Mavraki

I. In the burnt yellow afternoon light of Kouzi, Mavraki sits with the old men--- leather boots left to dry in the sun. Wars move quickly, then there is the memory. The sun moves across the pockmarked wall where rust stains lead down from railings, the tear marks of iron eighty years exposed. The building stands like a sick horse; walls crumble when touched, crippled foundations turned to limestone dust, and the memory of plumbing risen to the surface like veins. Mavraki pushes his cart through streets that sigh with too much history, an old man trying to forget a memory packed with salt. II. Mavraki passes churches, crossing himself (in case) while shopkeepers stand like question marks in doorways, as he traces the snail's path through sidewalks that speak of old Athens through forty-year cracks, of a younger, lighter man. In Papandreou's tavern, he swallows the last strings of tripe, a glass of wine, smokes cigarettes and waits. Everyone waits, as mosquitoes die tiny deaths on light strips and the accordion shudders, gasping. Where do we go from here? Mavro means black, Aki, from Crete; he wears his island like a cross. III. His gas lamp hisses, filament trembles--- the sound of night escaping. Salmon-tired tourists move up Hadrianou, they have made the ocean crossing to come to this: a street of jewelry shops and plaster, authentic Greeks in authentic shops. This city is like a shirt worn inside out. He waits on the unclaimed corner, every bag of salted nuts sold is a step toward home. Nuts, cigarettes, empty canisters of gas--- dark green drip-marks in the paint of his cart. Green paint, gas lamps, fingerprints of Athens before the war, before aluminum window frames, mirrored glass and plastic roll-up shades. Before orange awnings. Before the gods became a circus out of work.

Return to Index