“Oh, it’s clean,” Costas said, laughing. “Don’t worry.”
“I know it’s clean.” DeLys coughed again, the back of one hand against her mouth, the fingers in a loose fist that grabbed after something with each head-lowering hack. “That’s not it at all and you know it…!” She coughed some more.
Then Cosima played the scherzo and the adagio.
When, after a record change, the choral opening of the “Ode to Joy” finished and the baritone solo began, Heidi squeezed my hand, and I thought of Beethoven, arthritic, deaf, believing his work a failure after he’d finished conducting the Ninth’s premiere, because he’d heard nothing behind him. Then the Soprano stepped down to take him by the arm and turn him to see the standing Viennese, clapping madly —
Without any noise, I started to cry, while, there behind the fence, we listened with silent avidity — to The Rite of Spring.
— but by the end of the Ninth, for our several reasons, all of us had been moved:
Jammed together on Cosima’s steps, the physical discomfort and social preposterousness of the situation had made us listen with intense attention. A number of us in that stairwell had been wet-eyed.
We’d said “Goodnight,” and “Thank you,” and “Ciao” to Cosima, quietly. Then, our hands against the narrow stairway walls, some of us, we’d filed down to the street, now and again glancing back to smile. In the doorway at the stairs’ head, holding the album cover, Trevor had stood, raggedy-kneed. Just behind his shoulder, in her long skirt, Cosima had watched us.
Outside, it had rained enough to slick the sidewalk under the corner lamp. Heidi and I had walked back to the bottom of Mnisicleou…
Between the standing Athenians, madly clapping, I could see, down on the platform, someone hand Stravinsky another pink and yellow bouquet. In his black tails, with his white tie, bald head, and glasses, he held two in his arms already. Three more lay on the gray wood beside him.
Craft came out again to take Stravinsky’s arm and lead him off. Once he shifted the flowers and waved at the audience.
On the other side of Cosima, the Greek boy closed two buttons on his shirt. With his friends, he turned to leave the fence — the school girls beside me, whispering and worried that they were already late, had hurried off as soon as the applause began.
Applause swelled again. I said, softly, in Cosima’s ear: “There. Now his career as a conductor is finished. It’s over. Like that.”
Her face near the wire, black fur moving in the wind that, with the later hour, had started, Cosima nodded.
V
To construct oneself, to know oneself — are these two distinct acts or not?
A good number of people were on the platform when I got there. I had my guitar case — and a shopping bag. At the bottom of the bag was Heidi’s Vian. Then my underwear and my balled-up suit. On the top were my novels. Two had actually been published while I was here — though I’d written them before. My wife had sent me a single copy of each, as they came out. I’d figured to reread the newest one on the train — for more typographical mistakes; or for stylistic changes I might want to make. And maybe reread the typescript of her poems. It was as sunny as it had been on the Piraeus docks when I’d seen Heidi off to Aegina. Shabby-coated lottery vendors ambled about. Ticket streamers tentacled their sticks. A cart rolled by, selling milk-pudding and spinach pie and warm Orangata, big wheels grumbling and squeaking. Sailors and soldiers stood in groups, talking together, among the civilian passengers.
When I saw him — the tall one — with four others in their whites, my heart thudded hard enough to hurt my throat. From the surprise, the back of my neck grew wet. I swallowed a few times — and tried to get my breath back. But — no! — I wasn’t going to go up to the other end of the platform. I wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch run me all around the train station. I took a deep breath, turned, and looked toward the empty tracks.
But I hoped the train would hurry up.
Not that he could do anything here, with all these people.
The third time I glanced at him, he was looking at me — smiling. He was smiling!
Another surge of fear; but it wasn’t as big as the terror at my initial recognition.
Next time I caught him looking, I didn’t look away.
So he raised his hand — and waved: that little “go away” gesture that, in Greek, means “come over here.”
When I frowned, he broke from his group to lope toward me.
He came up with a burst of Greek: “Kalimera sas! Ti kanis? Kalla?” (Hello, you! How you doing? All right?)
“Kalimera,” I said, dry as a phrase book.
But with his big (nervous? Probably, but I didn’t catch it then) smile, he rattled on. In front of me, the creaseless white of his uniform was as blinding as a tombstone at noon; he towered over me by a head and a half. Now, with a scowl, he explained: “… Dthen eine philos mou… Dthen eine kalos, to peidi…” He isn’t a friend of mine… he’s no good, that fellow… Where’re you going? It’s beautiful today… Yes? (“Orea simera… Ne?”) You all right? He’s crazy, that guy. He just gets everybody in trouble. Me, I don’t do things like that. I don’t like him. I go out with him, I always get in trouble — like with you and your friend, up there, that night. That wasn’t any good. You’re taking the train today? Where’re you going? You’re Negro, aren’t you? (“Mavros, esis?”) You like it here, in Greece? It’s a beautiful country, isn’t it? You had a good time? How long have you been here?
I didn’t want to tell him where I was going; so I mimed ignorance at half his questions, wondering just what part he thought he’d played in the night before last.
I was surprised, though, I wasn’t scared anymore. At all. Or, really, even that angry. Suddenly, for a demonic joke, I began to ask him lots of questions, fast: What was his name? (“Petros, ego.” Peter, that’s me.) Where was he going? (“Sto ’Saloniki.” To Thessalonika.) Where was he from? (Some little mountain town I’d never heard of before.) Did he like the Navy? (With wavering hand, “Etsi-getsi.” So-so.) He answered them all quite seriously, the grin gone and — I guess — a slightly bewildered look, hanging above me, in its place.
Finally, though, he dropped a hand on my shoulder and bent to me. He’d come over to me, he explained, because he had something to show me. No, no — it’s all right. Let me show it to you. Here. He went digging in his back pocket — for a moment I thought he was going to pull out his wallet to show me pictures. But when his hand came back around, he was holding a knife. No, don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid — I just want to show you something. I pulled back, but, by the shoulder, he forced me forward — still smiling. Here, he said. Here — go on. You take it. Go ahead. Take it. Hold it. While he held the knife in his amazingly large hand, I saw the nails on his big fingers were clean, evenly clipped, with ivory scimitars over the crowns — under clear polish.
Like many Greek men, he wore his little nail half an inch or more long.
I hadn’t noticed any of that, the night at DeLys’s.
I took the closed knife from him and thought: Greek sailors don’t usually have manicures. Briefly I wondered if he was queer himself.