Journeys and Star Gazing

First came the men in suits, then the bulldozers and the trucks, then the porta loos and cranes. Each day saw another house, shop, tree and a child’s doll knocked down and pulverised. Things that mattered all turned to scrap and dust. The bull dozers scraped the rubble into piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass and newspaper. The dust rose from under the wheels and steel jaws of the machines and swirled in the breeze. In that part of Redfern, Sydney the whole street breathed the demolition dust so holding your breath was hard. It got into clothes and between cracks along walls’ edges and footpaths. For Athena and her son Kosta, a walk down Young Street was not the easiest place to breathe.
For over three months, every day, people on Athena’s side of the road swept away sand and dust that blew from across the street onto their doorsteps. If they weren’t quick enough shutting the front door, the wind blew the sand down their narrow hallways. Every house had something tucked behind the crack between the door and the floor. Old towels, old clothes tied together, anything to stop the debris entering their homes by the wind.

As Athena opened the door, she said, “Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house.” Kosta took a long look at the growing rock piles across the street. The wind blown sand prickled against his face and arms. He stepped into the hallway, sand grains tick, tick, ticked in pitter- patter against the shut door behind him.

Down the hallway, through the door, his father George squatted in front of the Kriesler radio. “Ssshh!” he said while turning the hand sized dial, “I’m looking for Greece.” The radio squawked and squealed, struck static, voices fell in and out in different tongues. Near the radio, on the table were coils of wire, screws, a rusty wire cutter and pliers. Out of the static a muffled sound came through the speaker. Then, full blown clear chimes of a bouzouki sounded from the radio. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” He brushed back his speckled grey, black hair with his hand. George stood up to face his wife and son. He nodded his head to the rhythm of the music, short waved all the way from Greece.

“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” thought Athena. George jutted his arms out to his sides, then slowly reached with his right hand for Athena. He caressed the scarf covering her hair. He returned his arm to the outstretched position and clicked his fingers, he danced a short hop to the music. Athena smiled and sat on the only soft chair in the house under the window. She took off her shoes and scarf letting her black curls fall around her face. “I fixed the antennae,” George said in Greek. Kosta stood near the cupboard with a mirror wall and glass doors. It housed the best cups and saucers for Greek coffee and small glasses for drinking ouzo and larger ones for wine and glaced cherries. Framed photos of family in Greece and their own small family in Australia covered the top of the cupboard.

Athena reached for a photo as George said, “Well, what did the doctor say?”
“Do you know what today is George?” asked Athena.
“Good Friday,” he replied.
Tears welled in her eyes, she crossed herself with her right hand while holding the photo with her left. She said, “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” Tears trickled down her cheek. She pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.” She bent her head and kissed the photo. George stepped closer to her and took the photo from her hand and placed it back on the cupboard. He reached to touch her wet chin with his hand, “Athena that was three years ago. What did the doctor say today?”
“He said I have broken nerves, you tell him Kosta, you know English better than us, tell your father what the doctor said.”

George looked at Kosta, his 12 year old boy was strong, a pallikari and he had his father’s eyes. “Well son, what did the doctor say?” Kosta kept his hands, fumbling some marbles, in his pockets,. “The doctor said that mother has, I don’t know how to say this in Greek – “nervous breakdown” – her nerves, her nevra are broken.”
“What do you mean broken nerves? She looks alright to me.” George turned to face her, “Athena, what is it? What ails you?”

She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeves, took a deep breath and leant forward letting out a long sigh. “Oh George! What ails me? I want to go home. I want to be with my family, be able to walk the streets and breathe Greek air !”

Before George could answer she screamed, “VROOM! VROOM! all day, 12 hours a day VROOM! VROOM! The machine pricking my fingers and the boss yelling – FASTER! FASTER! VROOM! VROOM! – I want to go home. I don’t want to sew Akubra hats anymore!’ she sobbed. Her upper body folded forward and her elbows rested on her thighs while her head weighed on her hands. She didn’t look up, nor sideways, with no expression she stared at her feet. George moved closer, leant forward and gently kissed her head. He stroked her hair, slowly weaving his thumb and finger in her curls. By now he was on his knees in front of her. “Wife, you are suffering from xenitia – home sickness, that is all. I want to return as well. Do you think I enjoy my work at the Brewery?” George whispered, “ We just need another two years,” Athena did not lift her head, “The doctor said, no more overtime, better if I don’t work at all,” she replied.

George stood up and turned his back to her. He pointed to the black and yellow calendar hanging on the glossy white wall opposite them. “Look,” he said, “It will be no time at all… two years will run by.” Athena stood up and put her arm around his waist. Instead of looking at the calendar, her eyes were on the boxed stephania above it. The wooden box had six sides with hand painted green vines and black grapes, there were faded spots and some paint had chipped off. Under the clean glass cover were the stefania, the crowns of love joined by a white ribbon and worn on their wedding day. The stephania boxed on the wall were their life – husband and wife – a union for God.

“Yes George, time runs by fast. Already we have been here for 8 years and you promised we would be back in five.” She squeezed his waist with her arm pulling him closer. “Look at the stephania George,” she purred. She let go of him and returned to her soft chair feeling snug in its space. “I want to go home now. I need to go home now but not without you and Kosta. Please, we can do it – let’s go.”

Athena turned to Kosta who was on the floor playing with a lead airplane, “Kosta, bring the letter from Greece to your father.” Kosta stood up tucking his shirt into his shorts and walked to the cupboard. The letter was under the photo of him and Aliki. As he lifted the letter the photo dragged over the edge falling to the floor. Kosta immediately bent down to pick it up. The fall left a lightning crack zigzagging across the middle of the glass. Kosta stared at the little girl, his sister in his arms. He was wearing his cowboy gun holster at his waist, as long as his shorts, carrying a Colt 45 cap gun. He remembered the time it was taken, just a few months before she died of pneumonia. He was nine and she was two.

“What did you do!?” yelled George as he rushed towards Kosta. George raised his right leg ready to kick him. “Stop it! Stop it!” screamed Athena, “Don’t touch him!” she stood up quivering and crying. George stopped and let his kicking foot step onto the photo crushing the glass into a tight spider web of cracks. He snatched the letter out of Kosta’s hand. Kosta crouched still and silent waiting for a hit across his head. It didn’t come so he crept backwards in a crouching position until his back was against the wall. He was out of range and he knew from experience that this wall was the best because it was beside the hallway entrance and provided a fast exit. Kosta knew that if he didn’t do anything, just stayed there, everything would be alright because his father was walking towards his mother with the letter and photo in his hand.

“We’ve already lost a daughter, do you want to kill your only child?” George placed the photo on the table near the wire cutters. He looked at Athena sitting there and saw her sick and beautiful. He saw his love. He fell on his knees and rested his head in the crevice between her thighs. She caressed his hair, running her fingers from his forehead to the back of his head. His hand holding the letter rested on her hip. “Athena, I want to return home and work as a silversmith and be with our family.”

He saw Kosta sitting quietly against the wall. George lifted his head slightly from her lap, raised his eyebrows and nodded his head at Kosta. This meant that he could go and play. It was like that, gestures and signs for words. Kosta got up, smiled and ran down the hallway, opening the door to the wind and dust and a direct view of the demolition site.

He heard his father call out, “I’ll whistle for you!”

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 30th, 2024 at 10:35 pm and is filed under Expression, fiction, Uncategorized, writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.