(Chapter 13)
Previously: Telemachos invites Sevasti and his sister Eleni to the movies, then maneuvers to ask Sevasti out alone. She hesitates, thinks of his sister, but agrees — drawn to his commanding presence and his evident interest in her.
The Tram and a 1952 Wedding
"I told him: 'Well, if you're taking responsibility for your sister, all right.'
When we got back to the courtyard, we each went to our rooms to change. I was ready in no time — just took off what I was wearing and put on my dress, ran a comb through my hair, not even any makeup, nothing. He, on the other hand, shaved and took an age to come out of his room — he wanted to freshen up properly and put on his good clothes. So I went to his door and said: 'I'm ready.' He said: 'You go ahead, walk a little way down the street' — and pointed out the direction — 'and I'll meet you there shortly.'
That's what happened. We met up on the street, walked together, and made our way from Neos Kosmos to Koukaki, where the only tram line ran along Dimitrakopoulou Street, the one that made such a racket. We stopped there and he asked me where I'd like to go. I told him I had no particular preference — I barely knew Athens at all. He said we'd go to the Alsos. The Alsos was a garden café in the Pedion tou Areos park, with Oikonomidis as the compère. We'd take the tram to Omonia Square and walk from there.
We went all the way from Neos Kosmos to the Pedion tou Areos because there was nothing comparable nearby — the Pedion tou Areos was legendary. Giorgos Oikonomidis was one of the finest compères around. A compère is a host — you'd take a little table at the café and he would present the program. It was a Sunday too, and all of Athens went there on Sundays; you could barely find a seat. But once you sat down you could stay as long as you liked, and he would introduce Danai Nikolaidou — he had the finest singers, performing the songs of that era. Those songs are timeless now, and those singers had real voices, not manufactured ones. Nikolaidou's most famous song was 'Two Green Eyes with Blue Lashes,' and later, after we'd agreed to be together, I learned it and used to sing it to him.
'All right, since you have no preference,' he said, 'leave it to me and I'll take you somewhere good.' We boarded the tram and he paid my fare but not his own. We didn't talk on the tram because we were standing — there was no room to sit. But from Omonia to the Pedion tou Areos, many questions came up. The first thing he asked was whether I had anyone. 'No,' I said, 'I don't.' Then he asked: 'What are your dreams?' 'I want to study,' I told him, straight out. He already knew that. In any case...
He was gathering information. He also put some tricky grammar questions to me, because he had heard I was the top student and he asked me about difficult words and their spelling. 'You're unshakeable,' he said. 'Your reputation is well deserved.' Once we sat down we didn't talk much more — when you're at the Alsos you either talk or you listen to the program. On the way back from the Pedion tou Areos to Omonia, though, the walk is long and we had plenty of time to talk. By the time we reached my door he hadn't said anything definite yet, but a little before we went our separate ways he asked: 'Would you like to do this again?'
I asked: 'For what reason?' And he said: 'Haven't you understood anything?' I answered: 'I understand something, but I can't make out what the purpose is. If you think you're going to play games with me, then no — let's not repeat this. I have other things on my mind, and even if none of them come to anything, the man I give my life to will be the man of my life. I can't be with someone one day because I like him and gone the next day because I don't. Put that right out of your head.'
He said: 'I know — the reason I'm asking for a second meeting is that I've already made up my mind. But I can't do anything until my sister's wedding is settled. I can't make anything official until she's taken care of. After that, we'll talk properly. In the meantime, if you want to see me again, I'll come to the room on Tuesday to change my clothes, and just as we met today, we can meet again.'
'All right,' I told him. 'But how do I explain to my father and my uncle that I'm going out? I don't usually go out on my own.' 'That part is a bit tricky, I understand,' he said. 'How did you explain it today?'
I had a close friend from school, Chrysoula — her family had money and rented a summer house in Faliro near the sea, and she often invited me to come for a swim. That particular Sunday — and everything about that day was fated, because instead of going to see Eleni I could just as easily have gone to Chrysoula and never crossed paths with Telemachos — that Sunday I had left a note for my father, knowing he would come back from the café and not find me, saying that I was going to Chrysoula in Faliro for a while. I lied to him because from the moment a man had suggested we go out alone, I had started to feel guilty. It was the first lie, born of guilt.
I wrote: 'Papa, I left at such-and-such a time. I'm going to visit my friend Chrysoula in Faliro. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't worry.' When my father came home and saw the note, he wasn't surprised — I had genuinely been to Faliro with Chrysoula before. He would have thought: she was here on her own, she got bored and went out.
For the second time we met, I quickly dashed off a letter to my mother who was in Kalymnos, told my father I needed to post it and that the post office was in Koukaki. That second time, we didn't spend long together — just long enough to talk a little and say goodbye. We sat somewhere in Koukaki, not even on a bench, so he didn't keep me long.
After my mother and sister came back from the island, I told my sister everything. She was working by then, an apprentice dressmaker, taking orders for house robes from the neighbors — she had started bringing in a little money. I told her that he wanted to meet me once a week and I didn't know what to do. She said: 'I'll cover for you. I'll send you to clients for fittings, or say I need you to pick up materials for me — I'll account for the hours you're away.' I said: 'Fine, but don't tell anyone yet, because he'll let me know when the time comes to tell our parents.' My sister had nothing against Telemachos. Everyone in the yard thought well of him, including my parents, so even if they found out, there wouldn't be a problem.
The second time we went out, Telemachos opened up a little more and told me about his plans. He mentioned the plot of land he had bought in Galatsi for his sister and how he had hired a contractor to build a second room. He said that once the room was built, his sister's wedding would take place, and then we could talk about our own future. We didn't meet regularly until the wedding, but when it happened, they invited all of us — including me and my father — to the church of Zoodochos Pigi.
At the wedding, he was personally handing out the wedding favors. When I came forward to take mine, there wasn't a shadow of doubt in my mind. He had already told me during one of our meetings: 'We are heading toward marriage. You are spoken for, as far as I'm concerned. You're not a girl I'm just passing time with. But right now I can't act — I'm also in debt.'
I went up to him and said the traditional wish for unmarried guests, 'And at ours — with an eta.' But altered a single letter in Greek —an eta instead of an upsilon in spelling— and this way I changed the meaning from 'may it happen for you' to 'may it happen for us.' Now, I don't know whether the people behind us heard or not, and I doubt they would have caught the word ours or the significance of it having an eta rather than an upsilon — but he understood, and he smiled.
After he had married off his sister, he came one day and handed the keys back to my father, saying: 'Kyrie Giorgos, I'll be giving up the room. There's no reason to hold onto it anymore. I sleep at the station.' 'As you wish,' my father answered, and from that day he no longer came to the courtyard. But we had agreed to meet once a week and we continued to do so for six months.
One afternoon he said to me: 'Can you ask your father to come to such-and-such a café tomorrow afternoon at six o'clock?' 'Yes,' I said — I understood exactly what he was going to say to my father. All the time we had been seeing each other I hadn't pressed him, for two reasons: first, he had told me he had debts, and second, I was young and in no hurry to marry. And all the while we were going out, we were learning each other's character. It was a good thing we had the chance to know each other properly. By now, though, everyone knew — including my parents, since my sister had told them. But everyone kept quiet, waiting to see how things would unfold. In any case, my sister no longer needed to cover for me. My mother knew where I was going and I had told her exactly where I'd be — besides, winter had set in and it was cold by then, and mostly we were going to the cinema.
When they sat down at the café, he said to my father: 'Kyrie Giorgos, you know why I asked you here. I love your daughter and I want her to be my wife, and I want you to know it.' 'And does she love you?' my father asked. 'Yes, she loves me too.' 'If the two of you have found each other, what do I have to say? The only thing I have to say is that I am a poor man. I have nothing to leave my child.' 'I didn't ask you here to tell me you're poor. I know very well what you are. I asked you here to let you know and to have your blessing.' 'You have it.'
From that moment on, he began to come to our house more formally. But whenever he came, my mother — being an island woman, and island people are very hospitable — started going all out for him. Whatever money we had or didn't have, she would go to the butcher and buy lamb chops and light the fire, spending money she didn't have, wearing herself out. He found it excessive and stopped coming. When I asked him why, he said: 'Because I don't want to put your mother to all that trouble. Since we can meet when we go out, there's no need for me to visit you at home and have your mother kill herself over it.'
A long time passed. After his sister's wedding, she had her first child, and thirteen months later, her second. When she had her second child, we had been married two months. We married in 1952, three years after our engagement. The wedding was very simple, with no extravagance of any kind. It took place at Agios Panteleimonas in Ilissos, my home parish.
My wedding dress came from Australia, from an acquaintance who had gone there. She had had an elaborate wedding and made a vow about the dress — that it should be worn by brides, to bring luck into their lives. I was only the second bride to wear it. It was a heavy bridal gown, and I wore a small hat with it. The one luxury I had was that the hairdresser from Syntagma came to my house to do my hair. He was the uncle of my friend Chrysoula, and he had promised us both — said that when the time came for me to be a bride, he would do my hair. He was known for styling the hair of the very top of Athenian society. He made my hair beautiful — though I wore no makeup at all on my wedding day.
That is how I married, after three years as an engaged woman, because we had no money and Telemachos was in debt. The money came to him later — and you can't imagine how. I always save the best for last."
