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A House A house that the winds forgot roof protected by a serpent handmade tile never shakes in the earthquake nymphs along with a deer bring wine in the morning salt at night and bread on the shelf hand moulded in thyme pushes evil through the chimney a secret calm spreads over the oil lamp beards smell of grape caressed by six tender hands and every fear the milling rocks grind vanishes A house alike a swan’s voyage always brought by slow movements dawn takes away the sleepy dream
a ransom note. It began with a number code, then read, “Thank you. You give me hope.” It was signed Volodya. Chopyk sat like stone watching this interaction. Jennifer was stunned—as much by the very public message already scrutinized by Natasha—and who else?—but also by the date. It had arrived two days ago while they were in Volgograd. “Why didn’t I get this earlier?” she asked. The tour guide and the teacher were silent and glanced at one another. Chopyk cleared his throat. “May I speak with you frankly, Mrs. White?” “Please do,” she replied tartly. “This man, this Volodya, you met in Leningrad. He’s not a good man.” He caught her horrified stare. “Oh, he’s not a criminal; Natasha has checked. You know—or maybe not—that every workplace keeps records of its employees. He’s lost many jobs and he’s just a—now don’t go flying off the handle—he’s probably looking for a wife from the west so he can leave the Soviet Union. Naturally, he could apply to the authorities for an exit visa in the appropriate fashion.” He glanced at Natasha, “But some people choose other, weaker ways.” “Stop right there!” Jennifer could feel a surge of embarrassment and anger rush to her face. “Professor Chopyk, with greatest respect, you are not my father—and Natasha is not my boss. If a telegram comes for me in the future it should be passed on to me immediately. No background checks of my correspondents are necessary.” Natasha turned her head away from this wanton display of western individualism. Chopyk sighed. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. White. All I was going to suggest was that you inform him that you’re already married—and he might stop his attentions.” Truly angry now, and with a sense that she was burning her career bridge behind her, Jennifer stood, snatching the telegram. “I’ll conduct my own life, Professor Chopyk, and that will not interfere with my teaching job.” (She resisted the urge to add, “better than you accomplish yours.”) “This is nothing to do with you.” She pushed the chair aside and stomped away from the table. “Wait, I .…” Chopyk seemed genuinely concerned at her anger. “There’s something else.” Despite herself, she turned back toward him. “I’m sorry, Jennifer,” he continued more softly, “but we had to check. We weren’t sure that the telegram was for you… .”
… keen wind blows from the northeast, from behind that big castle Eteocles longs to explore. Clouds race across the sky, sometimes hiding the sun, sometimes freeing it to shine on the throngs of people in this city, the second biggest in Greece, the “city of the poor” as it is called, the city which is the capital of northern Greece. Eteocles and Nicolas walk around the house. There are lots of stones on the ground, mostly flat ones, but spread all over the small yard around this strange house with its sheet metal roof where the rain played a strange game during the night, a game Eteocles had never heard before. He bends down to the ground, takes a stone, and throws it toward the edge of the lot. His brother starts doing the same and, stone by stone, in an hour of work they have cleaned the lot of its flat stones, which are now piled by the edge of the yard. Now they can play freely around the house. They can even practice their football skills, but since they don’t know anyone in the neighborhood yet, or any other place where they can play, it will be as good as it can be under the circumstances. They don’t even have a soccer ball yet, but they hope their dad will find some money to buy them a proper ball made of rubber and already inflated. Nicolas spots a stone they missed while clearing the lot. Quickly he grabs it and throws it toward the edge of the yard, but Fate has put Eteocles in the path of the thrown stone and it hits him on the head. The younger boy feels a sharp pain on the left side of his head and his hand instinctively reaches for the spot only to discover his own warm blood. He presses his hand against the wound as Nicolas rushes to take him inside where their mother is still arranging their things in her new home. She wraps a clean handkerchief around Eteocles’s head and tells him to press hard against the wound. It only takes a couple of minutes for the bleeding to stop. Then she looks sternly at Nicolas and asks, “Didn’t you remember what I said to you? You’re older. You have to take care of your brother. You have to take care of him!” Nicolas bows his head. “I know, Mom. I remember.” A single tear trickles down his cheek. Eteocles cries too and hugs his brother. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeats, and taking his brother’s hand, he leads him outside to play again.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 