Читать книгу Ekaterini - Marija Knezevic - Страница 8

Io Sono Solo

(Stipe’s story)

It’s a sad fact, which of necessity also means funny, just how little we know about our ancestors. We glean our information by listening to old stories made up by who knows how many anonymous or little-known narrative egos, which can be no less arresting – or blind – than the vanity of celebrated authors. Not to mention the impact of senility. How then are we to understand the prophetic advice, ‘know thyself’? Is it possible to learn anything at all about ourselves if we have to speculate about our origins and almost all of history on the basis of anecdotes?

Once upon a time, as one version of the story goes, a man with a bundle over his shoulder arrived in a town on the Adriatic known today as Karlobag. The townsfolk, as townsfolk are, were suspicious of the newcomer; they were immediately inclined to call him an intruder and some even wanted to send him packing as soon as they saw an opportunity which deviated from everyday monotony. But the townsfolk are human too, with a degree of residual curiosity, and they first had to ask him:

‘What’s your name?

‘Io sono solo.’

‘Šolo? Hear that, he says he’s called Šolo! I’ve never heard such a name!’ laughed the unofficial representative, a self-appointed but generally accepted and, one must admit, very responsible protector of the town. There were people like that once, natural leaders whose failings it was best to gloss over in view of their much more important abilities. His laugh was a sign for everyone else to obediently laugh.

Even today the Kozmićs are known mainly as part of the Šolos family. Because the Šolos are a broader notion, a whole little tribe in their own right, while the numerous Kozmić family is only one of its branches. It’s hard to say when something happened in places where time stands-still. Like the stone; everything there is stone except the occasional vegetable patch covered with earth brought in from elsewhere. Fish is a divine food, they say, but where bread is not ample people still consider themselves poor. That’s why it’s a great success when someone makes it far, somewhere far away. The further away, the greater the success. Things can only be better in distant parts, or so believed generations and generations of inhabitants of little towns where there wasn’t enough bread, and what there was grew only on foreign soil brought in from other places.

My grandfather, Stipe, ‘made good’ as a clerk in the Customs Service of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, also known as Yugoslavia. He acquired not only money and what money can buy, but above all a vocation. Having a Customs official in the family was quite reason enough for all his kin to become conceited, declare themselves important personalities and see themselves as definitely above the other townsfolk; these, in turn, like all townsfolk, were green with envy and in that way upheld the importance of their compatriots. People are complicated. Young Stipe, upright and devoted to his work, and to the family, had neither the time nor the experience to notice that his status was considered a huge success and that the whole town had adopted that success.

Moving, travelling and living wherever his position demanded, he arrived in Thessaloniki. A large number of Yugoslavs, as most of them called themselves, worked in the Free Trade Zone, a large and bustling part of Paralia, which afforded a beautiful view of the heart of the city – ‘Lefkos Pyrgos’ or the ‘White Tower’. Their salary in dinars was paid out in drachmas. We are, of course, in the terrain of history and anecdotes, but it was indicative enough of Yugoslavia that its officials employed in the Free Trade Zone came for their pay every month with suitcase in hand. What was more, the money would hardly fit into these cases, intended for travellers who had to carry everything they needed for at least one month. Travelling was a slow business and there was no knowing what might happen along the way. You had to calculate one month plus or minus, just in case. Trains would come to a halt in the middle of nowhere and cars get bogged in the mud. Unlike the folk tales, it didn’t often happen that a villager would come along just when he’s needed, with a horse and the willingness to sell it. Therefore travellers equipped themselves with large suitcases, which they lugged, lifted and lowered with difficulty. You could see the strain on their faces when they were travelling. At home they tormented themselves so as not to forget anything. He who carries does not beg, they repeated to themselves while they packed, defying the truism that he who travels always forgets something.

* * *

‘Come on, Stipe, liven up a bit! You’re going to end up as dusty and blind as an archive mouse with your nose in the books all the time! What sort of life is that? Look around a bit, relax, let off steam, and enjoy life! Just look how many cafés there are, people out having fun, and so many pretty girls! If any people know how to enjoy themselves – it’s this lot! But instead of living where you are, you just think of work and how to send money home! Let others do the living, and you will too one day if you make it to pension age – is that it? That doesn’t add up – you’ll regret it,’ harped his older colleague and ‘expert on life’, Mr Božović, as he tried to convert ‘straight-laced Stipe’.

‘But… but I’m not like that,’ Stipe stammered in his strong Dalmatian accent. You don’t need to lecture me. I’m a bit of a loner, and I’ve always been that way. I prefer working to going out. Peace and quiet are much better for me.’

Božović would soon go down in the family annals as ‘godfather’, but I still need to tell the anecdote about him coming to visit Ekaterini’s family, the Poriazis. Suffice to say that he was given a most cordial welcome, with the obligatory coffee with water and fruit preserves, and the odd ouzo; Maria’s pies were second to none in Thessaloniki, however much the city was expanding at that time due to domestic and foreign newcomers. Godfather Božović therefore announced that his main visit would be ‘when the time was ripe’, so that during the several ‘preparatory’ ones he could take in the spanakopita, spinach pie, which he liked best, and after that the meat pie, whose seasoning never ceased to perplex him (did he now like it more than the cheese pie?). He did all he could to prolong this dilemma. Yorgos and Maria lent him an attentive ear, while the daughters giggled as they listened to the conversation behind the closed door. Even during the very first visit, hearing their guest talk, wise Afroditi, although the youngest, turned to her sisters and brothers and said: ‘Our Ekaterini is getting married!’

It’s hard to imagine how one’s grandmother looked when she was young. Grandmothers are always old, and in most cases their role is to be a kind of good fairy. But with a bit of fantasy we can imagine that they too must have been flirtatious girls at one time; inquisitive, hungry for life and company, becoming aflutter when they saw a handsome young man. And they too must have asked themselves, ‘Will he be the one for me?’ with every man who caught their eye in the street and prompted this question by stopping and greeting them with a bow and a tilt of his hat. The shape of hats changes, but the questions remain the same, like old recipes. Some girls dreamed of madly passionate love, others of a life of luxury, whereas most young women hope for both. But there are always those whose thoughts are hard to divine, who diverge from all expectations, sometimes even their own. Acquaintance is just with a name, although it also reveals something about the personality. Women change faster than men change their hats and their perceptions of women. As soon as Stipe set eyes on Ekaterini, he fell in love with her forever. Just as if he had a premonition, he started to sigh and fret on the way to the Poriazis’. He felt he had never been on such a long journey in all his career to date.

‘Don’t worry about a thing. Remember, you’re a good match!’ godfather Božović heartened the young man. Stipe had grown into a strapping fellow who perspired all the time; he’d take his custom-made hat off his big head, wipe his face with his handkerchief, and fold it up neatly each time before returning it to his pocket.

From that first day on, Stipe became a favourite at the Poriazis’. And not just because he was well-situated – a good match indeed – but also because his impressive appearance and captivatingly modest manner of speech immediately challenged the long tradition in these parts that feelings taking second place, at best, when it comes to marrying off a daughter. The whole family took a liking to him: a gentle giant, yet capable and down-to-earth, and it was as clear as day that he loved life although he wouldn’t have said so himself, and a family man, obviously. All this was written on Stipe’s face. To be sure, it also said he was in love, perhaps even in big bold capitals. It’s interesting how people overlook that kind of message. But in this case it was for the best that only one person in the room read the words written like a heading above all of Stipe’s virtues. The family was enchanted by the subtext. Godfather Božović beamed with satisfaction and saw this bond above all as a great success of his own. Only Ekaterini remained reserved. She had seen through everything. It was all very well for the others to welcome a fine and wealthy guest, but it concerned her future and destiny. Inside, she extended the time for consideration which was her due, essentially her girlhood, declaring days to be months, because according to customs she didn’t have long to decide if she liked the bridegroom or not. Time was breathing down her neck, but Ekaterini was never someone to tolerate pressure and was even proud of being self- willed.

‘I guess he’s decent enough,’ she said, and from the moment Stipe entered their house she went on ever longer walks by the sea.

* * *

‘Why doesn’t my Kata love me?! What have I done? Where did I go wrong?’ Stipe was in despair when the Poriazis suddenly began responding to his announced visits with various excuses about it not suiting them then and not the next time either.

‘What a dunce you can be!’ godfather Božović thundered. ‘They’re Greek, after all!

‘So what if they’re Greek. Do you think that bothers me? Does it bother them that I’m a Yugoslav?’

‘Oh dear me… You really do need some coaching! Don’t you know what Greeks are?’

‘What are they?’ Stipe only just managed to say as a lump came to his throat; he was convinced Kata didn’t love him and godfather Božović was just sparing him the news and making up all sorts of things instead.

‘They’re dyed-in-the-wool Greek Orthodox, that’s what they are! And you’re a Roman Catholic. Don’t you realise what a problem that is for them? They love you, and Kata loves you, but their religion is stronger.’

All at once, Stipe felt like a new person. He himself was horrified at how he could change in just one second. It was as if godfather Božović had spoken the magic words, lifted the slab, and Lazarus had zipped out from beneath it and gone on living as if nothing had happened.

‘Is that the only issue? Are you telling me the truth or making something up now to console me?’

‘What do you mean “the only issue”? My dear fellow, you’re not of this world – it’s a problem, a big problem! Bigger than your infatuated head!’

‘I mean, is that all that bothers them? Would Kata love me if I was of the same religion?’ Stipe’s voice revealed an animation stemming from the hope that godfather Božović’s story about religion was true. Božović looked at him bewildered and wisely refrained from an answer.

‘If that’s how it is, you can book a time at the church straight away for them to baptise me! Why not today? Pay the priest as much as he asks for, here’s my pay! Pinch me, I still can’t believe it! Afterwards we’ll go out drinking all night, on me! And now go, hurry, tell them you’re to be my best man! Say whatever you have to so they’ll accept!

‘And I thought I was your fairy godfather! Do you really want me to be your best man?’

‘Yes, of course! Who else? But don’t ask me things like that now – hurry up so I can become Orthodox as soon as possible!’

‘Hang on, I still have to ask you what you want to be called. “Stefan” is their form of Stipe.’

‘Whatever! All I care about is that Kata loves me. What does a name matter? I didn’t choose my name when I was born either, or my religion. A church is a church and God is God, that’s for sure. But my Kata: I know I’ll never meet anyone like her again. If I let her go, what point will there be in living?’

* * *

They lived in a respectable neighbourhood, in a beautiful home with a view of the sea. That view was the one thing which stayed the same in Ekaterini and Stipe’s life after they met. It was that view, in fact, which wedded them from day to day, and from hour to hour, anew. Both of them were equally imbued with that view; it was the only thing to which they belonged forever, and they never felt it to be a burden but rather a normal, natural wellspring of calm and beauty.

Grandfather was in love, and grandmother happy. It was impossible not to love such a man. Everyone did: the sesame-roll seller, the innkeeper and the owner of the ice-cream parlour – the whole street. Stipe was loved at work, too, and people would adore him in unfamiliar parts of the city whenever he went there. But Ekaterini’s love spread throughout their house with its huge rooms, Persian rugs, antiques, carved furniture, crystalware, beautiful dresses and more pairs of shoes than she could ever have worn in a lifetime. It filled the entire space that Stipe called life. Ekaterini wasn’t the cook-and-housewife type of woman, but she too would be charmed when they had guests and Stipe started to sing the melancholic patriotic song Tamo daleko, gde cveta limun žut (Far Away, Where the Yellow Lemon Trees Bloom). She didn’t understand the words at first, but she liked what she felt when Stipe closed his eyes and sang this song piano, with heart-warming devotion. Neither of them thought about the way a person can sometimes foretell their destiny in a song. He loved that whole song and didn’t separate out the words about far away, the sea, Corfu and everything which was part of that melancholy song and its tragic background. He loved to sing it, just like he loved Ekaterini, that song of a woman, because that was just how he experienced love – he adored that blend of letters, music, quivering in the stomach, excited sweating, and a yearning so universal it could have been anyone’s.

Little Lucija, their first-born, was four when the Second World War broke out. Her sister Ljubica was two. They hid down in the cellar and waited. It had been announced that the Italians were going to shell the city. They took it in turns to sit at a hole in the wall because that was the only place where they could look out into the street. Stipe sat in the corner, despondent and downtrodden. He couldn’t come to terms with this rupture, this plunge from a song into the threatening rumble of war with its cries of fear and panic. Ekaterini trembled and held little Ljubica tight. She called Lucija to come and sit with them, but to no avail: the little girl wanted to inspect the street to see if she could run down to the shop and get some of the sweets she craved for before someone yelled, ‘Quick, everyone down to the cellar!’ Finally she got up her courage and ran out, leaving her mother’s howl and her father’s even louder glare behind her. She ran for the shop, gripping the coin in her little hand, managed to persuade the shopkeeper not to leave before selling her the sweets, and was able to dash back out into the street. She quickly opened the paper bag and stuck a lolly in her mouth. Then it began.

Lucija never forgot how her heels seemed to pummel her shoulders. She also swore that if she ever heard sirens again she’d rather die than have to put up with that sound. She remembered that back then, as a child, she’d said ‘I’ll kill myself ’. Ljubica doesn’t change this version of events and just repeats what her mother and sister later told her. Ekaterini thought: ‘Another war?! Are we going to get through this one alive?’ Immersed in himself, Stipe had only one thing in mind – returning to his country, which was now at war. He simply had to! Whatever it took, and whatever was in store for him there. Every explosion made his country more and more his.