he was a trickster.

You always take his side, he would cry, what is he doing in our house? Why don’t you send him away?

The fervor of her sacrifice wouldn’t let her see Stavros’ hatred for the boy nor her husband’s change. Pantelis had stopped going out at night, he would return home early tired he would never touched her erotically as in the old days. He would drink two or three drinks one after the other but even that didn’t open her eyes. My struggle, Lord, she would pray, finally gives me results. Thalia’s little boy found a home and my husband became a house man again. Great, let be, your name… It was strange to her though that Thalia didn’t object to the whole affair but Pantelis explained to her: What do you expect from that unfortunate woman? To create an issue over this or to come and say thank you? The whole world knows that her son is very lucky. Leave her out of this and continue to do what you are doing; better that way.

He was of course right, the whole world knew of this. The butcher’s adventures and Maritsa’s stupidities were the subject of talk in the island. One of the impeccable women of the island was Pelagia, Leodinas’ wife, with plenty of money and a produce store in the central marketplace, who lived how unfortunate next to Thalia’s yard. Often a church visitor, Pelagia was a hot woman, darkish features, smart eyes, clean skin and money hungry. She was lively and so was Nikitas, who got her married to Leonidas, at one time they had an affair, behind the backs of their spouses. Pelagia would cry her eyes out about the whore while she felt aroused by the erotic echoes of the sinful encounters next to her window. Curse her she would say to her neighbors curse it the time that this fucking whore chose to come and spread roots like a weed next to my house! And Pantelis comes to visit her every day! Poor Maritsa!

Poor Leonidas, the poor bastard, thought Pelagia’s friends. If he could only imagine his wife and with whom? The goldsmith, Nikitas, the man who got them together…

While women declared their iron fidelity, men serious and beyond any comment in their meetings they left the poison of jealousy onto the gatherings of men alone. And it wasn’t jealousy, Pantelis’ enjoyment in the arms of Thalia, it was his passion and his fat wallet that had forced the other men away from Thalia and her special offerings.

Uncle Solon didn’t know how to keep his cafe patrons from talking of the impious couple. The owner of the café was perplexed for the first time. He was almost fifty although he wasn’t showing it since he took good care of himself. Grown in Poseidonia since his father brought him to help with the cleaning he felt this place was his true home. A few months ago he upgraded the café — he put Erasmia in charge of the upgrades. In a month everything was changed, other than the floor with the black and white tiles that he retained. The place was painted and he bought new tables and chairs. A big mirror with engraved wooden frame and pictures, bought from of Stefanos’ workshop, decorated the walls. A stich-work with good morning on it, Erasmias’ artwork was framed and placed opposite the entrance. Traditional lamps in opal color completed the surroundings of Poseidonia and everyone said that although Erasmia wasn’t careful with the money, it was all worth is, with such a beautiful result.

The café owner had earned the general respect of people. Even the celebrities of the island visited. And now, with the butcher’s scandal, he himself had lost his cool so much was the anxiety and the manly comments he heard from his patrons. Among them Antonaros, who cursed the time when he divulged to Pantelis about Thalias expert techniques that resulted in him being kept away from Thalia.

There also was Pantelis’ best man Nikitas who agreed men could go with other women — keeping an eye on the produce man who also agreed with him. Leonidas, couldn’t see his own infidelity horns, Pelagia had turned him into an elk, but he talked of Maritsas’ horns and they all laughed although each for a different reason.

The café owner sweated running back and forth with young Nikolas, his sister’s child who helped him and begged the men to stop their ridiculing of the absent men. He even promised a bitter orange sweet, made by Erasmia, to whoever would stop the conversation first. But his mean-minded patrons ate the sweet and restarted their jokes! They even made fun of him: why did we name you Solomon? Come, now, café owner, the good captain shows in rough seas, what is the solution to this?

When all of the patrons would leave the café owner would start the cleaning up with the help of Nikolas who never said any word about what he listened to while his uncle stared at him and said: What you hear, my Nikolas comes in from one ear and out from the other. We are men and we have our mouths shut, okay?

Yes, the boy answered with his eyes glued to the broom.

Don’t let anything out…If your mother hears any of this, she will grab you and lock you in the house and she will also come this way and give me a good spanking.

One night young Nikolas broke his silence: Uncle, does Thalia know…

Didn’t I say to you to keep quiet? The young boy continued his sweeping. His uncle looked at him, changed his mind: Come, say it, if you have a question, someday you may ask the wrong person, and then, alas, to all of us!

Does Thalia know how to cook? My mom said that she doesn’t know how to boil an egg…

His uncle scratched his head: Oh, no; this is what my sister said? What of it?"

Earlier Antonaros said: ‘the butcher, Pantelis, craved her fry!

Uncle-Solomon was confused. He hears everything, the smart boy! So what…she cooks all right, two kinds of dishes: eggs and fry…be careful! If you say anything of this to your mom I’ll have to let you go!

The boy was surprised: Why, my good uncle is this bad?

His uncle stopped the conversation as best as he could: Leave the broom and come here. Are a man or what?

I am.

Say all of it: I am a man!

I am a man.

We have agreed. Nothing of what you hear in here we say outside. No-thi-ng! What does it mean ‘bad’ Bad means bad, that’s all. Understood?

Understood the boy agreed with a nod.

Okay then grab the broom and finish, it’s time to go home.

Uncle Solomon returned home and went straight to the small storage to put away the day’s earnings. What a calamity! he sighted. The whole world knows! They’ve stopped making fun of politicians and have gone crazy about the butcher’s erotic adventures…

And young Nikolas probably hears all this, Erasmia whispered.

Of course he hears it. He never went to school, my sister kept him away from school and now he’ll graduate a scholar from the café talks!

Men! Then you make fun of us! Women have the name but men have the talent… Erasmia undid her hair and combed it smiling ironically before the mirror as she thought of the aroused men. You don’t have to ask for more she murmured, your bitter orange sweet is gone! I have gone over all bitter orange trees around here to make this and you offer it to them, to sweeten them.

Uncle Solomon calmed down and hugged her. Was it only the bitter orange