Surname: KOUMANDAREASFirst Name: MENIS
Categories : Novel / Short Story
Date of Birth: 1931
Place of Birth: Athens
Career: He did not choose to take up an academic course of study and worked in an insurance firm for many years.
Awards: In 1975 he received the National Book Award for his novel Glass Factory.
Foreign Languages: English, French
Works:
His first book, Pin-ball Machines, a collection of stories on the theme of alienated adolescents, was published in 1962. Koula, first published in 1978 has gone through many editions and was filmed for Greek television. He is also the author of The Barber Shop, The Handsome Lieutenant, Seraphim and Cherubim, Vest No 9.
Menis Koumandareas has translated into Greek works by William Faulkner, Carson MacCullers, Lewis Carroll, and other foreign authors. His books have been translated into German, Russian and French.
WORKS
1962, Pin-ball Machines
1967, The Saint
1972, The Burnt Ones
1975, Glass Factory
1978, Koula
1979, The Barber Shop
1981, Seraphim and Cherubim
1982, The Handsome Lieutenant
1986, Vest No 9
1989, The Wondering Trumpeter
1993, The Harps’s Gang
1994, I remember Maria
1996, Their Smell Makes me Cry
1999, Days Good for Writing and Nights Suit the Body
2001, Twice Greek
KOULA Translated by Kay Cicellis Kedros 1991
READ AN EXCERPT: KOULA Translated by Kay Cicellis Kedros 1991
Two evenings later, Koula left her office at a run. All through the afternoon, she kept consulting her watch and glancing at her pocket mirror to check her make-up, her hair. What if he got there first and had to wait! Being late was bad manners, she pleaded with herself, it was strictly against her code of behaviour, her habits.
The Monastiraki station was packed; it was the rush hour, closing time for offices, folk art and souvenir shops, furniture shops, smart boutiques on Ermou Street nearby; a motley crowd converged on the station. She grew desperate; they could easily miss each other in the rush. She sat down on a bench near the left-hand exit, so as to be facing the first carriage when the train came in. She let her gaze wander beyond the precincts of the station. She noted some of the old buildings still surviving in Athens; old walls corroded by humidity, wrought-iron balconies with griffins and swans, broken ornamental roof-tiles. From a distance they looked pretty, but she couldn’t help feeling glad that her own two-storey house, built soon after the war, stood in green, peaceful isolation in Kifissia. She found the big apartment blocks of Athens constricting, stifling, but on the other hand old houses like these had a dreariness about them that depressed her even more. She believed she had done wisely to choose a house in an area that was both convenient and quiet. Yet she had to admit that whenever Athens happened to be in turmoil – celebrations, demonstrations, tear gas, barricades – an undefinable feeling of uneasiness nagged at her, sitting safely in Kifissia with her family, away from it all. But then the comings and goings at the tax office, the harassed people who came to complain, protest, appeal, and more often than not left in despair, only to come back again in a few days – were they not tangible manifestation of the city’s daily turmoil and struggle? Was her involvement in that not enough to free her of guilt? She smiled to herself and glanced once again at the little mirror in her handbag.
At that very moment she saw him leap out of the train, in his red sweater and bell-bottom trousers. He beckoned to her to board the train so that they wouldn’t have to wait for the next one. The cypress-green figure flashed across the platform; she fled to him, and barely squeezed through the closing door. This was the first time they both had to stand, chests, hips, shoulders pressing softly against each other, cushioned on all sides by the surrounding crowd. Koula’s eyes were unusually bright and youthful. How beautiful you are today! he blurted out, and added quickly: where do we get off? what would you like us to do? Koula remained silent. I’ve got an idea, said Dimitri, what about getting off at St. Nicholas? We could go to the square… All right, said Koula, but then she remembered that was where his friend, the young architect, had got off the other day. The square, she asked, what will we do at the square? I know a little taverna there; it’s in a basement, there’s wine and a juke-box, the sort of place working people go to, said Dimitri, do you mind? Rather than sit in a boring cafe or tea-room – personally, yes, he definitely preferred the local taverna. As you wish, she said, not wanting to spoil his pleasure. Th be sure, she had never been to a working-class taverna in a basement before.
Walls blackened by smoke; here and there wall-paintings of revellers in water-colour; tables covered with greasy oil-cloth, glinting in the neon light; a blaring juke-box in the back. The customers were a mixed crowd; plebeian types, soldiers, students, one or two drunkards, real ones, not like the ones on the walls. One of them, a middle-aged man, was stumbling around in a parody of a hassapiko dance; now and then he stooped unsteadily to slap the tiled floor; he let out loud hissing sound as he stamped his foot and threw back his head. His dancing partner, a skinny, sickly young sailor, did his best to cut a dashing figure, swerving and jerking in an unconvincingly rakish manner. Cut it out, the customers shouted, give somebody else a chance! Dimitri watched Koula anxiously. She reassured him with a glance. Everything’s fine, nothing to worry about. She slung her bag on the back of her chair and drew her legs together, patting her skirt into place over her knees. She looked faintly surprised, but interested, definitely interested. Two waiters, one lame and the other toothless, spread a sheet of greaseproof paper over their table and offered to bring them some taramosalata and smoked fish. An elderly man with an unnaturally black moustache sat at the next table; his companion was a young boy with fuzzy hair arranged in stiff ringlets round his head. His face was totally expressionless as he swayed to the beat of the music from the juke-box, slapping his hands rhythmically. Now and then the elderly man sidled up to him and whispered something; the boy shrugged him away, leave me alone, he seemed to be saying, give me a break, for Christ'’ sake.
Koula drank in little cautious sips. After the second glass of wine, she began to warm up; she leaned over to Dimitri, I like it here, she said, it makes me feel carefree. The young man took out his cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted it hesitantly and placed the filter-tip carefully between her lips. Go on, smoke it, he urged her, can’t you see, everybody’s smoking here, we don’t want to look like convent-girls, do we? Well, I am one, practically, said Koula shyly; when my mother died my father sent me off to a girls’ boarding-school, I spent four whole years there!
The juke-box churned out popular songs like “Your eyes are shining,” “We parted one evening,” “Life has two doors.” In the brief intervals between songs, the customers exchanged jokes and bantering comments; they all seemed to know each other. Somebody called out to the elderly man with the black moustache: that lover-boy of yours is worth a lot of money! Not for the likes of you, the man retorted; holding the boy’s chin he forced him to turn his face away from the customers’ lewd gazes. Form where she sat Koula could smell the stench of alcohol and nicotine on the man’s breath. What did he mean by “lover by?” asked Koula. Dimitri burst out laughing in reply. A cold shiver ran up her spine, then quickly turned into a fiery streak that made her blood tingle. Oh dear, she sighed, what sort of place have you brought me to, I shouldn’t have listened to you, Dimitri! She kept laughing nervously; it was almost a giggle. Dimitri laughed along with her and raised his glass in answer to the friendly toasts and sallies that were lavished on them from the neighbouring tables.
Do you have to answer everyone, Koula asked. That’s the way they do things here, he said. It’s the custom. He caught hold of her hand and clasped it hard. Koula felt the warm young hand in hers, pressing her, carrying her away – where? She could not tell. How long have you been coming to this place, she asked. Since last year, he said, I need to unwind now and then. I suppose you bring your girlfriend here, said Koula. No, he laughed, she’s much too snooty, she wouldn’t appreciate a place like this. Like what? she wanted to asked, but the wine had already gone to her head. So you come here alone? It depends, said Dimitri, it’s not always easy to find the right sort of person, and he looked at her straight in the eyes. Koula lowered her gaze. I bet you like going after girls, she said in a gentle, scolding tone. He pretended he hadn’t heard. Why don’t you let your hair loose, he said, you always look as if you’d just stepped out of the hair-dresser’s. he stretched out his hand and ruffled her hair. Instinctively Koula made as if to pat it back into place. There, you see, you won’t let yourself go, you’re always buttoned up. And that long coat you wear sometimes, it‘s time you threw it away; give it to some old lady, it’s all wrong for you, you’re young. Young… she repeated, laughing nervously again. His eyes sparkled, his lips were very red, as if they’d just been kissed.
The place resounded with the noise of clashing plates, blaring music, gusts of loud laughter. It’s too noisy here, she complained, we can’t talk. Be patient, he said, there’ll be a time for us to be alone together soon. He went on filling her glass. There was something in his manner that repulsed her and attracted her irresistibly at the same time. All around her the walls receded, the taverna seemed to expand, her past life fell open, unfolded…
The place resounded with the noise of clashing plates, blaring music, gusts of loud laughter. It’s too noisy here, she complained, we can’t talk. Be patient, he said, there’ll be a time for us to be alone together soon. He went on filling her glass. There was something in his manner that repulsed her and attracted her irresistibly at the same time. All around her the walls receded, the taverna seemed to expand, her past life fell open, unfolded…
She saw herself as a young girl walking home one spring evening after classes at the accountants’ school. She soon became aware that a boy was following her. He kept pestering her, and in the end he pushed her against a wall covered with a billboard. She could still feel the kiss he planted on her lips. Then she remembered a certain Sunday with her husband in a waterfront restaurant at Porto-Rafti, not long after their wedding. They were served by a dark young waiter with wanton, long-lashed eyes. As he leaned over to serve her, he brushed against her arm discreetly but meaningfully. When her husband went off to make a telephone call, the waiter quickly stooped and whispered something to her. She felt rather than heard his voice – a hot breath against her ear. All night long the searing sensation stole over her entire body. She woke up next morning with a horribly bitter taste in her mouth. Oh dear, she said to Dimitri, why did I ever listen to you! But he only laughed carelessly and raised his glass: “Here’s to us! Cheers! Bottoms up!”
It was past ten when they decided to leave. Wisps of popular tunes came from the taverna. They walked side by side. There was a full moon; it dissipated the haziness in the air, cleared away the uncertainly in their eyes. If you like, Dimitri said without looking at her, we could go to a house I know, instead of wandering around like this. What kind of a house, she wondered, what kind of a house could possible receive them, a man and a woman, alone? Don’t bother your head, his quick carefree walk seemed to say as he led her away. Tonight the cypress-green suit, the lacy border at her collar and cuffs, barely seemed to touch her body. She tripped along with a girlish alactrity; she felt twenty years younger. She didn’t really care where he was taking her, all that mattered was being alone with him, having a chance to talk to each other. She put her hands to her flushed cheeks; their warmth was welcome in the cold night air. She felt the young man’s arm encircling her waist. It was as if they had known each other for years, as if they were school-mates and had just come out of the schoolroom together. They walked past the church of St. Nicholas, climbed up a steep road, and halted before a wrought-iron gate leading into a small bedraggled garden, where a few bitter-orange trees gave out a faint, wintry scent.
They came to a glass-panelled door and a creaking wooden staircase leading down to a small room in the basement, hardly bigger than a ship’s cabin. The walls were covered with posters and photographs of nude women; in the middle of the room, a double bed, and on one side a lamp with a flesh-coloured lampshade. Is this where you bring your girls? she asked, frowning in disapproval; all her high principles were pulled back into place with this drawing together of her eyebrows. What sort of woman do you think I am? she said, fixing him with a steady, penetrating look. Those eyes of hers could turn sharp as arrows; green, venomous green. He didn’t have time to protest; she turned and ran to the staircase. He hastened after her and caught up with her in the garden. He took her in his arms and hid his face against her breast. Forgive me… forgive me… he repeated. She put her hand under his chin and lifted his face. Over their heads an orange-tree rustled faintly, a patch of clear sky glittered with stars. Didn’t we agree we would only meet as friends? she reminded him. But I want you, he moaned, like a plaintive child, I want you… Do you think you can always have what you want, just for the asking? She countered. No, he said, no, but I’m so lonely. We are all lonely, she said in a neutral tone, as if talking to herself. She combed back his hair with her fingers, stroked his forehead, pale and smooth, as if unmarked by life. Perhaps I want you too, she said in a strangled voice, but one can’t have everything. I’m a married woman, have you forgotten? No, he said, and tried to kiss her. She slipped away from him again, opened the gate and ran into the street. It’s the fault of that taverna, she cried, we shouldn’t ever have gone there! She felt hollow inside; she knew she had been on the verge of giving in. I’ll see you tomorrow, she whispered, on the train. That night Koula dreamt of the wooden staircase, the cabin-like room, the flesh-coloured lampshade. She woke up with a loud cry; it was daybreak.
Next day she went to work as usual. Bent over her desk, she concentrated hard on her figures and ledgers, firmly putting aside irrelevant thoughts. The working day was over without her noticing it. At 8 o’clock in the evening she found herself at the station waiting for the underground. When it arrived, the young man was in his usual seat by the window. Catching sight of her, he made as if to get up and offer her his place, but Koula would have none of it. At Omonia, several passengers got off and she took a vacant seat facing him. As the train hurtled along, she listened in silence to the young man’s chatter.
He talked about his classes, showed her his textbooks on electronics; he chirped away happily as if the previous evening had never taken place. But Koula remained silent, caparisoned in her tight cypress-green suit. Is anything wrong, he asked, are you cross with me? What a child he is, she thought; a lovable child; if only things had been different… and she smiled a little. No, she was fine, just a bit tired, it had been a busy day at the office. Would you like us to go and sit somewhere, have an orange juice? Remember, I’m recovering from the ’flu, I need my vitamins, he said. She raised her eyes and scrutinised him. The look on his face was both innocent and devious. She hesitated for a moment, then closed her eyes in assent. Would it bother you we went to the square at St. Nicholas? If she had the slightest objection, she must say so, of course. She did feel a kind of reluctance at the idea, but she was eager to show him she was open-minded. I don’t mind, she said, whatever you say.
They walked past the taverna – Koula gave it a fleeting glance – and round the square until they ended up in a tea-room, cluttered with glass showcases, large trays full of pastries, big bowls of sweets, plush dogs on shelves. They began discussing the young man’s studies – by the way, any news about the grant? – but it was obvious the conversation was not making any headway. Instead of exchanging idle talk, what they really wanted was to gaze at each other, touch each other’s hands and face and hair, steal a kiss. In the end they simply sat staring at each other in silence. There, you see now why I keep away from this sort of place, said the young man, how much better it would be if we had a house, a room of our own. Supposing we had, said Koula, we wouldn’t do anything, we’d sit together just as we’re doing now. Yes, we wouldn’t do anything, he promised. At the very most perhaps you’d let me touch you, would that be wrong? Koula bet her lips. If you promise to be good, she said. You’ve got to swear! And she placed her fingers on his lips; they were burning hot.
Awards: In 1975 he received the National Book Award for his novel Glass Factory.
Foreign Languages: English, French
Works:
His first book, Pin-ball Machines, a collection of stories on the theme of alienated adolescents, was published in 1962. Koula, first published in 1978 has gone through many editions and was filmed for Greek television. He is also the author of The Barber Shop, The Handsome Lieutenant, Seraphim and Cherubim, Vest No 9.
Menis Koumandareas has translated into Greek works by William Faulkner, Carson MacCullers, Lewis Carroll, and other foreign authors. His books have been translated into German, Russian and French.
WORKS
1962, Pin-ball Machines
1967, The Saint
1972, The Burnt Ones
1975, Glass Factory
1978, Koula
1979, The Barber Shop
1981, Seraphim and Cherubim
1982, The Handsome Lieutenant
1986, Vest No 9
1989, The Wondering Trumpeter
1993, The Harps’s Gang
1994, I remember Maria
1996, Their Smell Makes me Cry
1999, Days Good for Writing and Nights Suit the Body
2001, Twice Greek
KOULA Translated by Kay Cicellis Kedros 1991
READ AN EXCERPT: KOULA Translated by Kay Cicellis Kedros 1991
Two evenings later, Koula left her office at a run. All through the afternoon, she kept consulting her watch and glancing at her pocket mirror to check her make-up, her hair. What if he got there first and had to wait! Being late was bad manners, she pleaded with herself, it was strictly against her code of behaviour, her habits.
The Monastiraki station was packed; it was the rush hour, closing time for offices, folk art and souvenir shops, furniture shops, smart boutiques on Ermou Street nearby; a motley crowd converged on the station. She grew desperate; they could easily miss each other in the rush. She sat down on a bench near the left-hand exit, so as to be facing the first carriage when the train came in. She let her gaze wander beyond the precincts of the station. She noted some of the old buildings still surviving in Athens; old walls corroded by humidity, wrought-iron balconies with griffins and swans, broken ornamental roof-tiles. From a distance they looked pretty, but she couldn’t help feeling glad that her own two-storey house, built soon after the war, stood in green, peaceful isolation in Kifissia. She found the big apartment blocks of Athens constricting, stifling, but on the other hand old houses like these had a dreariness about them that depressed her even more. She believed she had done wisely to choose a house in an area that was both convenient and quiet. Yet she had to admit that whenever Athens happened to be in turmoil – celebrations, demonstrations, tear gas, barricades – an undefinable feeling of uneasiness nagged at her, sitting safely in Kifissia with her family, away from it all. But then the comings and goings at the tax office, the harassed people who came to complain, protest, appeal, and more often than not left in despair, only to come back again in a few days – were they not tangible manifestation of the city’s daily turmoil and struggle? Was her involvement in that not enough to free her of guilt? She smiled to herself and glanced once again at the little mirror in her handbag.
At that very moment she saw him leap out of the train, in his red sweater and bell-bottom trousers. He beckoned to her to board the train so that they wouldn’t have to wait for the next one. The cypress-green figure flashed across the platform; she fled to him, and barely squeezed through the closing door. This was the first time they both had to stand, chests, hips, shoulders pressing softly against each other, cushioned on all sides by the surrounding crowd. Koula’s eyes were unusually bright and youthful. How beautiful you are today! he blurted out, and added quickly: where do we get off? what would you like us to do? Koula remained silent. I’ve got an idea, said Dimitri, what about getting off at St. Nicholas? We could go to the square… All right, said Koula, but then she remembered that was where his friend, the young architect, had got off the other day. The square, she asked, what will we do at the square? I know a little taverna there; it’s in a basement, there’s wine and a juke-box, the sort of place working people go to, said Dimitri, do you mind? Rather than sit in a boring cafe or tea-room – personally, yes, he definitely preferred the local taverna. As you wish, she said, not wanting to spoil his pleasure. Th be sure, she had never been to a working-class taverna in a basement before.
Walls blackened by smoke; here and there wall-paintings of revellers in water-colour; tables covered with greasy oil-cloth, glinting in the neon light; a blaring juke-box in the back. The customers were a mixed crowd; plebeian types, soldiers, students, one or two drunkards, real ones, not like the ones on the walls. One of them, a middle-aged man, was stumbling around in a parody of a hassapiko dance; now and then he stooped unsteadily to slap the tiled floor; he let out loud hissing sound as he stamped his foot and threw back his head. His dancing partner, a skinny, sickly young sailor, did his best to cut a dashing figure, swerving and jerking in an unconvincingly rakish manner. Cut it out, the customers shouted, give somebody else a chance! Dimitri watched Koula anxiously. She reassured him with a glance. Everything’s fine, nothing to worry about. She slung her bag on the back of her chair and drew her legs together, patting her skirt into place over her knees. She looked faintly surprised, but interested, definitely interested. Two waiters, one lame and the other toothless, spread a sheet of greaseproof paper over their table and offered to bring them some taramosalata and smoked fish. An elderly man with an unnaturally black moustache sat at the next table; his companion was a young boy with fuzzy hair arranged in stiff ringlets round his head. His face was totally expressionless as he swayed to the beat of the music from the juke-box, slapping his hands rhythmically. Now and then the elderly man sidled up to him and whispered something; the boy shrugged him away, leave me alone, he seemed to be saying, give me a break, for Christ'’ sake.
Koula drank in little cautious sips. After the second glass of wine, she began to warm up; she leaned over to Dimitri, I like it here, she said, it makes me feel carefree. The young man took out his cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted it hesitantly and placed the filter-tip carefully between her lips. Go on, smoke it, he urged her, can’t you see, everybody’s smoking here, we don’t want to look like convent-girls, do we? Well, I am one, practically, said Koula shyly; when my mother died my father sent me off to a girls’ boarding-school, I spent four whole years there!
The juke-box churned out popular songs like “Your eyes are shining,” “We parted one evening,” “Life has two doors.” In the brief intervals between songs, the customers exchanged jokes and bantering comments; they all seemed to know each other. Somebody called out to the elderly man with the black moustache: that lover-boy of yours is worth a lot of money! Not for the likes of you, the man retorted; holding the boy’s chin he forced him to turn his face away from the customers’ lewd gazes. Form where she sat Koula could smell the stench of alcohol and nicotine on the man’s breath. What did he mean by “lover by?” asked Koula. Dimitri burst out laughing in reply. A cold shiver ran up her spine, then quickly turned into a fiery streak that made her blood tingle. Oh dear, she sighed, what sort of place have you brought me to, I shouldn’t have listened to you, Dimitri! She kept laughing nervously; it was almost a giggle. Dimitri laughed along with her and raised his glass in answer to the friendly toasts and sallies that were lavished on them from the neighbouring tables.
Do you have to answer everyone, Koula asked. That’s the way they do things here, he said. It’s the custom. He caught hold of her hand and clasped it hard. Koula felt the warm young hand in hers, pressing her, carrying her away – where? She could not tell. How long have you been coming to this place, she asked. Since last year, he said, I need to unwind now and then. I suppose you bring your girlfriend here, said Koula. No, he laughed, she’s much too snooty, she wouldn’t appreciate a place like this. Like what? she wanted to asked, but the wine had already gone to her head. So you come here alone? It depends, said Dimitri, it’s not always easy to find the right sort of person, and he looked at her straight in the eyes. Koula lowered her gaze. I bet you like going after girls, she said in a gentle, scolding tone. He pretended he hadn’t heard. Why don’t you let your hair loose, he said, you always look as if you’d just stepped out of the hair-dresser’s. he stretched out his hand and ruffled her hair. Instinctively Koula made as if to pat it back into place. There, you see, you won’t let yourself go, you’re always buttoned up. And that long coat you wear sometimes, it‘s time you threw it away; give it to some old lady, it’s all wrong for you, you’re young. Young… she repeated, laughing nervously again. His eyes sparkled, his lips were very red, as if they’d just been kissed.
The place resounded with the noise of clashing plates, blaring music, gusts of loud laughter. It’s too noisy here, she complained, we can’t talk. Be patient, he said, there’ll be a time for us to be alone together soon. He went on filling her glass. There was something in his manner that repulsed her and attracted her irresistibly at the same time. All around her the walls receded, the taverna seemed to expand, her past life fell open, unfolded…
The place resounded with the noise of clashing plates, blaring music, gusts of loud laughter. It’s too noisy here, she complained, we can’t talk. Be patient, he said, there’ll be a time for us to be alone together soon. He went on filling her glass. There was something in his manner that repulsed her and attracted her irresistibly at the same time. All around her the walls receded, the taverna seemed to expand, her past life fell open, unfolded…
She saw herself as a young girl walking home one spring evening after classes at the accountants’ school. She soon became aware that a boy was following her. He kept pestering her, and in the end he pushed her against a wall covered with a billboard. She could still feel the kiss he planted on her lips. Then she remembered a certain Sunday with her husband in a waterfront restaurant at Porto-Rafti, not long after their wedding. They were served by a dark young waiter with wanton, long-lashed eyes. As he leaned over to serve her, he brushed against her arm discreetly but meaningfully. When her husband went off to make a telephone call, the waiter quickly stooped and whispered something to her. She felt rather than heard his voice – a hot breath against her ear. All night long the searing sensation stole over her entire body. She woke up next morning with a horribly bitter taste in her mouth. Oh dear, she said to Dimitri, why did I ever listen to you! But he only laughed carelessly and raised his glass: “Here’s to us! Cheers! Bottoms up!”
It was past ten when they decided to leave. Wisps of popular tunes came from the taverna. They walked side by side. There was a full moon; it dissipated the haziness in the air, cleared away the uncertainly in their eyes. If you like, Dimitri said without looking at her, we could go to a house I know, instead of wandering around like this. What kind of a house, she wondered, what kind of a house could possible receive them, a man and a woman, alone? Don’t bother your head, his quick carefree walk seemed to say as he led her away. Tonight the cypress-green suit, the lacy border at her collar and cuffs, barely seemed to touch her body. She tripped along with a girlish alactrity; she felt twenty years younger. She didn’t really care where he was taking her, all that mattered was being alone with him, having a chance to talk to each other. She put her hands to her flushed cheeks; their warmth was welcome in the cold night air. She felt the young man’s arm encircling her waist. It was as if they had known each other for years, as if they were school-mates and had just come out of the schoolroom together. They walked past the church of St. Nicholas, climbed up a steep road, and halted before a wrought-iron gate leading into a small bedraggled garden, where a few bitter-orange trees gave out a faint, wintry scent.
They came to a glass-panelled door and a creaking wooden staircase leading down to a small room in the basement, hardly bigger than a ship’s cabin. The walls were covered with posters and photographs of nude women; in the middle of the room, a double bed, and on one side a lamp with a flesh-coloured lampshade. Is this where you bring your girls? she asked, frowning in disapproval; all her high principles were pulled back into place with this drawing together of her eyebrows. What sort of woman do you think I am? she said, fixing him with a steady, penetrating look. Those eyes of hers could turn sharp as arrows; green, venomous green. He didn’t have time to protest; she turned and ran to the staircase. He hastened after her and caught up with her in the garden. He took her in his arms and hid his face against her breast. Forgive me… forgive me… he repeated. She put her hand under his chin and lifted his face. Over their heads an orange-tree rustled faintly, a patch of clear sky glittered with stars. Didn’t we agree we would only meet as friends? she reminded him. But I want you, he moaned, like a plaintive child, I want you… Do you think you can always have what you want, just for the asking? She countered. No, he said, no, but I’m so lonely. We are all lonely, she said in a neutral tone, as if talking to herself. She combed back his hair with her fingers, stroked his forehead, pale and smooth, as if unmarked by life. Perhaps I want you too, she said in a strangled voice, but one can’t have everything. I’m a married woman, have you forgotten? No, he said, and tried to kiss her. She slipped away from him again, opened the gate and ran into the street. It’s the fault of that taverna, she cried, we shouldn’t ever have gone there! She felt hollow inside; she knew she had been on the verge of giving in. I’ll see you tomorrow, she whispered, on the train. That night Koula dreamt of the wooden staircase, the cabin-like room, the flesh-coloured lampshade. She woke up with a loud cry; it was daybreak.
Next day she went to work as usual. Bent over her desk, she concentrated hard on her figures and ledgers, firmly putting aside irrelevant thoughts. The working day was over without her noticing it. At 8 o’clock in the evening she found herself at the station waiting for the underground. When it arrived, the young man was in his usual seat by the window. Catching sight of her, he made as if to get up and offer her his place, but Koula would have none of it. At Omonia, several passengers got off and she took a vacant seat facing him. As the train hurtled along, she listened in silence to the young man’s chatter.
He talked about his classes, showed her his textbooks on electronics; he chirped away happily as if the previous evening had never taken place. But Koula remained silent, caparisoned in her tight cypress-green suit. Is anything wrong, he asked, are you cross with me? What a child he is, she thought; a lovable child; if only things had been different… and she smiled a little. No, she was fine, just a bit tired, it had been a busy day at the office. Would you like us to go and sit somewhere, have an orange juice? Remember, I’m recovering from the ’flu, I need my vitamins, he said. She raised her eyes and scrutinised him. The look on his face was both innocent and devious. She hesitated for a moment, then closed her eyes in assent. Would it bother you we went to the square at St. Nicholas? If she had the slightest objection, she must say so, of course. She did feel a kind of reluctance at the idea, but she was eager to show him she was open-minded. I don’t mind, she said, whatever you say.
They walked past the taverna – Koula gave it a fleeting glance – and round the square until they ended up in a tea-room, cluttered with glass showcases, large trays full of pastries, big bowls of sweets, plush dogs on shelves. They began discussing the young man’s studies – by the way, any news about the grant? – but it was obvious the conversation was not making any headway. Instead of exchanging idle talk, what they really wanted was to gaze at each other, touch each other’s hands and face and hair, steal a kiss. In the end they simply sat staring at each other in silence. There, you see now why I keep away from this sort of place, said the young man, how much better it would be if we had a house, a room of our own. Supposing we had, said Koula, we wouldn’t do anything, we’d sit together just as we’re doing now. Yes, we wouldn’t do anything, he promised. At the very most perhaps you’d let me touch you, would that be wrong? Koula bet her lips. If you promise to be good, she said. You’ve got to swear! And she placed her fingers on his lips; they were burning hot.