“What are you coloring?”
“Oh, you came! I want to show you something.”
Daphne picks up her piece of drawing paper and holds it directly under my nose. The witch and her apprentice have been shipwrecked. They’re sitting on the pointed peak of an island. All around is the sea — blue and slightly torn here and there from Daphne’s habit of pushing down hard when she draws.
“What island is that?”
“It’s not an island, it’s a cave,” Daphne tells me, disappointed.
So the cave has come unstuck from solid land and is sailing off blissfully, like a raft on the waves. The witchlet isn’t hiding in the cave anymore. And why would she? The rain has stopped.
There’s a cloud of smoke over the leather sofas in the living room. I lean on the banister at the top of the stairs and watch as they gesture, smoke, argue about the four million cars produced each year and the pollution created by the capitalist system. The idea is to occupy the last of the shacks condemned by eminent domain along the proposed route of the Attic Highway, before the bulldozers come. To put up a fight.
The younger among us have already gone to visit the people living in those shacks. They’ve started a discrete awareness-raising campaign. They drink coffee with them, listen to their stories, and dream of the moment when they’ll go to live among these aging farmers, in a back room, a storeroom that’s been cleaned out for the purpose, under a hanging lantern or some old-fashioned trinket. They’re as navïe as I was when I packed my suitcase with roller-skates and eggs.
“Why so thoughtful?” Aristomenis asks from behind me.
I forgot, it’s Sunday. Even rich revolutionaries deserve a day of rest.
Aristomenis’s office is almost directly across from Daphne’s bedroom, and the door is ajar. The office contains two perfectly white desks: a work desk piled with books and architectural plans, and a desk for relaxing, with a coffee pot that’s half full, cookies, pipe tobacco, and a plate of sliced kiwi. The last bit of daylight slants through the windows, making the kiwis glow with an even more otherworldly color. Aristomenis moves in the manner of a person who knows how long supplies will last, how many days fruit stays fresh, how much milk to put in a cup of coffee.
“Come on in, sit down and tell me about it.”
“About what?”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed, I’m confused.”
“Have a kiwi. It’s comfort food.”
I chew slowly. “It’s ridiculous for me to be running around to protests all the time. I’m afraid of blood. What kind of activist faints at the sight of blood? In the metro the other day, I have no idea what came over me, I just fainted, like an old lady. I’d like to start painting again, but I’m too old for that kind of thing.”
“Too old?”
“I’m almost thirty-five, I’m not a kid anymore. Either you really pursue something or you don’t. You can’t just drop things and pick them up again whenever you like.”
“Who says? Take your friend. Now that she’s found an opening, she’s in all the way. She was raised to care, to offer herself.”
“To offer herself?”
Aristomenis tugs on his beard when he’s thinking. He’s shaped his own mental image of Anna, one that’s significantly different from mine. He remembers her in the apartment in Paris, for instance, making soup and coffee for everyone. Once he saw her standing on the steps outside the building, talking to an unshaven man wrapped in a blanket. Aristomenis had been moved by how Anna knelt down so as to be at the same height as the man. She pulled him by the hand, telling him to come in off the street to where it was warm. “They’ll just put me out again,” he said. “Then they’ll have me to reckon with,” Anna had shot back, putting her hands on her hips to show how tough she was. According to his theory, Anna had been born into a house where people were always talking about revolution. When she wanted ice cream as a kid, she would draw a rocket pop and run to her parents, shouting her own version of the rallying cry of the Polytechnic: “Ice cream, education, freedom!” She would be woken up late at night by voices in the living room, the voices of strangers smoking and talking about democracy. She dreamed of being a heroine from the French Revolution, barefoot and in rags, carrying a flag in her hands. She would pick up bits of conversation, terminology, slogans, and then say whatever came into her head, as long as it included the word “equality.” She misinterpreted her father’s political theory because her thinking was superficial, she hadn’t read enough to understand. For Anna, politics was a way of getting attention and love. After Antigone’s death, she withdrew into herself, didn’t give a damn about anyone, as if that circle of love had closed. But she was used to getting involved, to working, organizing. She just needed the right opportunity.
“How did Antigone die?”
When she and the CEO parted ways, Antigone went back into action. She was the old, good Antigone again, with an added element: the obstinacy of someone who sacrifices one thing for another that turns out not to be worth the trouble. When she figured out that the CEO didn’t deserve her love, Antigone threw herself back into organizing for all kinds of causes — against nuclear energy, for the rights of political prisoners, for refugees in Rwanda and Kosovo. She wrote texts, organized conferences, and eventually pitched a tent outside the university, as parts of a hunger strike for human rights. Though she was participating under medical supervision, she quickly became entirely dehydrated and suffered a shock to her system. She died in the most romantic way, in a tent in a public square with a drip in her arm.
Aristomenis shields me from my annoyed comrades who don’t understand why I suddenly want to leave. He says he’ll drop me at the metro station in Kifisia. As we drive, Antigones of various ages pass by my window, bony women with anxious eyes. It’s in style now for women to be tall and skinny, to look withdrawn. Back then Antigone was alone, an anorexic monster of circumstance. She takes shape clearly in my mind: peeling carrots, smoking her Gauloises cigarettes, giving us ballet lessons, telling us: It’s our duty to remember those who sacrificed their lives for us. Now that she sacrificed her own life, in a manner of speaking, her words sound almost prophetic. On the station platform I see yet another Antigone pacing up and down. Sad, distracted, a fur stole wrapped around her neck like a scarf. I take the Super 8 out of my bag, record the way she moves: she sways on her expensive heels, a walking advertisement for an untenable utopia. We’ve written proclamations about this kind of thing — but the Albanian woman in the metro the other day didn’t know how to read. So I’ll try again, to say something in images.
That night I project the film on the wall of Kayo’s empty room. Black and white calves, pacing back and forth. The woman is on her way to a protest, to her own personal insurrection — only she’s lost her way.
Eight
“Look at those bums!”
Dad is in front of the TV, watching what’s become of the anniversary march at the Athens Polytechnic. Molotov cocktails, fires, overturned police barricades. I feel nauseated. Even televised tear gas makes my eyes sting.
“If only they would hand them over to me, just for a day!”
You have one of them right under your nose, Dad. You’re sharing a bowl of pumpkin seeds with her, mumbling “Change the channel,” “Fine,” “No.”
“I just think of their poor parents,” Mom sighs.
I’ll just bet she does. I get up and go out onto the balcony. I rest my knee in the hole in the railing, from back when I got my head stuck and the man had to cut through the metal to get me out. You’re a handful, eh? Yes, a handful. More and more of one.