Wednesday, March 23, 2005

The wind still blows.  The sea is rough but the sun is warm and pleasant.  I awoke at eight, determined to stay around, do laundry, and write some more.  I descend with a dual purpose:  eating and doing laundry.  I know from Uma that doing laundry here takes a long, long time.

Downstairs I stumble across Ragnar, who I ask to examine the usage directions on the relic washing machine.  Together, we manage to start it.  I ask him how he slept.  He answers that badly.  Why, I wonder.  “All those discussions in the restaurant last night were spinning in my head and I couldn’t sleep.”

“What discussions?” I am astonished, because I don’t remember discussing anything of importance.  He nods omnisciently and retires to his room, mentioning that he won’t participate in any supper tonight.  Bertha comes in, then Uma, who is returning from a morning walk.

We chat about the way the evening had continued.  Mark shows up as well, saying that he needs some air, having worked too much on his manuscripts.  I invite him to take the quarter-apple left on my plate, explaining that although it is only a fourth, it is the best fourth. Then I ask him if he would care for a walk. Surprisingly, he says yes.  The other two don’t participate in our conversation.  If he wants to invite them along, let him do it!  I go upstairs to get my purse and return to see him waiting alone by the main entrance.

“Did you go to the rocks before?” he inquires. 

“No.”

“Let me take you there then.”

I noticed before that he likes to point out places known only by himself, to make us discover new things.  If he enthusiastically mentions something, and you say, “Oh yes, I know, I saw, I was there,” it makes him sad.  For my part, I haven’t seen the big rocks before.  It is a pedestrian-only road cut directly into the cliff along the sea.  Down by the water, there are huge, strange-shaped rocks on which the waves strike furiously.  Some are sculpted like giant rings, and when the waves pass through them, the results are fantastic.

In light of Uma’s experience and our aloneness, I ask Mark if he has any means of protection with him.  He laughs.  On a stone bench at a turn in the road, someone sits and writes.

“Another writer,” observes Mark.  As we draw near, we notice the person is Johann, all wrapped up, writing.  We pass him, nodding, somehow embarrassed.  Why?  I haven’t a clue.  New rocks and clusters of rocks appear from the sea.  The big drops of salted water reach up to tickle our faces and make us laugh.

“When I see something like this, I think of tsunamis,” says Mark. 

“Me too.  Every time I look at the sea, particularly an agitated sea like this one, I recall the tsunami.  There won’t be innocence from now on at the sea shore.”

“No,” Mark disagrees, “this sea is too small for something like that to happen.”

“All that’s needed is an earthquake.  Do you remember the Colossus of Rhodes, and how it was destroyed during an earthquake?”

We continue walking, falling silent, then talking a little and taking some pictures.  At one moment, we catch up with a couple, a little on the older side, probably Nordic tourists.  We pass them and watch them descending a flight of stone stairs to the beach, in a place where the billow won’t reach.  We walk to the end of the enchanting road. 

Everywhere there are flowers, orange, yellow, pink. There is also some kind of cacti named American Aloe that, once in a lifetime (as Mark explains) develops a tree similar to a dried up pine tree which holds brown clusters of pods.  These pods contain the plant’s seeds.  The small tree bends slowly to the ground, and when it reaches the soil, dies, scattering the seeds. Another miracle of existence.

“Everything bends down toward the earth, lower and lower, and then dies, as we will too,” he says.

“Not us.  It is just this vessel that carries us which bends to the ground.  We rise,” I tell him, and at this moment, wanting to convince him, I realize that I really believe what I am saying.  It feels good.

“Yes, we have our conscience.”

We descend to the beach at the end of the road, wanting to prolong our dream state.  We gather sea stones and admire their beauty.  I collect some in my pockets again.  We retrace our steps.  The pair of Nordic tourists has settled on the beach, and the woman has uncovered her broad shoulders to suntan.  Johann is no longer at his place on the rocks.  I notice that we are passing the spot where we should climb if we want to reach the Residence.

I do not wish to return home so soon, and I don’t think Mark wants it either.

We enter the town and walk through streets that Mark knows.  He tells me something about a friend who owns an apartment in the downtown core, across the street from the casino.  Speaking of this and that, we arrive at the Eastern quay. 

We find the building and Mark insists that we call on his friend.  I object, saying that we should have phoned ahead.  He pays no attention to me, and rings.  Thank God, nobody answers.  I sigh with relief.  Before our eyes lies the old Muslim cemetery, which I have wanted to visit for a long time.  Mark says that he likes to wander the cemeteries as well, discovering much about the people who once lived, about their existences.  He even knows the entrance to the cemetery, which is by some barely-standing houses.

Everything around here is old and dilapidated.  Even the tombstones are in disarray.  An elderly pair bustles inside the enclosed courtyard.  Tall eucalyptus trees tower over the cemetery.  Here and there we see some kind of bigger, whiter violets.  They might be viola flowers or cyclamens.  They grow in bunches on, around, and amidst the tombs, blooming in the sun.  On the lawn facing the street there are red, double-petal poppies.  We sit on the balustrade of the fence.  Light filters through the eucalyptus trees to rest on the tall, slim funereal marble, touching the embossed Arabic inscriptions. 

Slightly farther in front of us lies the sea.  We listen to the waves’ rhythmic rumble on the shore. Mark finds a white snail shell and gives it to me.  “You’re always looking for shells. Here, take this one.”

We sit on the fence’s edge for a long time.  Two ladybugs crawl in the grass at our feet.  Finally, we set out for the quay, toward the restaurants that are now almost all open.  We sit on the terrace of an Italian restaurant where we order, eat, and talk some more.  We leave and move on to sit on the steps of a confectionery, where Mark orders a baklava for me.  “For my sweet girl,” he smiles. 

To reach the Western part again, we pass the walls of the old town.  We cross the street amid a multitude of cars.  I see Sean two steps ahead of us, trying to avoid us.  I call after him, “Where are you going?”

“Where are YOU going?” he answers.

“It’s too nice today to stay in and write.”

Sean turns to Mark, “Sorry pal, I didn’t want to ruin your thing.”

We laugh, moving away from each other.

We reach the Residence. Litza has taken my laundry from the machine and placed it in the hallway. “We are going to meet here at seven,” says Mark, with a pleading tone.

“Yes, yes,” I reply in haste. Frankly, I can’t see any reason to stay in my room during the evenings now.  In one week I’ll fly to Athens and then Bucharest.  None of us talks about the future, carefully avoiding the subject.  I believe I know why these things are so beautiful and intense; because we all know that they won’t last.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005 (evening at Pericles’)

The six of us take our seats at our regular table.  Two other men and a boy of five watch TV.  We chat about everything and nothing in particular.  Someone draws my attention.  The little boy stands beside me, holding flowers.  “They are seasoning herbs,” explains his father, while the boy offers me the flowers. They indeed have a sharp, heavy smell, like the herbs used to prepare some fish dishes.  I sit at the table beside Sean.  On his left sits Mark. 

“I can be such a nuisance sometimes,” Sean whispers.

“Oh no, you’re not.  Ask Mark.  I already told him you’re the sweetest man on earth.”  Mark pretends not to hear.

We are in good spirits, all of us, and happy.  We have begun to get along without any effort.  On the way back, Uma, Bertha, and Ragnar decide to take a taxi.  Sean, Mark, and I walk.  The streets narrow as we climb the hill. On the great vault there are legions of stars, the big dipper, and the nearly full moon.

“The more we climb, the closer we are to the stars,” I say.

Sean laughs, “Yeah, by one or two meters.”

He tells us that the street dates from the times of the Acropolis, which means there were more worshipping places in the area at that time.  The road cuts the island from West to East, and when the Knights built their castle, they placed it on the Eastern shore, exactly at the end of this road.

“Yes,” I say, taking them both by the arm, “perhaps it was then when all these sanctuaries for nymphomaniacs were built.”

“But it is full of those women on the streets even now,” Sean protests.

“What do you know?  You’re a married man.”

“I too have eyes and can see with them.”

“It’s not exactly the same.”

At the Residence, Uma and Bertha sit and drink.

Note: Rhodes was translated by Flavia Cosma and edited by Matt Loftin The poems ( from In the Arms of the Father- third Prize John Dryden Translation Competition 2007), were translated by Flavia Cosma with Charles Siedlecki.