Upon deeper reflection, of course, one could excuse him, it was something I had provoked all on my own, I was born with that hideous condition, even though I always tried to hide it. But people are not so easily deceived, they observe you with a thousand eyes, from a thousand angles, until they have discovered your secret. And then you’re finished. Believe me, not even I understood how it happened, it all came about unexpectedly. The tortoise was so big, gentlemen of the jury, that it could not but kill him.

But it’s best I tell it from the beginning. Every peson, gentlemen of the jury, has a flaw which they carry with them from the day they are born, without being aware of it. Afterwards, someday, in their adolescence or later on, in adulthood, the time comes when they find out about it. My apologies, I like to philosophise, one manages in this way to live more calmly. As for my flaw, I wasn’t even aware of it in childhood, things were lovely back then, in the countryside in the summer father would whistle from afar every evening, and we, my sister and I, would come running to help him with the grocery shopping.Mother would set the table under the apricot trees and her white robe would leave behind a scented trail, in the distance dogs would be barking, and when we finished the meal I would lose myself in the large garden, lying down for hours amongst the damp cress. Later, all of a sudden, everything changed, my God! how did everything change? No one knows what’s going to happen the very next minute. Father went bankrupt, mother rapidly grew old, my eldest brother married our maid who had some savings, and I stopped my violin lessons.

That’s how life flowed by. Father would now obtain some fabrics from various merchants, old friends of his, and would sell them in remote neighbourhoods. And so one afternoon I went along with him to the drapery shop, so as to help carry half of the fabrics home. As far as I remember my father was always serious, with an imposing presence, a true gentleman,everyone on the street would tip their hat, removing it all the way down, even when he had fallen into poverty and had become slightly hunched. And suddenly I saw another man inside that shop, no, that man wasn’t my father. He was meekly requesting an increase to his commission, and even at one point when the other man went away, forgetting his cigarette in the ashtray, father grabbed the cigarette, took two puffs and quickly put it back. The shopkeeper, a plump man, with breasts like a woman’s, turned around and caught sight of me.

“Come here, I’ve got something for you,” he said to me with a cunning smile.

I approached unsuspectingly. The shopkeeper opened a drawer, took something out and right away shoved it in my mouth. I began to choke, and then I understood: it was a tortoise. The repulsive animal had tumbled down and lodged itself inside me. Father, apparently unaware of what actually happened, laughed at the prank.

At home in the evening I couldn’t eat a thing.

“Are you sick?” mother worriedly asked, and took my pulse.

How could I explain to her what had happened? I went to bed early, pulled the blanket over my head, and silently wept. I now knew what awaited me.

Ever since that day I’ve been distrustful and kept away from people – horrified, I could see in their eyes that they instantly knew my secret. Naturally I had to work in order to get by, and so I found a job as a clerk in a hotel close to the railway station, nightshift work, so that it wouldn’t be very busy. “From here on it’s best to live in the dark, to go unnoticed,” I thought. And indeed, whenever I wasn’t needed somewhere, I made haste to disappear, I was mindful in particular of speaking, always keeping my mouth shut. One night, past midnight, a couple arrived from the provinces, the man no more than forty years of age, tall and in good shape, the woman much younger and beautiful. I gave them the key to their room and they asked me to bring up their suitcases.I followed them from behind, my eyes ranging upon the woman’s back, her hips swaying, and on each step of the stairs her long shiny hair gently fluttering. We entered the room and I put the suitcases in place. The woman was standing before the mirror, gazing at herself. I tried to resist but in the end I gave in and threw two or three glances in her direction. The man, it seems, must’ve seen me, for his eyes glistened nastily.

“Here, take your tip and go, we don’t need you anymore,” he gestured abruptly.

I bowed, holding the coin tightly in my hand, and left the room, while the man continued: “What a disgusting face he has!”

Indifferent, the woman replied: “I didn’t even notice.”

I clearly overheard the exchange, as did the man in the adjacent room, standing by the open door. He had been at the hotel for ten nights, a short, bald man, gleaming always with revolting sweat.

“Did you hear them?”

As was my habit, I didn’t say a word.

“Take my shoes, I need them polished by the morning.”

And he added, pointing to the couple’s door:

“They’ll have a good time tonight, unlike you!”

“Unlike me?” I wondered, unable to understand.

That revolting character, it seems, had been waiting for me to say something, and with the swiftness of a magician he shoved a tortoise in my mouth.

I mustered all my strength to swallow it as quickly as possible so that I could breathe. The door opposite was now closed, the room’s guest nowhere to be seen. I rushed down the stairs and went out into the empty street, leaving behind my work as well as the fortnight’s pay I was owed. “So that’s why he had stayed ten whole nights, he noticed something strange about me and wanted to verify it. And so he succeeded,” I thought. “But where, after all, do they find these tortoises? If this happens again, I’ll report it to the police, the laws must protect me.” But what would I tell them? Who would believe me? I could, of course, show them my eyes. “Do you know why my eyes bulge like this?At that moment, Officer, you feel like you’re choking on the tortoise.” I was then astonished to recall that that guest had checked out the previous night, I myself  having waved down the taxi for him.I was about to go back to confirm this when I was reassured by a thought: “He left last night, but it’s not out of the question that he returned this morning, when the dayshift clerk was on duty. And what about the shoes he gave me to polish? I probably dropped them when I was rushing down the stairs.” Once I had put the events in order, I calmed down somewhat.

From that day, of course, I would even avoid working. Work, gentlemen of the jury, is the best, and the most lawful, way for others to do with you what they will. My family used to call me a slacker, they couldn’t understand, but of course neither could I offer them any explanation. What had befallen me wasn’t only horrible but also unbelievable. And so I would live in my parents’ house, in the basement, and often my sister or eldest brother would come down to give me advice, that naturally was their intention, even if they would end up telling me off. But I can’t deny that my brother, as soon as his clothes began to look tattered, would send me to a tailor he knew to have them resized for me. As for my sister, she came down at noon that day looking sulky, she had just returned from the shops and was carrying a parcel wrapped in white paper.

“Still in bed? You’ve got it made!”

You could say I was in ‘bed’, but the archaic couch I was sleeping on was hard, its springs protruding into my sides, and as for covers, under my ragged coat I only had an army blanket, that’s all.

“You’ve got to get a job and leave, I want to rent out the basement. You can’t sponge off us all your life.”

I remembered when we were children and slept in the same bed. When it rained and thundered at night, she’d get scared and burrow in my arms. And one night, soon after I had finished telling her a great fairy tale, she bent over and whispered in my ear, with a vague feeling of guilt: “When we grow up we’ll marry one another. I don’t want us to part.” I then took a closer look at the parcel she was holding. Something was stirring inside.“My God, even my sister!” I thought. I seized the parcel, ripped the wrapping, took out the tortoise and shoved it in my mouth with my own hands.“There! So that you may witness your brother’s torment!” She started to scream, she was embarrassed, it seems, and claimed that the parcel contained a toy she had bought for her son.

The next day I moved out of my parents’ house. I rented a room in an outlying neighbourhood. It was then that I began to philosophise, as I mentioned to you. “Every person has their own unhappiness,” I reflected. “You too have yours. Does anyone choose their own self? You are born without anyone asking you, you die without ever wanting to – that’s life. All that’s left you is to live it.” You know, if you work out what you want, everything becomes simple, even your unhappiness. All else is egoism. And egoism, gentlemen of the jury, is our most hidden and monstrous servitude to others. Naturally, given the little money I had, I would eat only once a day, at noon. The evenings I’d pass with wine alone. That’s how things were when one rainy morning I took the bus, for no reason other than I enjoyed travelling by bus and looking at the city, that was my sole superfluous expense, but always sitting in the back seat, in the corner, so no one would notice me. I was waiting at the stop, with two others, when I heard a strange, rasping sound. I pricked up my ears and soon I was seized with terror as I realised that the sound was coming from inside me – it was not so much a sound as a dry, dull clatter… I anxiously glanced at the person next to me, who continued reading his newspaper undisturbed.

Yet that noise was coming from inside me. For on the approach of evening, I was going into my room and heard it again. I immediately understood, there was no doubt: it was those accursed animals, which had multiplied in the meantime, and as they stirred and crashed into each other, they made that rasping, blood curdling sound. As long as I was by myself I didn’t care very much, but when the landlady came in to hand me a subpoena from the police, I began speaking loudly so that the abominable sounds couldn’t be heard, but the sounds intensified so much that, in order to mask them, I had to start screaming. The woman took fright and left. As soon as the noises ceased, I ran out and caught up to her. I apologised, and I was obliged to tell her that I was undergoing a crisis: “my nerves are a bit frayed, but please, for God’s sake, don’t tell the neighbours.” She was a good woman, she was, you see, over sixty years of age and actually forgot all about it. And so, after this incident, whenever I heard any suspicious sounds, I’d make myself scarce. At night, the noises initially drove me to despair, but over time you can get used to anything, and there’d be moments when I was overcome with boundless compassion. “The poor creatures,” I’d think to myself, “they’re not to blame, confined as they are in such a cramped space.”

As for the subpoena from the police, I was returning home late one night, I was fed up with being on my own, I too wanted to have someone to speak with, I wanted to embrace a woman, even if I were to die, and there close by on the same street lived one of those women, you know who I’m talking about, and so I went in, she showed me to the couch and sat opposite me, in such a position as if the other person were blind. I didn’t know how to begin, I always have difficulty talking, especially in such circumstances. In any case I felt good, the scent from the cheap perfume was making me feel faint, and then a thought suddenly occurred to me: “without a doubt she’s hidden the tortoise somewhere.” I looked around, I didn’t at all like the bed pillow, it seemed to bulge at the edge. I approached and pulled it away with force. “She’s hidden it somewhere else,” I thought and began searching everywhere. I opened her drawers and wardrobe, I turned her lingerie inside out, I even looked under the couch. The woman was screaming, and after I tore her robe in case she was hiding the tortoise in her breasts, I set off, almost at a run.

At that time I came to know the victim. My money had run out and I had to do something. He was a smart man, vigorous, handsome and wealthy, a noteworthy individual, in other words, who was in charge of a large group of offices under the name ‘General Enterprises’. I can tell you that it was the happiest time of my life, even if the witnesses say that I hated him because, allegedly, he would force me to dust off his clothes, or to clean the toilets at night, that was my job, that’s why I was hired. Besides, do you think that you would kill someone simply and solely because they had given you degrading tasks to do? We would then have all manner of crimes every day of the year, gentlemen of the jury, and it would be the end of the world. And so one evening, a month later, the director called me to his office. I entered with a premonition that something bad will happen, a feeling I always had when I approached another person.

“You know,” he said, grinning,“as soon as I saw you, I had you figured out…”

He was indeed so smart and self-confident that I would have been baffled if he hadn’t figured me out. I bowed meekly.

“Each of us lives the best way they can in this world,” I said plainly, as though I were telling the story of my entire life.

“I’ll give you an opportunity today, which will be your greatest achievement,” he said with satisfaction. He had been standing, and now walked off and opened the door to the toilet. I heard a lacklustre sliding noise,and there slowly emerged from the open door such a large tortoise that I drew back. It was tall and wide, like those huge heaters you see in expensive country houses –the kind of heater the director also had in his office.

“But it’s impossible,” I stammered, “how can I?”

He told a vulgar joke, which in fact upset me, but after my initial shock I came around. “It really would be a great achievement.” I got so carried away that I even silently said a small prayer: “my God,” I said, “since I was born with such a horrible flaw, ensure at least that I make it to the end.”

I opened my mouth and he began pushing it in, it was painful, but I took courage in the thought that I too will have accomplished something beyond my strength. Suddenly a mirror appeared on the wall. It was a loathsome sight, my eyes popping out, my neck swollen, and turning dark blue all over from asphyxiation, with the tortoise shoved halfway into my mouth, an enormous creature – like two animals tearing each other to shreds.Weirdly and unexpectedly, I was bathed in boundless exultation. “Thank you, my Lord, for showing me my true face,” I whispered. Exactly that moment the accident occurred. He stumbled and fell, just as the tortoise escaped from my mouth and forcefully crashed onto his head. And let the investigator claim that it was I who hit him, allegedly with the lid of the heater – lies! The deceased lay stretched on the carpet, no longer posing a threat,while the creature crawled towards the door and then vanished into the basement of the building.

That’s all I have to say, gentlemen of the jury. I have nothing further to add. I wish only to make a request. Since this dreadful condition of mine might be some unknown illness, I’d like to donate my body to a scientific institute. Perhaps tomorrow’s scientists will understand. And if it will be for the benefit sometime of humankind, then all this horror that I experienced in my life will have been worth it.

(Translator's note: I am grateful to Dr Konstantina Georganta for her feedback on my translation.)

Tasos Leivaditis (1922–1988) was a Greek poet, short story writer and literary critic. The "Tortoises" is taken from his 1966 collection of short stories The Pendulum.

N. N. Trakakis teaches philosophy at the Australian Catholic University, and also writes and translates poetry. He has translated several of Tasos Leivaditis’ works, including The Blind Man with the Lamp (Denise Harvey Publications, 2014), Violets for a Season (Red Dragonfly Press, 2017), Autumn Manuscripts (Smokestack Books, 2020), and most recently Night Visitor (Human Side Press, 2023).

The post Tasos Leivaditis, The Tortoises appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

“Who’ll get there first!”

They’d find themselves low at Makedonomahon Street, at the height of Gioura’s place, and her cousin had lagged behind, stooping at the edge of the dirt road and gathering cyclamens that sprout among pine needles beneath the trees. It was then that she decided to shout:

“Who’ll get there first! Come on, who’ll get there first!” And she started racing towards the house before little Panos could catch on to what she meant.

“Hold it, that won’t do!” shouted the kid all taken aback, and he sprung up clutching a bunch of cyclamens in his left hand. “That won’t do!”

The girl, however, kept running as she teased him:

“Whoever gets there last is a dummy, a dummy, a dummy!”

And suddenly, just as she’d pass by the sand pile in front of the headmaster’s place, a very loud boohoo burst out behind her, a howling not of the sort kids use to communicate between them, but meant to urgently call on the adults. She froze. Panting, flushed, she turned round and saw her cousin having fallen – yet again! – with his face on the ground, palms stretched out by his head, the cyclamens scattered aside, crying, spitting out and eating the dirt. She gasped. With guilt dripping all over her, she sought to run by his side, but before she’d get to him, all the adults had surged out in the street and little Panos’s dad was already bearing him back home. Her mom dashed out as well, and seeing at a glance that her girl was okay, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her inside, foaming at the mouth.

“Haven’t I said we don’t run in the dirt roads? Well? Haven’t I? What’s happened to him? Did you push him?”

“No! We were playing!”

Her cousin’s face covered in blood, her own gone crimson for she knew she’d acted wrongly. And upstairs in the house, little Panos on his dad’s arms crying his heart out, stretching his dirty, sodden and bloodied face backwards, backwards, backwards, as if wishing to escape, to tumble over and yet again fall on his face, this time on the concrete floor.

You dummy! the girl says to herself with resolute anger. She can never forgive him for the blood on his face and the fever she feels on hers. She now believes that little Panos is deliberately crying at the top of his voice, so that he avenge her for having been duped and win his own way – since surely he’d be the last to make it home. And anyhow, the girl almost always beats him, in all their games.

She feels she alone realizes the deceit, but also feels her mom’s rebuke with that look in her eyes and the pursed lips as she eyes her daughter – and she keeps on eyeing her with mounting suspicion, probably because mothers have their way of scenting certain vexing truths. The girl feels a mess until her auntie shouts over all the others so that she be heard:

“Come on, come on, alright, no big deal, they’re just kids, they’re bound to fall and get hurt. Stop it now – you’re frightening Sia as well!”

And for the umpteenth time she bends over little Panos, who’s started to calm down, and with a piece of cotton wool she applies mercurochrome to the scratches. Which, truth be told, are not that many.

Sia takes on as terrified a facial expression as possible, as if about to cry, and looks at her cousin pretending to be deeply engrossed. Whatever, as long as she doesn’t have to look at her mommy again. A minute goes by and while the adults continue busying themselves with cotton wools, mercurochromes, hansaplast and the like, Sia slips away, goes down the stairs and comes out the upper pilotis. Once again, she makes her way up to Makedonomahon Street and then goes walking rather slowly – she doesn’t run in the dirt roads! – a bit further down, to the spot where her cousin had fallen. Little Panos’s cut, dusty cyclamens look woeful. If only he hadn’t cut them at all, now lying all wasted. She recalls his devotion in selecting them, as she turned and called on him to race. Her lower lip pouts out in sadness, trembling. She bends over the flowers and she as well picks out two that haven’t been crushed, haven’t been ruffled, not covered in dust. And right that moment, the headmaster and his eldest son Vassilis, together with mister Babis, appear on the road.

They’re all in work clothes. Mister Antonis is also sporting a trilby hat. He’s saying something to the other two, pointing to the piles of sand and cement. The girl drops her head and hastily goes up the road in the direction of her house. On reaching them, mister Babis, the construction worker, starts the concrete mixer and the drum begins turning.

“Hello, little mermaid”, mister Antonis greets her – he’d always call her that – and the “mermaid” blushes again, mumbles a hoarse “Hello sir”, and starts running, tightly clutching the cyclamen stems. When she reenters the house the crying has died out. She’d better go to her cousin and tell him she’s saved two of his cyclamens. And tell him not to squeal on her. If he doesn’t, they’ll play whatever story he likes in their next playmobil game.

From the collection of short stories, Makedonomahon Street (Odos Makedonomahon), Thessaloniki: Petites-Maisons 2022
Diakopto, Achaea, Winter 2022

The post A dive in the dirt appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

By Antonia Gounaropoulou
Translated by Panagiotis Tourikis

Whenever she’d come down to the gate along Makedonomahon Street, as when she stood on the balcony, the little girl would be faced by the uphill road. As if that road had never had a name, it always being the “uphill” – even though, were one to ask Gogo and her brothers, they’d straight away rattle out its name, just as she’d do with Makedonomahon Street. Each kid and its own street.

Now night has fallen, dad hasn’t come home yet, and the two kids are settled on their white fer forgé chairs on the balcony with mom sitting beside them. They are busy eating watermelon and figs from the creek, chatting in hushed voices. The neighbourhood before them is lit by a milky white gleam thrown by street lights sporadically installed by the electricity board. The ridge of the uphill glows at its centre – the road having only recently been tarred by the municipality – and that wet luminous shadow rolls erratically down to Makedonomahon Street, bedecked with shadows cast by the branches of pine trees.

Neighbours have by now settled indoors. So have all the kids of Marathonomahon Street, as those of Makedonomahon. The sound of crickets is audible, as is the croaking of frogs by the creek. Only now and then, can one make out some drowned cough from next door, behind old mister Spyros’ walls, or a bit more farther off, the cackling laughter of missus Spyridoula. The girl would recognize that laughter among a thousand others. Yet, by and large, the neighbourhood is at rest, just before bedtime.

In a moment, and although for some time now – so it happened – neither of the two kids has uttered a word, the mother slowly lowers her outstretched legs from the stool before her, bends slightly forward and whispers:

“Shhh… Don’t speak.”

The girl freezes with her teeth plunged into the split fig while her eyes follow her mom’s line of vision – pointed opposite, at the uphill road. Her brother, somber and stern, is already looking in that direction. They spot her.

Its body is small and short-legged, but seems rather big with her tail. She’s just turned off Marathonomahon Street and is slowly descending towards their house. As if aware of being watched, she abruptly stops in the middle of the road’s silvery-white ridge, one foreleg in midair. A small black shadow scissoring the flow of a shallow milky descent. Then it turns and hides in the shadows by the side of the road, opposite Gogo’s home, and for a moment the girl figures that that’s it, they’ve lost her for good – it’ll vault into the clump of pine trees, or onto the concrete slab, and sneak through the broken shutters into the deserted little house where a myriad of small medicine bottles lie strewn on the floor. Not so.

Shortly, and while the pupils of the girl’s eyes have over-dilated to distinguish each shadow within the shadows, she sees it continuing its descent with lowered muzzle, along the unpaved side of the road. It now steals past the second plot, that “little forest” where kids go picnicking. The girl, feeling the fig seeds moistening her nostrils, wants to lower the hand clutching the fruit – but dares not. The fox has moved down almost opposite the balcony, and the girl is convinced it can discern the faintest stir of a human.

As a reward for the stillness of the girl and her fig, the fox seems to recover its self-confidence and, with a wide, unwarranted turn, there it is again in the midst of the road, allowing the diffuse light of the lamp post – corner uphill road and Marathonomahon Street – to slide inside its fur, onto the contours of its ears and the white tuft of its bushy tail. And with this last appearance, as soon as it sets foot onto Makedonomahon Street, turns upwards and sneaks into the darkness.

“Did you see her?” asks the mother excitedly, springing to her feet.

The girl returns her gaze to the uphill’s milky ridge. The road is all empty. Yet enchanting. She lowers her hand from her mouth and hands the fig to its mother.

“Here, mommy, I want no more” – and with the back of her other hand wipes lips and nostrils.

“Hey, didn’t you see the fox?” repeats the mother impatiently, as she carelessly takes the fig and proceeds to lean on the balustrade. “Ah, let’s see, where’d it go… there she is! There she is, kids… no! No, wrong… There… No!”

“She’s gone, mommy” says the girl.

The mother turns towards them:

“If we stay put for a long while all lovingly and quiet, and if there’s no fighting, yet another fox will soon come along.”

The boy looks at her.

“Other foxes will come over in any case – missus Dolly next door has chickens.”

Their mother laughs.

Warily the girl regards the house next door, by now drowned in slumber. Not even old mister Spyros can be heard coughing. She’d rather not imagine the fox digging beneath the coop’s wire netting, driving a hole in the ground, setting foot inside and pouncing on the chickens. Choking them, gobbling them up. And yet it forthwith crossed her mind.

She thrusts herself at the balcony door and with all her might pushes open its one panel and bolts inside the house before missus Dolly’s chickens commence cackling terrified in the night. Behind her, mommy and her brother are convulsing with a belly laugh which they try to muffle in the neighbourhood silence.

The post The fox appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

By Antonia Gounaropoulou
Translated by Panagiotis Tourikis

Now that we meet deeper in the track
Now that the foregone are shadows, pits in the ground
And it is on us that the loggers advance
To paint red circles on our trunks
Please hide explosions deep in your foliage
And when the blade touches the bark – explode
Blast off the bird nests
The dried leaves
The blanketed green eyes that shan’t bud in spring
Blast high near far and low
To the trunks that grew in your time
And which loggers have stamped next in line

For so might we meet again
In our last remaining foliage.

Athens, Autumn 2021

Μήνυμα σε φίλους

Τώρα που βρεθήκαμε πιο βαθιά στο μονοπάτι
Τώρα που οι προηγούμενοι έγιναν τρύπες στο χώμα, πλάτες και ίσκιοι
Κι είναι σ’ εμάς που έρχονται οι ξυλοκόποι
Να σύρουν κύκλους κόκκινη μπογιά στους κορμούς μας
Παρακαλώ φυλάξτε εκρήξεις κρυμμένες στα φυλλώματα
Κι όταν αγγίξει ο τροχός το φλοιό εκραγείτε
Εκτοξεύστε τις φωλιές των πουλιών
Τα ξεραμένα φύλλα
Τα φασκιωμένα πράσινα μάτια που δε θ’ ανοίξουν την άνοιξη
Ψηλά κοντά μακριά χαμηλά
Στους κορμούς που μεγαλώσαν περίπου μαζί σας
Κι οι ξυλοκόποι έχουν σταμπάρει για λίγο μετά

Γιατί έτσι μπορεί να βρεθούμε ξανά
Στα φυλλώματα του τελευταίου.

The post Missive to friends appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

She stood by the door eyeing
the width and length
her mother had given
to the yarn of white.

The pigeons' wings stretched flat.
He who tossed them high
tonight lay covered
by a somber beech wood sky.

First published in The Books’ Journal, issue no. 112, Athens: October 2020
Diakopto, Achaea, Summer 2021

Το κουβερλί

Στεκόταν στην πόρτα και κοιτούσε
το πλάτος και το μήκος
που έδωσε η μάνα της
στο άσπρο νήμα.

Άπλωναν επίπεδα φτερά τα περιστέρια.
Το σώμα που τα τίναζε ψηλά
το σκέπαζε απόψε
μαύρος ουρανός από οξιά.

Πρώτη δημοσίευση: The Books’ Journal, τεύχ. 112, Αθήνα: Οκτώβριος 2020

The post The Coverlet appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

By Antonia Gounaropoulou

Translated by Panagiotis Tourikis

We translate hospitals
their gates
the dusty trees in parking lots
the wide marble steps of entrances
where gypsies drag their sweeping skirts
and the belated strike their feet
in haste, as when you hope to reach the harbor
just in time to catch the eye
of him on deck, departing.

We translate the ambivalent
open doors of wards,
“I am always here” or “here no more”,
today it was “always here”,
come tomorrow maybe meanings
won’t shed their skin.

We translate the lifting of the hand,
the angles of the arm to the shoulder,
acute angle sitting beside you
I held your hand in the triumph of your eyes,
right angle standing beside you
I showed you Athens through the window
when our days of old had overcome,
obtuse angle I lost, all lost,
fingers woefully tangled in the hair
as I turn aside that you may not see.

We translate the tempo of our talk
when you speak, and I jump in, then you do
– we both pin our faith on something –
then I no longer respond, silence,
your voice sounded like silence
in retreat.

In the end we descend the selfsame steps
shrunk beneath the sky,
shrunk within this vast expanse
that knows how only to contain,
shrunk within the pupils of our eyes,
when persistently, at night,
they reflect a lesser self.

From the collection of poems The Star of Nothingness, Athens: Oropedio 2012
Diakopto, Achaea, Summer 2021

Ana Grise

Μεταφράζουμε τα νοσοκομεία
τις πύλες τους
τα σκονισμένα δέντρα στους χώρους στάθμευσης
τις φαρδιές μαρμάρινες σκάλες στις εισόδους
όπου οι γύφτισσες σέρνουν τις μακριές τους φούστες
κι οι αργοπορημένοι χτυπούν τα πέλματά τους
βιαστικά, όπως όταν ελπίζεις να φτάσεις στο λιμάνι
όσο ακόμα θα μπορεί να σε διακρίνει
απ’ το κατάστρωμα αυτός που φεύγει.

Μεταφράζουμε τις αμφίσημες
ανοιχτές πόρτες των δωματίων,
«είμαι πάντα εδώ» ή «έχω πια φύγει»,
σήμερα ήταν «είμαι πάντα εδώ»,
αύριο ίσως να μην αλλάξουν
δέρμα τα νοήματα.

Μεταφράζουμε την ανάταση του χεριού,
τις γωνίες του βραχίονα προς τον ώμο,
οξεία γωνία καθισμένη δίπλα σου
σου κράτησα το χέρι όταν τα μάτια σου κέρδισαν,
ορθή γωνία όρθια δίπλα σου
σου έδειξα απ’ το παράθυρο την Αθήνα
όταν κέρδισαν οι παλιές μας μέρες,
αμβλεία γωνία έχασα, έχασα,
τα δάχτυλα απελπισμένα μπλέκονται στα μαλλιά
καθώς σου γυρνώ την πλάτη για να μη βλέπεις.

Μεταφράζουμε την ταχύτητα των διαλόγων
όταν κάτι μου λες, κι αμέσως λέω, και λες
– σε κάτι πιστεύουμε κι οι δυο μας –
μετά δεν απαντώ, σιωπή,
η φωνή σου ακούστηκε σαν σιωπή
που εκπνέει.

Στο τέλος κατεβαίνουμε τις ίδιες σκάλες
συρρικνωμένοι κάτω απ’ τον ουρανό,
συρρικνωμένοι σ’ όλην αυτή την έκταση
που ξέρει μόνο να περιέχει,
συρρικνωμένοι μέσα στις κόρες των ματιών
όταν επίμονα, το βράδυ,
μας επιστρέφουν πιο λειψό τον εαυτό μας.

Από την ποιητική συλλογή Το άστρο του Τίποτε, Αθήνα: Οροπέδιο 2012

The post “Ana Grise” appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

By Antonia Gounaropoulou

Translated by Panagiotis Tourikis

 “The horses! The horses! Kids, come see the horses!”

The kids abandoned their bikes, dropped their stones, marbles and chalks, scurrying to be the first to climb the stairs – and reached the road, there where the wide iron gate would soon be placed and where parents, aunties and uncles had all flocked. Two horses, one white and the other brown, were descending the slope in a light gallop right before their eyes, while a thin ugly boy was running behind in a sweat, cursing with words that kids ought not to hear – though they already had.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed an aunt, and made as if to hide behind the men while the horses were approaching Makedonomahon Street and turning uphill.

“Eeeeee! Brrrr! Brrrr!” the boy spat, all blowzed and running behind the horses.

The little girl clutched onto someone’s trousers and gazed from between the legs of adults. The horses were stunningly beautiful, huge and terrifying. In a moment they had dropped out of sight. But the thin ugly boy with that “Brrrr! Brrrr!” on his fat lips had lingered on, as it took him a while to sprint all the way downhill and follow the horses along the street.

All the grown-ups were laughing. The girl could see the boy before her eyes, even when it was no longer there.

***

The next time round she saw him at the creek shepherding geese. Being all alone, she was startled. The girl had jumped over the fence, crossed the dry little river – just skipping over it – and had then climbed up the finest of the three fig trees. But she’d feel the figs hard, still like small pebbles. She came down, gazed around her, kneeled at the dry river bank and was watching intently amongst the large boulders in case she’d spot the carapace of some tortoise. And then, somewhere to the right of her, she caught sight of a bird resembling a duck though with longer legs and a longer neck. She stood up, took a closer look and spotted a second one. Stepping cautiously, she examined the birds with a great sobriety as they waddled on the soil and stretched out their neck as if wishing to loosen up – until just a few more steps ahead she found herself facing the ugly boy.

Squatting on the dry yellow weeds, he was staring at her mockingly. The girl didn’t feel uneasy about that. She well knew what “mocking” was all about. Her brother and her own mom had often looked at her that way, and she too had done the same with her cousins. But this wasn’t simply being given a mocking look. This was also something else, which the girl didn’t know how it was called but could recognize. It was something that made her feel ashamed and threatened, terribly threatened, but had no name for it. Unconsciously, she glanced behind her. It was noontime, both her brother and her cousins were asleep and her parents at home. She was all by herself. And she felt a wish that at least it wouldn’t be summer and that she’d be in her winter clothes.

The thin boy with the small face and thick lips was smiling like a man. His bulgy eyes were ogling at the girl’s arms fleetingly, vigorously, then turned to her legs beneath the shorts, and the geese nearby were walking and stretching their neck, walking and stretching their neck. The girl sensed that the boy was stretching his neck right at her, and at the end of that neck a small hideous face with thick lips was preparing to bite her body, disemboweling it.

The boy spurted out a word the little girl had heard from her uncles but only as an unintelligible joke, and he went on to add, “May I be your servant, can I lick it for you?”

Noontime. The figs were still hard like small pebbles. The geese had now drawn closer to her and were hissing with that beak at the end of their lowered, outstretched neck. The girl could sense the danger. She felt the urge to scream “Mommyyyyy!” But was tongue-tied, and screamed nothing.

It wasn’t out of courage that she remained motionless – her legs had simply frozen. She was looking at the boy in the eye, for so her stare was fixed, and wouldn’t dare look away terrified that things could change, with the boy getting up and coming even closer to her.

“No” she said.

And then the boy got up. The girl sucked her lips in, her chest, her tummy. A nightmare it was. Like when she couldn’t wake up whenever she dreamt someone chasing after her. This time he’d catch her and he’d…

The bulgy eyes on the microscopic face were furious.

“Fuck you!...” he  bellowed. And then “Brrrr! Sssss! Sssss!”

And he came in great strides right over the petrified girl, gathered round his two geese and flustering them made a roundabout turn to goad them in the direction of the little bridge.

The girl remained stock-still until she’d no longer see either geese or boy. Next, looking over her shoulder every now and then, did not jump over the fence. She ran through the neighbouring plot of land, made it to Makedonomahon Street and opened the iron gate. She rushed inside the house and found her mom in the living room bent over the ironing board.

“Where were you?” her mother asked.

“By the little river”, the child said and dashed to cuddle herself round her mom’s legs.

“Shoo!” said her mother, “you’ll get burnt”.

The girl stole an extra moment stuck on her mom’s legs, and then retreated to her room.

She stood in front of the mirror staring at her arms. Taking a step back, she looked at her legs beneath her shorts. And then raised her eyes to her face. To the image of her lips.

“Brrrr!” she said, and saw the lips swell up, becoming revolting as they smacked upon each other, spitting and all deforming her.

She remained silent for a while. And then went:

“Brrrrrrrr! Sssssssss! Brrrrrrrr!”

The post “Geese” appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Translated by Panagiotis Tourikis

There was once a hunter who lived in the wild forests all alone. He didn’t care for the company of humans, he found them all liars, and so had withdrawn from the world. But he also didn’t care for the company of animals, for these he found dumb, and so wouldn’t spend his time with animals either, unless he went hunting.

One afternoon, while the hunter was working his way through dense foliage at the back ridge of the mountain, he found himself directly facing two large, dark eyes staring at him. He dug his feet on the ground and remained still. Right before him there was a wild wolf, the size of a horse, his snout reaching up to the hunter’s face. They stood there for a while eyeing one another, both surprised by the other’s presence, but finally the hunter said:

“You are not like the other animals.”

And in a hoarse voice, the wolf responded:

“You too are not like the other humans.”

“Come stay with me in my shack, let’s live together like everlasting comrades, and we can spend time talking in the evenings,” the hunter invited him, and went on, “I have no one to talk to, for humans are liars and animals are dumb.”

“I cannot stay with you,” the wolf said. “I too know that humans are liars and that animals are dumb, yet it’s easier to find a trace of intelligence in a dumb animal than to find a trace of honesty in a lying human.”

The hunter was deeply impressed by what the wolf had said, and straight away thought how interesting his evenings would truly be, if he’d spend them with such a smart talker.

“Come stay with me,” he repeated, “and I who am a human shall tell you more about humans than what you already know, and so you’ll become even smarter than what you are.”

That was something the wolf liked. He was an exceptionally bright animal, who loved learning new things. But before accepting the hunter’s invitation, he had this to ask him:

“First explain to me a word you’ve used, which I can’t understand. You say that we’ll live like ‘everlasting comrades’. What do you mean by ‘comrades’?”

The hunter laughed.

“How obvious it is that you’re really wild, and that you’ve never lived in a wolf pack,” he said. “But of course, that’s why you’re so different. Well, then, ‘comrades’ are two creatures that believe absolutely in one another, care absolutely for one another and absolutely love each other.”

“And what does ‘absolutely’ mean?”, the wolf continued, enthused by so many new things he was learning.

The hunter laughed again.

“That means to believe, to care and to love your comrade so deeply that you would even be prepared to die for his sake.”

The wolf narrowed his eyes, and for a while looked at his new friend without talking.

“Fine…,” he haltingly said at the end. “I like it. I want us to live together like comrades.”

And they both returned to the hunter’s shack and henceforth started living together as comrades do.

*

A span of time rolled by and there came an evening which at first seemed like all those other evenings, when the two comrades would be so beautifully and so lovingly together. The hunter returned from his hunting, and so did the wolf from his, and they both went out to sit on the shack’s wide doorstep.

“I believe I saw panther spoor up on the mountain,” the hunter said.

The wolf agreed.

“Indeed. I too have seen the traces, and I’ve even caught his scent. He’s been moving around our territory these last few days, yet so far I’ve never had the chance to meet him. But he’s certainly huge and powerful.”

“Oh, is that so?,” quipped the hunter. “But he’s definitely not as powerful as you.”

The wolf was pleased that the hunter believed in him.

“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I sure can overpower him.”

“Sure,” the hunter agreed, and kept quiet.

For a while they sat back and listened to the sounds of the forest, until at some point the wolf sensed a distress in the man beside him.

“What is troubling you, comrade?,” he asked with much concern.

Taking a deep breath, the hunter turned and looked at the wolf straight in the eyes.

“You know… I’m certain that if you happen to come across that panther, you can sure outmatch him. But still, if you only fought him with your claws and teeth – who can tell – you could find yourself in a moment of mortal danger. That’s why I’d like to give you my one and only gun, for I’d prefer myself to die hunting, rather than you. I beg of you, don’t say no.”

Tears welled up in the wolf’s eyes, seeing how much the hunter loved him. But he couldn’t bear the thought that his comrade would be exposed to the dangers of the forest.

“No, my friend, no,” replied the wolf, deeply moved. “Let me take the risk, I don’t want you to be in greater danger than I.”

But the hunter explained to him that there is no greater joy in the world than giving to one’s own comrade, and that its denial brings the greatest sorrow. On hearing this, the wolf was convinced he should go out with the hunter’s weapon the following day.

*

And so next morning the wolf slung the rifle over his shoulder, bid his friend farewell, and headed as usual for the back ridge of the mountain. But he was troubled, for he knew that the hunter would now be going out without his weapon.

Some while later on the ridge, the wolf heard footsteps, sniffed the air and immediately picked up the smell of the panther. It was all too close. That was dangerous – but he had with him his comrade’s rifle. He unslung it, stood erect on his hind feet, grasped it with his forelegs, checked it and called to mind the hunter’s instructions on how to use it. And yet the smell had already virtually enveloped him, the footsteps echoing almost at arm’s length and, suddenly, the hungry panther appeared from behind a bush. It all happened within a split second. Holding the weapon as he did, the wolf could neither run nor attack. The panther pounced on him with a mighty growl, latched himself with his claws onto the wolf’s back, and bit him deep in the neck. Reeling and in pain, the wolf remembered that his comrade was also hunting on the back ridge.

“Comrade, help!,” he called out with his dwindling strength.

And then he heard a tramping of feet, and while collapsing to the ground saw the hunter rush to the spot. He was taking aim at the panther with a second rifle. Taken aback by the presence of the human, the panther abandoned its prey, receded and stood still with ears dropped back.

“Thank goodness you have another rifle,” groaned the wolf in pain. “Shoot him, comrade…”

But, to his astonishment, he heard the hunter address the panther behind the barrel of his gun, and he was saying:

“You’re courageous, you were able to subdue such an enormous wolf. You are not like the other animals.”

“And neither do you resemble the other humans,” growled the panther, and in a flash the wounded wolf brooded yet once more on what humans are and what are animals.

“No… don’t do that…,” bellowed the wolf, just as the hunter was turning his gun straight at him, pressing the trigger.

*

Since then, the hunter often takes to asking himself: who was the wolf speaking to in his final moments – him or the panther?

From the collection of short stories Hunters and Wolves, Athens: Patakis Publishers 2017

Diakopto, Achaea, Autumn 2020

The post “The hunter and the wolf” appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Trudging, I gathered sounds with my hands
loading them onto my back:
here a bundle of weeping,
here an old woman
thundering curses,
here urns in a heaviness
of soft lamentation
and quiet pleading.
Upon reaching the black trees
high on the hill,
I was already a hunchback
my nose touching the knee.

Halting, I let drop
my load on the earth,
and said this to Him: “All these prayers
were meant for You”.
And there slid from the heavens
to the tips of cypress trees
and from their trunk to me
God’s compassionate mercy:
“Too much have you tired
in the endless croaking of frogs”.

From the collection of poems The Star of Nothingness, Athens: Oropedio 2012
Diakopto, Achaea, Summer 2020

«Ο καμπούρης»

Πήγαινα, μάζευα με τα χέρια μου ήχους
τους φορτωνόμουν στη ράχη μου:
εδώ ένα δεμάτι λυγμοί
εδώ μια γριά ν’ απειλεί
με κατάρες,
εδώ στάμνες βαριές
ήσυχα κλάματα
και σιγανές παρακλήσεις.
Μέχρι να φτάσω στα μαύρα δέντρα
ψηλά στο λόφο,
ήμουν καμπούρης –
η μύτη ν’ αγγίζει το γόνατο.

Στάθηκα, έριξα βαριά
το φορτίο στη γη,
Του είπα: «Για Σένα
όλες αυτές οι προσευχές».
Και γλίστρησε απ’ τον ουρανό
στις μύτες των κυπαρισσιών
κι απ’ τον κορμό ως εμένα
φιλόστοργο το έλεος του Θεού:
«Σε κούρασαν πολύ
τόσα κοάσματα βατράχων».

Από την ποιητική συλλογή Το άστρο του Τίποτε, Αθήνα: Οροπέδιο 2012

The post Antonia Gounaropoulou: “The hunchback” appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.

Hidden in the shadow
beneath a fig tree
the adder’s root.
And all await
the coming of July
the advent of August,
that their hands may stick
of tree, of milk.

For just a while
you left wide open
our home’s front door
and our threshold was
so near the ground.

In the night I ask
how breathes the soil.
In the day I forget
and dream of red honey.
Last night I saw
the fig tree in my sleep.
It grabbed my shoulders
and plunged me down
deep to its roots.

I writhed for air

and while
in spasms,
I glimpsed

a small split of sky
swiftly smile at me
from the stem
of the adder’s root.

From the collection of poems The Star of Nothingness, Athens: Oropedio 2012
Diakopto , Achaea, Summer 2020

Κρυμμένο στον ίσκιο

Κρυμμένο στον ίσκιο
κάτω απʼ τη συκιά
το φιδόχορτο.
Κι όλοι λένε
πότε θα ʼρθει ο Ιούλης
πότε ο Αύγουστος,
τα χέρια να κολλήσουν
από δέντρο και γάλα.

Την πόρτα του σπιτιού μας
την άφησες για μια στιγμή
ορθάνοιχτη –
κι ήταν το κατώφλι μας
τόσο κοντά στη γη.

Τις νύχτες ρωτιέμαι
πώς ανασαίνει το χώμα.
Τις μέρες ξεχνιέμαι
κι ονειρεύομαι κόκκινο μέλι.
Χτες βράδυ είδα τη συκιά
στʼ όνειρό μου.
Μʼ άρπαξε απʼ τους ώμους
και με βύθισε ίσια
στις ρίζες.

Σπαρταρούσα γιʼ αέρα,

κι ενώ
μες στους σπασμούς μου
ανάβλεψα,

φευγαλέα μου γέλασε
μια μικρή σχισμή ουρανός
μέσα απʼ τον κορμό
του φιδόχορτου.

Aπό την ποιητική συλλογή Το άστρο του Τίποτε, Αθήνα: Οροπέδιο 2012

The post Antonia Gounaropoulou: “Hidden in the shadow” appeared first on Greek Social & Literary Review - Ελληνική Κοινωνική & Λογοτεχνική Επιθεώρηση.