A Story
As I approached his house, I cast another glance over myself. I seemed small to myself. Deep in my soul I felt a slight shiver, like the babbling of a brook, like the rustling of leaves from a breeze, entering me from I knew not where, or why. The full moon had risen over the nearby mountain and was looking at me, without uttering a single word from its mouth. Do not think it is mute?! No, no, it speaks with its innocence, with that golden and silver vision taken on by the sea, the waves, and the very people walking the streets of the tourist village. All this spiritual turmoil was caused by the hour of this meeting, which I had dreamed of for many years. I dreamed of it, because if I had tried to make it happen, it would have been easier to meet the brothers in the prisons of Spaç and Burrel than the great poet. Even though Janis Ricos, it was said, shared the same convictions as the “father of our house,” the struggle and effort for a meeting was just like knocking on the door of the interrogation office. But why drag it out. The wall dividing the worlds had fallen, and I was a few steps away from his gate. Janis Ricos had invited me days ago to visit him at his residence inside the ancient fortress. There where he had built another fortress inside it, a fortress that belonged to the universal fortress of poetry. I counted once more the sequence of movements I would make, how I would stand, the questions I would ask him. I cast my gaze at the moon, as if to ask it for help. It seemed to smile at me, and tell me, “The great poet is a simple man, of few words, measured, and above all, a man who is affectionate with colleagues and artists.”
Amidst these thoughts, I had reached the great gate of his house. The house was lost in the bosom of the night; inside it his poems had been born and raised, translated into more than 120 languages of the world. “Strange,” I thought, “Janis speaks only two foreign languages, and yet he truly converses in 120 foreign languages.”
I knocked timidly on the gate. The knocks were light, shy, as if I were afraid of waking his thoughts from their sleep. It seemed to me that the November wind took the knocks, and after salting them with iodine, salt, and the roar of the waves, carried them away and vanished with them into the depths of the Aegean.
But I was wrong. The door handle creaked, as if stretching its bones, and the door opened.
“The master is expecting you,” I heard the voice of his servant, a short man with a black waistcoat and a starched white shirt. “Come in!”
Before me appeared a large parlor furnished in an old aristocratic style. Old furniture, a large desk, and a little further away a piano, also in an old style. At the far end of it was a large fireplace. A great flame roared within it, intertwining with the fire of his imagination and thoughts.
“Good evening!” I greeted.
He cast his gaze upon me and tried to stand up.
“Good evening, my son!”
His voice was sweet, like a child’s; its tonality came toward me in major notes. In the language of music, this indicated a harmonious and friendly state.
The servant went over to help him up. I did the same.
He smiled and gestured with his hand for us not to touch him. He swayed, rocked for a moment like a great oak in the wind, and stood still. He had turned 82 ten days ago.
After we greeted each other, he directed me to sit on the other side of the fireplace.
“Master, how are you?”
“Well, my son!”
“I see that you are very well!”
“May you be well, my son!”
Over the portrait of his face, the light of the flames played with golden-red colors. His beard had turned white; on his forehead and around his deep eyes, I read his years and his long, difficult path. The lighting was dim; it seemed he liked it that way. He had thrown over his shoulders a sort of woolen blanket with large, brightly colored fringes, like the tassels on the shoes of Labëria.
“I was expecting you,” he said. “All these days since I invited you seemed as long to me as the nights of the Siberian steppe. Lately I have become full of vices and I lose my patience quickly.” He looked me straight in the eye, with a calm, silken gaze that emerged from his beautiful, ivory eyes.
“Well, here I am. For me, this visit was a dream that I have kept in the joy of the meadows of my soul for so many years. It is a spiritual blossoming that adds to my life.”
He smiled.
“The pleasure is mine too, my son!”
His smile seemed to give the blackened beams the blue smile of coastal mornings.
The melodious sound of his voice, his light breathing, and his slow but precise movements swept away the anxiety that had gripped me, as if by hand. The shadow of thoughts dissipated and vanished, giving way to the sonnets of the wind, which played the musical instruments outside without a regular rhythm. The fire lit in his eyes brought me back to a spring, where the fragrance of desires closed the gaps in the spaces of timidity.
“Today, they had invited me to a meeting of special importance.”
The words wove through his aged lips and the hairs of his mustache and beard, like the wings of birds through the branches and leaves of a nest.
“Where?”
“In Athens. Poets and writers from all over the world have gathered. A meeting is being held about the life and work of the poet Odysseas Elytis.”
“And you were absent?”
“Yes, my son! I was absent. And do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I had given you my word.”
I felt ashamed. I had blushed to the roots of my ears. I lowered my head.
“Raise your head, my son!”
I raised my head and cast a glance at the servant. He nodded.
“Thank you, master, thank you very much! You should have gone; your chair has a special place at the table of poets.”
“Its place is here,” he said, and pointed at me. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and tightened it around his neck. “Come closer to the fire, my son... It seems to me you are cold!?”
In truth, I was trembling from his words and the sincerity of my conversation with him.
Meanwhile, the servant brought a small low table and placed it before us.
“Forgive me, but I have eaten!”
“One of your folk sayings goes: ‘Two beatings do you harm, two meals do you good,’ and another, ‘Where you see a table, approach; where you see sticks, walk away.’”
“Where did you learn them, master!”
He laughed with a deep gurgle, like the crashing of waves on the jagged shore, but did not speak.
Then he turned to the servant.
“Vasil!”
“At your service, sir!”
“You will bring us some old red wine.” And he continued in Albanian, “Down, deep in the cellar, in the right corner.”
I was bewildered. It was true. I heard him repeat it. “Down, deep in the cellar, in the right corner.”
I was left dumbfounded.
He smiled but did not speak. He paused for a moment and continued:
“From the old wine that Byron gave as a gift to my father.”
I was lost. Either I was not hearing right, or my hosts were not well.
“Forgive me, master, there is no need!”
“There is, my son, such respect is due to you.”
It was true, I had heard him right.
The one called Vasil arrived with four or five bottles in his hand. Later he also brought the baked fish, the olives, and the boiled wild greens.
“I believe you know Vasil?”
“No,” I told him, surprised.
“He is Vassilis Vassilikos; he has written many works and made a name for himself. He has even been to Albania, to your country.”
I cast a stealthy glance at him. He was short like me. His trousers hung long on him; on the right side they were unstitched, and his white underpants, sewn with black thread, were visible.
“Pleased to meet you!”
“Rejoice, my son, rejoice!”
He took one of the bottles and filled the deep, silver glasses. A ray of light plunged into them and began to play with his eye, which wandered amidst the dark liquid.
“Cheers!”
“Cheers, master!”
The conversation erased the boundaries of age and timidity.
“Have you spent many years in chains, master?”
“Yes, my son! I have passed through Prague several times.”
I was astounded. Perhaps he had not heard me well.
He continued.
“There in Prague, on the banks of the river, an event happened to me that has to do with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes, yes, with you. If you recall, you once sent me a volume of poetry!”
“Yes!”
“As soon as I received them, I hurried to the airfield to go to Prague, for a meeting with our writers and poets of the bloc,” he spoke slowly but convincingly. “I took the poems with me.”
“And?”
“After I read them, I lost them. And do you know what happened?”
“What?”
“A year later, I saw them published as a volume in the Czech language. On the cover they bore the name Milan Kundera.”
I lowered my head and did not speak.
“Raise your head. That book was highly praised, but I know it is not his, it is yours. Difficult times, my son. But the time will come when the spring will return to its bed. Lately, thefts, praises, boasts, and lies have turned into a profession. I swear to you by the flag that I will do it,” he spoke in Albanian.
The glasses were raised one after another. The tick-tocks of the clock fell and vanished into the depths of the night.
“Forgive me, I must go!”
“Just a little longer, my son, just a little longer.”
After those words, the conversation lasted another two hours.
“Forgive me, but you too must rest.” I saw that his eyes were losing their former gleam.
“Vasil,” he called again. In fact, Vasil was at the table with us.
“At your service, sir!”
“You will pack five bottles of wine for the gentleman to take with him.”
“It is not necessary, master!”
“It is, my son, it is. Wine is a sign of friendship. You will give two bottles to your friend Vaid, two to Roland. You will give Grigor only one, because we will give him the others when he passes this way. You will tell them they are from me. I have read their works and I liked them. Just as they have their wine and raki, so too they have their poetry. And now.... Vasil, take a photograph of me with the gentleman! So that I too may be present in what will be said in the future.”
Vasil took two or three shots. Janis Ricos stood up with difficulty.
“There is no need, do not move, Mr. Vasil will see me out!”
“No, my son, there is something else I want to show you. Come with me!”
He made his way down the long corridor, swaying, as if through poetic dreams.
“Where are we going?”
Meanwhile, he opened the door to his bedroom. I thought he might have gotten confused.
“No, master, the front door is not this way!”
“This is my bedroom,” he added, and walked further in.
It seemed to me he was going to fall, so I rushed ahead of him and turned on the nearest lamp.
In his eyes, I saw a window of a smile open.
“Thank you!”
“It is nothing, master.” I helped him sit on the edge of the bed. “You must sleep, calm down, we drank a little.”
He reached out his long hand, with veins as deep as mountain streams, over the nightstand, and showed me an open book. Its pages were filled with notes and lines. On top of them lay a pair of thick-lensed glasses with gold frames. The light of the lamp fell upon them and was magnified; the glare illuminated more than half the room.
“I am not sleepy, my son! I will read a little.”
“What are you reading, Master?”
He turned it to the cover and read the title.
“It is your latest book of poetry.”
I was surprised, I felt dizzy. The light in the room seemed harsh to me. Perhaps it was from the drink.
“They will speak of this book, my son, they will speak of it!”
“Lie down, master.”
I helped him lie down and threw a red woolen blanket over him up to his waist. He laid his head on the pillow. The white of the pillow and of his hair merged together and dissolved into a small mountain of snow.
“Shall I turn off the light, master?”
“Turn it off, my son. But leave the book open. It ignites a vision of light where the generations to come will walk.”
“Good night, master!”
“Good night,” he mumbled through his false teeth, letting the weight of his hand fall upon the open pages of the book.
“Get up, get up, it’s getting late! The way you’re going, you’ll even get fired from work. Even in your sleep you find no peace, you’re greeting someone!”
I opened my eyes. It was past seven. The first rays of the sun came through the gap in the curtains and drew lines on the wall, giving the room a purple hue.
“Leave me be, wife! Today is Sunday.” I closed my eyes and turned over on my other side, to summon back the dream that made me feel so happy.
