“Of course. Who could forget that girl? I always felt like punching her in the face.”
“Why?”
“You really have to ask? I’ve never met a bigger, more frightening ego in my life.”
Merde. Neither have I.
“Do you have to leave so soon?”
“I’ve got things to do, Mom.”
“What things?”
Well, let’s see, we’re planning an event in the Athens Metro, it’s been too long since we had a good, old-fashioned run-in with the police, with that absurd mediocrity that goes by the name of order. Every now and then we smash a shop window or two — a small, symbolic tear in the cloak of legitimacy that enfolds private property. But we’re not nearly as active as we used to be. Kayo and I are the only ones with keys to the apartment, it’s not all anything goes anymore. We don’t just wreak havoc indiscriminately, either. And we’ve improved the fonts on our signs. We’re revolutionaries with taste.
“I told you, Mom, things!”
“You live such a strange life, child. I just don’t understand. The way I was raised, no matter how wrong life went, at age thirty-five a woman had a husband, kids, something to keep her busy.”
“No matter how wrong things go, salt never gets worms, right, Mom?”
In my case, apparently, some inner worm has been eating away at the fear of God, at the desire for a family, at all the illusions that keep Mom alive.
“Let the girl do what she needs to,” Dad calls from the living room. “Stop sticking your nose in all the time!”
They stand in the doorway, framed by flaking paint. To me they look older than ever, and as crazy as loons. Mom in her shawl, nails painted with peeling white polish. Dad in his prehistoric gym suit with the sagging knees. They’re like little kids — like my kids.
“I should really paint the door jambs,” Dad mutters.
“Just put newspaper on the ground if you do,” Mom says. “I don’t want you making a mess.”
Perhaps I really did run away when I was nine years old, when I got out that checked suitcase and filled it with bananas, roller skates, colored pencils. I thought the stewardesses would have to take pity on me in order for me to get back to Africa. But perhaps you don’t even need the airplane. Perhaps all it takes is a decision.
It’s one of those days that makes you happy, though you couldn’t say why. The Attic sky is that mysterious blue you see in tourist brochures: transparent, yet concealing something — whatever you want it to. Spring sneaks into your head, the sun numbs your temples. Athens glistens as if made of cheap glass. A quaver of heat and exhaust and spring sweetness spreads itself over everything, making the cement in the schoolyard shimmer. Today even Daphne drew a sun over her cave and grass all around. On days like this the kids are calm. They laugh at the drop of a hat, not in a hysterical way, but as if one of Mom’s saints is watching over them. There’s a kind of saintliness in the air — even if I don’t believe in that sort of thing.
I’m alone in the classroom. When I was in grade school we always clambered up to the teacher’s desk at the end of class. Clambered, because the desk was on a wooden riser that divided the classroom into two tiers: pupils on one, the teacher on the other. Anna and I would experiment with stolen moments of intoxicating power: “I’m going to sit in Kyria Aphrodite’s chair!” Anna would shriek. “No, I am, merde!” We both could have fit, but Anna, the more stubborn, always won. From the first time she crossed my path, I learned to give way, to cede my place to her. Which is perhaps one reason why I now feel as if I don’t belong anywhere. Though things have changed somewhat: there’s a certain order to my life now, the squeak of markers on paper, the apartment in Exarheia, the demonstrations. There are regions that belong to each of us individually, while others are larger, broader, belonging to us all.
And into that broader realm now steps a thin woman in tall cowboy boots. I catch sight of her when she’s still at the far end of the hall; as she approaches it becomes more and more obvious that she’s one of those nutcase mothers who experience a rare and sudden flash of interest in their child and come in to pester us with questions. I can tell from the clothes: a sane person wouldn’t show up to her child’s school in sequin-studded jeans and a red leather jacket. Lord, she’s headed my way. It’s probably Natasha’s mom, come to complain about Daphne picking fights.
Blond, skin and bones, medium height if you took off her boots. Straight hair, a wisp of bangs at her forehead. The hairclip is gone. And she dyed the white eyebrow.
It’s Anna. Former radical leftist of France. My former best friend.
•
“So, that circle we drew with the shard of a broken pitcher. . Did you ever wonder if that line by Titos Patrikios might be to blame?”
“For what?”
“For the fact that we ended up throwing stones. .”
I’ve rehearsed this scene in my head thousands of times, imagined encounters from the most unlikely to the most banaclass="underline" in the metro, at the post office, at a party, on a plane. On airplanes most of all, since there’s nowhere to escape unless you open the emergency hatch. Never in all those imaginings did I picture Anna, so real and yet so fake, striding into my art room dressed like a rock star, without even a hello or a prologue of any sort. She just hops up onto my desk, crosses her legs under her, lights a cigarette and starts to recite that poem by Patrikios — one of the old anthems of our friendship.
“Why didn’t you call me? Didn’t Daphne give you my card?” Her voice is deep and husky from years of smoking. It’s almost funny, such a gruff voice coming from such a tiny body — and if she weren’t wearing makeup, she’d probably have circles under her eyes. Her lashes seem thicker, but her gaze itself is unchanged. There’s something almost dramatic about her beauty, as if she’s been through a lot since we lost touch. Her plum-colored lipstick leaves a mark on the filter of her cigarette.
“I was busy,” I say.
“Busy?” She has an agitated look in her eye, the look of a person who wants to know everything.
“Who would’ve guessed we would meet again where we first met, in an elementary school classroom,” I say.
“Can’t you think of something a little more original, merde?”
“I leave the originality to you.”
Anna laughs and coughs at the same time. She enjoys making me mad.
“How about I be the boring one, and give you time to think up something clever to say? I’ll go back outside and come in again.” She jumps down off the desk, goes out into the hall and closes the door behind her, then knocks theatrically.
“Come in!” I call. I snatch a cigarette from her pack and light it without thinking twice.
“Hello, Maria. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m your old friend, Anna. I heard you were my daughter’s art teacher.”
“Anna? Anna who?” I haven’t smoked in years. The first lungful brings a sweet dizziness.
“Anna Horn, of course!”
“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I never had a friend by that name.”
“Merde, globalization is so depressing.” She wrinkles her nose for emphasis.
I shrug. We’re sitting in a miserable coffee shop across the street from the school. It smells of plastic croissants. In those clothes, this attempt at solidarity doesn’t suit her. She looks more like she should be easing into a matching sports car, the kind Kayo and I used to overturn, and driving down to Kolonaki for an espresso.
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I ask.
“I don’t care where we are, I care what we do there,” she says. “Are you going to go first or should I?”
I shrug again.