Yesterday morning, Brigitte rang.
“Are you feeling better?” I asked. She had cancelled an evening out before because she got sunstroke and she was feeling miserable because Mike is now here spending his August holidays with her.
“Much better. We are going with Mike to a photography exhibition this evening. Would you like to come? We could go and have dinner somewhere afterwards.”
O.K.
I arrived around 20.00 at her house. She was dressed in red with red shoes and a sort of reddish silk shawl/jacket and white bandana.
“You like it?” she asks. “It’s handy and I can keep warm later.”
There has been a serious drop in temperature the last few days, it is still blowing a gale and the evenings are fresh. When Mike is there, she always looks better. Mike was moving around, undecided on how to dress. As we were waiting for him, she said:
“I had an idea but you’ll not like it.”
“Go ahead!” I said.
“I think Jane, your beloved wife, and I should open a restaurant. With our cooking talents we can make a lot of money and have fun too!”
I laughed politely.
“I knew you will be against it,” she said.
“Ask her,” I said, avoiding any comment.
We drove down to Stavros. The exhibition was in the old cinema at the bus stop next to Nikiforos’ café-patisserie. The building was illuminated, inviting the public to visit the photography exhibition. It now belongs to the Lelos Foundation “St. Irene”, the same who owns the splendid church and house on the rocks at the entrance of the harbour that Mabel is renting for 3 years for a ridiculous sum. It is managed by the Municipality.
The photographer is a local islander who lives in Athens. In his early forties, short and dark, he was welcoming the rare visitors, his young pregnant wife sitting at the desk. They both spoke good English. They reminded me a bit of the Blondin but younger.
The old cinema was atrociously illuminated, with strong lights overhead distracting the focus on the photographs. These were all in colour, stuck on poles around the big room. Nice photographs without any originality with rich colours. They could be used in one of these calendars you can find at the airport.
“This is my island,” the photographer said. “I concentrate in the variation of three main colours, essential elements of this island, white, brown and blue.”
The titles of the photographs on the list were melo-poetic, rather corny, reminding me a bit of this year’s exhibition in the monastery of Panteleimon. I shook my head with false appreciation. Brigitte was ecstatic and Mike said he liked them. I was surprised by Mike’s appreciation. As a good painter he usually has also good taste. The exhibitor is obviously a professional photographer but he is not an artist.
His pregnant sweet wife was offering glasses of mineral water and Coke with some almond cakes. Suddenly, the Mayor arrived with a kind of deputy. The photographer got very excited and rushed to him with gratitude as if the Prime Minister had walked in. The Mayor, a tall chap in his late forties, was talking into his mobile phone. He shook the photographer’s hand, rushed around the exhibition in one minute and disappeared always talking to his mobile phone. His deputy stayed behind to represent him and study the photographs with leisure.
Some more visitors were now pouring in. We left shaking the hands of the photographer and his wife who were all gratitude.
“What does he do for a living?” I asked Brigitte.
“He is making photographs for advertising agencies in Athens. Did you like them?”
“Some,” I lied.
“Let’s go for an ouzo!” said Mike. “What about that old traditional ouzeria opposite the ‘Department Store’ shop in the main street?”
“Splendid idea!”
We walked in front of Laki’s super market and into the main street. It was now 21.30 and there were still relatively few people around; you could walk more or less normally. As we started climbing the main street we encountered Nikos the composer with his wife Hannah. Greetings and effusive salutations. They were also going to the same ouzeria. Nikos and myself dropped a bit behind while walking up.
“I tried to buy some of your music in Athens,” I said, “but I couldn’t find any.”
He shook his Trotskyish head: “Very difficult.“
“Why? Are there any CDs?”
“No CDs. They make CD’s of Theodorakis and Hadjidakis and all that crappish modern hits but not my music. But there are recordings.”
“Where can one find those?”
“I don’t know, try the Megaron, they must have recordings of my music. They are of good quality, like the one you listened the other day. Ask them, they will require that you sign a paper promising not to make commercial use.”
The bars right and left of the narrow main street were blasting out music and were already filling up. It was a brilliant summer evening, joyful as a soirée de fête. Many young people around, talking loudly and laughing.
“Surely it must be possible to buy some of your music somewhere,” I insisted.
“There is,” he said. “Its a voluminous edition of Modern Greek Composers by the Ministry of Culture but it consists of many CDs. There is a piece of mine in that but you are obliged to buy the whole lot and most of it is crap. It’s a waste of money. Better find some recordings.”
Not very modest, old Nikos.
The little ouzeria was chock full. Remue ménage. Nikos and Mike, who know the owner, convinced him to put out a new table pushing around some less prominent customers. We settle around a tiny table next to the wall.
“This will be my round!” declares Nikos in a loud voice, and barks at the imperturbable owner who waits with a little writing pad in his hand: “Two peasant sausages, two fried cheeses and two tomato salads and a small bottle of ouzo Mini.” Brigitte will drink beer. I shake the hand of Hannah. A beautiful woman in her mid sixties, very classic features, slim and soberly dressed. I had met her once before in one of Brigitte’s parties two years ago. She speaks good Greek. She has just come back from Sweden, she says, and she wants to visit the Panteleimon exhibition. A discussion followed about that and about this year’s disappointment.
“I told her it’s mostly crap,” exclaims Nikos.
“They asked him to participate the first year with his music,” says Hannah, “but he refused.”
“Why?” I enquire. “Your music would be ideal with this type of show.”
“My music will make all these people run away!” Nikos insisted.
“Not all of them!”
Passons.
“I’m sure I have heard your music when I went to see ancient Greek plays in my youth, in Herodion and in Epidaurus,” I say.
“You have, says Nikos. “You see I’m very interested in the ancient theatre. I’m convinced, and it’s almost certain that the plays were also musical pieces almost like mini operas. I have done some research trying to correspond the long and short syllables of the language with music notes and it gives amazing results. It’s fantastic!”
“Has any of this music survived?” I ask.
“Not the music accompanying the plays, unfortunately. Other ancient music yes. It has even been sung by … It is very similar to old Greek traditional village songs.”
The ouzo arrived with the plates of food and we started drinking and munching. The ouzo glasses were traditional, tiny, you either drink it neat or with little water. No ice. The first bottle went fast.
“This is nice this type of evenings,” said Nikos gulping back his glass over his little grey beard, “no planning, just enjoying.”
“Yesterday I was passing by here and what do I see?” says Mike, “The prime minister and his wife were sitting in the New York bar, all alone but surrounded by discreet athletic young men (security guards) who were also pretending to be customers of the bar. Otherwise the usual crowd.”
“The prime minister is a great friend of mine,” says Nikos, “I know him for 30 years before he became Minister or Prime Minister. Everytime he comes to the island we meet and discuss various things. He has a mind like a razor, he is very sharp and he is not populist, no rhetoric, only to the point. We met two days ago. He talked about his trip to Moscow. He was very favourably impressed by Putin.”
“Did he say anything about Bush?” asks Mike with a big smile.
“Nothing,” says Nikos. “Better say nothing about Bush, it’s more prudent.”
Laughs all around the table, the little eyes of Nikos blinking with satisfaction behind his Trotsky glasses. He gulps another glass of ouzo.
“We’re dry!” exclaims Mike.
“It’s my turn,” I say and order more ouzo and food. Do they do anything else than sausage, fried cheese and tomato salad? Not really but they can do a little omelette. Let’s have it as well. Euphoria is established on the table.
A couple of elderly people burnt black by the sun and looking almost African pass by and greet effusively Nikos and the rest. It is an unmistakably British accent.
“Have you fixed your water pump?” asks Nikos.
“Yes! Can’t you see we’re clean?” They disappear in the now thickening crowd.
“Their water pump went bust and they had two days without water,” explains Nikos. “Its this British diplomat, our neighbor, they have an enormous antique house with a main living room so big you can give concerts in it. In fact I suggested to them to give Chamber Music concerts. Monteverdi would be ideal, not Vivaldi. I hate Vivaldi.”
“Everybody doesn’t hate Vivaldi,” says Hannah. “Maybe Ion likes him.”
“I like some of his works,” I say, “De gustibus et de coloribus non disputantum est. I also like Monteverdi. I remember seeing Il ritorno di Ulisse in patria in a magnificent all wooden theatre in the forest in the Swiss mountains. They had dressed the actors as modern Greek fishermen and the boat was a kaiki. Unforgettable evening.”
“I saw the same opera in Munich,” says Nikos, “the whole play took place inside a trireme.”
There were no triremes at Homer’s time, I thought. They came much later with the advanced shipbuilding technology of the Athenians––but I preferred not to comment, it made no difference anyway.
“I love opera,” said Nikos, “I have written an opera for the Bacchae of Euripides.”
“The Bacchae?” I said. “I didn’t think you were dionysiac enough.”
“I’m a crypto-dionysiac,” said Nikos smiling cunningly and caressing his wife.
“I must really find your music,” I said, “My wife also asked me to look for it.”
“Has your wife by any chance metaphysical qualities?” asked Nikos suddenly.
“Why do you ask that?” I was genuinely surprised.
“Because I think she has.”
“I believe she thinks she has but she doesn’t like to talk about it,” I said prudently, and did not pursue the subject.
“We must get together when she comes late September,” said Nikos. “We shall do that, we shall have another ouzoposia in our place.”
“Or in our place,” said Hannah.
More ouzo arrived. We talked about modern Greek literature; apparently Nikos has met everybody that counts, particularly the celebrated 30’s group. We also discussed Politis’ Eroica that Nikos considers the masterpiece of the masterpieces. I am also very fond of Politis, so we were happy agreeing and striking our ouzo glasses in brotherhood. Brigitte and Mike had never heard of Politis. Probably many young Greeks don’t know him either.
The main street was now gorging with people, walking in front of our table with difficulty and studying each other. We got up and started going down, pushing slightly our way among the crowd. We accompanied Nikos and Hannah to the square and we said goodbye, kissing each other effusively. Nikos kissed me on both cheeks, obviously tipsy. “It’s been a great evening, let’s do it again!” We promised eternal fidelity.
“Let’s go to the New York bar for a drink now” said Brigitte after they left. We started back uphill again pushing ourselves through the crowd and the eager faces, under the bougainvilleas, but this is another story.
