Al Jami – الجامع
A brilliant morning in mid-April, 1930, riding along the west coast of the Peloponnese. A group of adventurous British tourists is cycling up to old Olympia. No acommodations are available with the difficult conditions of the postwar period, so they stay with a family in a derelict stone house near the ruins. Plain but delicious dinner prepared by the lady of the house. Near the fireplace, her husband tells stories of the war against the Turkish in his broken English. The following day, the eldest son offers to guide them to the ruins.
In the afternoon, the group resumes riding on the dirt roads to visit the Kaiafas hotsprings. You decide to stay behind. Your are on your own in the desserted site. You are haunted by the broken columns, the sun-bathed stones where a myriad of multi-coloured flowers captivate your thoughts. Some inscriptions may be guessed on the stones here and there. The stadium is splendid, with its arched entrance for the athletes. Glorious temples dedicated to wry gods and disdainful godesses.
You fall in a dream of ancient crowds and their exploits. A lightly contended young crowd on search of beauty and bravery. Semicladded men and euphoric imposing women. A sanctuary of human prowess and divine insensibility.
Someone is looking at you. She has warm eyes and a sweet face, with her long black hair and incredibly white skin. She is asking something in Greek and insists. You look back at her and remain silent, swimming in her big brown eyes. With a thick brogue, she explains that the workers are coming and you must leave now. Thalia, that’s her name, tells you that you can wait in her office-bedroom near the entrance. When she is back, you are trying to guess the titles of her books in Greek language. She explains that a group of archaeologists will arrive next week and they are preparing the site for their work. She is from Athens and has been hired to assist with the administration. The chat extends naturally, as if you knew her from other times. She offers to prepare dinner. A lentil soup with some vegetables. More chatting. An evening of discovery. Moon and candle lights.
***
The baby was stillborn. A few hours later the mother passed away. The mid-wife, a stout woman who spoke good English and had poor manners, told him that she would take care of everything. He didn’t have the courage of the ancient Greeks to have look at them. The bicycle was left abandoned at the host family house. A local resident drove him to Patras from where he sailed in the slow ferry to Athens. He boarded a steamer to Liverpool and promised himself to never return to Greece.
But the promise grew weak in his heart. During years of working for a grey insurance company, he couldn’t manage to stop thinking about Thalia and the ruins where they met. Eventually, he got married with a young Irish widow and tried to forget his Greek adventure. They were happy sometimes, in spite of the boring life.
But the big brown eyes followed him everywhere. In the people in the street. From an advertisement in the newspaper. The flowering plants in the parks. He enroled in the army and fought in France and Belgium. He witnessed cruelty and desperation. He felt his life was worthless. His battalion was repatriated to England at the end of the war, but he had other plans.
***
Almost twenty-five years later, he was wandering again between the old columns and archs and dilapidated stones of the ancient temples in Olympia. He was an old man who had lived too much sadness and despair. Hopelessly, he walked beside the passageway to the stadium. She wasn’t there, of course.
The place was completely empty except for a boy who was working on the growing grass with gardener tools. He observed how he moved and wished he could speak English. Their eyes met. The boy offered an inviting smile and he approached. It was a long chat and he was quite well-acknowledged with the life of the ancient Greeks. They walked together along the aisles, sometimes involved in an animated conversation about Greece and England. He had a remote impression of déjà-vu, reinforced by the boy’s big brown eyes. His family was one of the oldest residents of the village. His parents died in the war and the family farm was abandoned. He lived with his grandmother, a former nurse who was dissabled after a bomb fell on the local clinic. When she was young she used to work eventually as an improvised mid-wife in the village.
A warning signal turned on in his mind. Would it be possible? He asked him to see the place where they lived. The house was humble but well provided. There were marks left on the front from the last wars. The fat lady was on a wheel chair. She was engrossed in her own thoughts and didn’t seem to pay attention to you. You didn’t recognize her immediately. Then you approached and looked directly at her eyes. It was her. You asked her directly, looking at the boy:
- Who is he?
- …
- He looks like her.
- …
- Please do tell me!
- Maybe she was damned.
- So he didn’t die when he was born. Why you didn’t tell me?
- Damned, she was damned. Do you have some money? We need help here.
You ignored her. Υou didn’t know what to do. The boy was outside working with the wood. You were too confused to think or to make any decisions. The place smelled garlic and something rotten. The old woman was looking at you with a stupid stare.
On the way back to the village there were plenty of small flowers under the green canoply of the trees. It was a beautiful sunny day. Your darkest thoughts vanished and you walked briskly breathing the fresh air of the sea and the hills. Again, on your own.
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