Page 92 - teyxos_13
P. 92
Short story Competition
Manolis died. I have to go. John looks at me searchingly. “You look fine” he fell asleep on the journey and woke up in an empty plane. I don’t know how
decides eventually. “You look just fine” I look at him. His hair has gone grey long I was asleep or where I am. I can’t remember if I set off on my own.
and his body leans permanently to the right, as if pulled down by some invisible
weight. I can’t remember how long he has been like that. “And you” I say to him My father is here though. He is breathing hard and reading the financial section
“you look fine too”. He tells me which country he’s going to, for how long, asks in the newspaper. He licks his finger and turns the page noisily. He turns to me.
after old friends. He complains that he can’t stand travelling any more. I nod “When will you go back?” he asks me. “I don’t know” I say. “I might stay at Dina’s
my head in agreement and say “yes, yes, yes”. A portly woman with a bouffant for a while”. When will you go back to your job? You’re fine. There’s nothing
hairdo calls out to him “Hey, chief, we haven’t even started and you’re already to hold you back. They aren’t going to wait forever and especially in times like
abandoning us?” “They want you” I say to him. “Sod them” he replies. I watch these. There’s nothing to hold you”. I turn back towards the window. I hear
his mouth open and close like a fish and no longer hear what he is saying. I him rustle the pages of the newspaper. “Nothing to hold you” I think, and feel
don’t want to be here anymore. “We’ll talk another time”, I tell him, “I have to a little upset, but not very much, and then I say the phrase again to myself, like
go”. I lean over to him, we hug, “goodbye” I say. I give him a friendly pat on the a lesson I need to learn “nothing to hold you” and again “nothing to hold you”
back and then my hand clutches onto his shirt, my finger forms a loop in the until the phrase acquires a rhythm but loses all meaning and becomes confused
cloth and hooks onto it, on his back. “Goodbye” I say, but I stand there pulling with the words of songs which come into my mind.
on his shirt and John rests against my shoulder, motionless. “Goodbye” I say
again and he stands there, quite still, until I move away, but his body doesn’t In the seat in front of me an old lady makes cooing noises at a baby. The
straighten, an empty, vaulted room, and I turn round and go. baby tries out its voice with little cries. It checks its body, its movements,
its limits, its strength, its hands, its feet, the mouth and nose of the woman
My father has left the suitcase in a corner and is walking up and down in his who holds it. The woman asks it loudly, “who’s my little baby? who’s my
black suit. An unlit cigarette hangs from his fingers. He is counting the paving little baby?” The baby claps its hands enthusiastically. I look at my hands.
stones on the sidewalk like an aged toddler. I call him and he runs over to me. Their wrinkled skin and chapped nails. I open out my palm. Study its dark
map. I want to try out my voice. I clear my throat.
At the departure gate a crowd has gathered, in restrained anticipation,
as if they are about to unwrap some kind of present. My father has fallen The airstewardess hands out packets of biscuits. I chew on the soft, sweet mass
into conversation with some people he knows. Their faces emerge through and think ‘How lovely, the way the light falls on my curled up body!’ My father
old memories, vaguely familiar. I move away. I find an empty seat and sit turns to me holding the biscuit in his hand. He looks sad. He looks into my
down. The woman opposite me is bent over her open diary. She is counting eyes. “They used to give out sandwiches”, he says. “Free coffee and sandwiches”.
the days and presses her pen firmly onto the pages. The ink smudges the
days and weeks onto it in small, painstaking letters. White clouds stand over the island. We dive into their fineflowing bodies
and sink to the ground. I take long, slow breaths. We land on the hard
Next to me sits an old man. He smiles at me. I smile back. We nod our heads. runway. Around me relief turns to haste. Passengers leap from their seats,
He asks me what my name is. Where I am from. My surname. Where I live. crowding into the narrow aisle, turning on mobile phones and pulling
Whether I can drive. What kind of car I drive. He tells me not to drive fast. He their things out of the lockers. I am one of the last to get out.
is particularly insistent that I shouldn’t drive fast. I assure him that I am careful.
His smile broadens, relieved. He asks me where I am going “to a funeral” I tell The island is hot and humid. It breathes gently, wrapped in its milky cocoon.
him, “my brother had a funeral parlour” he tells me, “his funerals were always A hollow mist erases the world on the horizon. Before we get into the taxi I
beautiful, he was a stickler, he was, but he passed away, he passed away many open the suitcase. I take out the plastic bag with my father’s things and give it
years ago, no-one makes such beautiful funerals any more”. He bends towards to him. “I’m getting off before you. He can leave me at Dina’s”. He objects but
me. “Never get ill”, he tells me quietly. We sit there in silence, side by side. we don’t argue. “We agreed”. We cross the fields as far as the outskirts of the
town. All around us the sea rushes in between scattered rocks and islets. I sink
We are in the air. I look out of the window. My eyes sting with the brightness my gaze into polished colours, green slopes, bursts of yellow and purple. I don’t
of the world. Sometimes I think “Manolis is dead” and again “I will not want this journey to end.
see Manolis again” or “Manolis is no more”. I say the phrase to myself in
different versions but I don’t feel anything and just look at the brightness My father glances at me quickly. “You’ll come, to the funeral, won’t you?”
outside the window. He was there, and now he isn’t there anymore. The he asks me awkwardly. “Of course I’ll come”. He ponders but doesn’t speak.
handsome cousin of my teenage summers has not been there for twenty- After a while he asks me sweetly “How are you?” “I’m fine”, I answer.
five years now. Manolis is slipping away from me. The world is sliding past. I “Are you sad?” The words form themselves on my lips. “No. Not at all”.
92
Manolis died. I have to go. John looks at me searchingly. “You look fine” he fell asleep on the journey and woke up in an empty plane. I don’t know how
decides eventually. “You look just fine” I look at him. His hair has gone grey long I was asleep or where I am. I can’t remember if I set off on my own.
and his body leans permanently to the right, as if pulled down by some invisible
weight. I can’t remember how long he has been like that. “And you” I say to him My father is here though. He is breathing hard and reading the financial section
“you look fine too”. He tells me which country he’s going to, for how long, asks in the newspaper. He licks his finger and turns the page noisily. He turns to me.
after old friends. He complains that he can’t stand travelling any more. I nod “When will you go back?” he asks me. “I don’t know” I say. “I might stay at Dina’s
my head in agreement and say “yes, yes, yes”. A portly woman with a bouffant for a while”. When will you go back to your job? You’re fine. There’s nothing
hairdo calls out to him “Hey, chief, we haven’t even started and you’re already to hold you back. They aren’t going to wait forever and especially in times like
abandoning us?” “They want you” I say to him. “Sod them” he replies. I watch these. There’s nothing to hold you”. I turn back towards the window. I hear
his mouth open and close like a fish and no longer hear what he is saying. I him rustle the pages of the newspaper. “Nothing to hold you” I think, and feel
don’t want to be here anymore. “We’ll talk another time”, I tell him, “I have to a little upset, but not very much, and then I say the phrase again to myself, like
go”. I lean over to him, we hug, “goodbye” I say. I give him a friendly pat on the a lesson I need to learn “nothing to hold you” and again “nothing to hold you”
back and then my hand clutches onto his shirt, my finger forms a loop in the until the phrase acquires a rhythm but loses all meaning and becomes confused
cloth and hooks onto it, on his back. “Goodbye” I say, but I stand there pulling with the words of songs which come into my mind.
on his shirt and John rests against my shoulder, motionless. “Goodbye” I say
again and he stands there, quite still, until I move away, but his body doesn’t In the seat in front of me an old lady makes cooing noises at a baby. The
straighten, an empty, vaulted room, and I turn round and go. baby tries out its voice with little cries. It checks its body, its movements,
its limits, its strength, its hands, its feet, the mouth and nose of the woman
My father has left the suitcase in a corner and is walking up and down in his who holds it. The woman asks it loudly, “who’s my little baby? who’s my
black suit. An unlit cigarette hangs from his fingers. He is counting the paving little baby?” The baby claps its hands enthusiastically. I look at my hands.
stones on the sidewalk like an aged toddler. I call him and he runs over to me. Their wrinkled skin and chapped nails. I open out my palm. Study its dark
map. I want to try out my voice. I clear my throat.
At the departure gate a crowd has gathered, in restrained anticipation,
as if they are about to unwrap some kind of present. My father has fallen The airstewardess hands out packets of biscuits. I chew on the soft, sweet mass
into conversation with some people he knows. Their faces emerge through and think ‘How lovely, the way the light falls on my curled up body!’ My father
old memories, vaguely familiar. I move away. I find an empty seat and sit turns to me holding the biscuit in his hand. He looks sad. He looks into my
down. The woman opposite me is bent over her open diary. She is counting eyes. “They used to give out sandwiches”, he says. “Free coffee and sandwiches”.
the days and presses her pen firmly onto the pages. The ink smudges the
days and weeks onto it in small, painstaking letters. White clouds stand over the island. We dive into their fineflowing bodies
and sink to the ground. I take long, slow breaths. We land on the hard
Next to me sits an old man. He smiles at me. I smile back. We nod our heads. runway. Around me relief turns to haste. Passengers leap from their seats,
He asks me what my name is. Where I am from. My surname. Where I live. crowding into the narrow aisle, turning on mobile phones and pulling
Whether I can drive. What kind of car I drive. He tells me not to drive fast. He their things out of the lockers. I am one of the last to get out.
is particularly insistent that I shouldn’t drive fast. I assure him that I am careful.
His smile broadens, relieved. He asks me where I am going “to a funeral” I tell The island is hot and humid. It breathes gently, wrapped in its milky cocoon.
him, “my brother had a funeral parlour” he tells me, “his funerals were always A hollow mist erases the world on the horizon. Before we get into the taxi I
beautiful, he was a stickler, he was, but he passed away, he passed away many open the suitcase. I take out the plastic bag with my father’s things and give it
years ago, no-one makes such beautiful funerals any more”. He bends towards to him. “I’m getting off before you. He can leave me at Dina’s”. He objects but
me. “Never get ill”, he tells me quietly. We sit there in silence, side by side. we don’t argue. “We agreed”. We cross the fields as far as the outskirts of the
town. All around us the sea rushes in between scattered rocks and islets. I sink
We are in the air. I look out of the window. My eyes sting with the brightness my gaze into polished colours, green slopes, bursts of yellow and purple. I don’t
of the world. Sometimes I think “Manolis is dead” and again “I will not want this journey to end.
see Manolis again” or “Manolis is no more”. I say the phrase to myself in
different versions but I don’t feel anything and just look at the brightness My father glances at me quickly. “You’ll come, to the funeral, won’t you?”
outside the window. He was there, and now he isn’t there anymore. The he asks me awkwardly. “Of course I’ll come”. He ponders but doesn’t speak.
handsome cousin of my teenage summers has not been there for twenty- After a while he asks me sweetly “How are you?” “I’m fine”, I answer.
five years now. Manolis is slipping away from me. The world is sliding past. I “Are you sad?” The words form themselves on my lips. “No. Not at all”.
92
