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B. ChristouEVENINGSoula was very late. The still, burning sunhad already crimsoned in the summer hazeover the sea. The dusty trestles, deep in cabbageleaves, were bare except for a heap ofbananas here and there, blackening and swarmingwith ants. The cobbles running throughthe fish market glinted, a muddy trickle. Onlya wizened little Chinaman was still there, dozingagainst a pillar with his mouth agape."E, kyria Soula!" bellowed a Greek voicefrom the street door. Old Petro, fat buttocksshaking, was waving a parcel imperiously ather. His balding head was scarlet, his goldcross jiggled among the sweat-spangled hairsthat sprouted above his singlet. Panting, hepeered through the gloom at her face."You are so late I was just going! I thoughtyou forgot all about your fish. Here." Hisgums glistened through the fringe of hisstained, grey moustache. "Too hot today! Nogood for the fish. And back home in Greecethey are having snow! You better not fry themnow, eh?—make a nice plaki. Give my regardsto Taki." He thrust the sodden parcel into herhands and waddled out into the twilight street.The streetlamps were flaring red as shetrudged across the softened asphalt of the roadto the footpath by the sea wall. Cars growledpast in a glitter of light. As she approached,a cat with wild opal eyes leapt off the waU onto seaweed-swathed rocks below.Doctor, she had forced out in the coldsurgery, I think I waitink baby . . . Taki hadnot known about it. She had taken time offfrom the factory to go. Soon she would startto bulge- and would have to stop working.There had been no dowry. Now they wouldnever get back to Greece . . . Tonight shewould have to tell him. Soula's eyes werebloodshot and swollen.Her mother had screamed aU night, themidwife crouching over her: a wart on thewithered neck glowed, bulbous, by the kerosenelamp. A pot boiUng, its lid hopping andclattering. Her father had squatted by thehearth, drawing in the ashes with the poker,then wiping them smooth. It had been hoursbefore its httle bald head had poked out. Themidwife had smacked the baby then, until itchoked and squalled, and Manna had lainback, wan and drowsy, as the little toothlessmouth milked her. Manna had never been tohospital.In six months, Soula would be exactly eighteen,and this would be happening to her.Ahead, the pier lamps were glowing andwrinkling in the black bay. Taki would still bethere, dripping sea water, lolling on the hot,weathered planks, a cigarette glowing and disappearingin the dark. Every summer eveninghe was there fishing under the lamp, hisshadow afloat on the water. He never caughtanything, but he loved the sea. He loved thethrob and jangle of music, the aromatic oilgildedfoods of Greece, retsina drunk sittingon a barrel, the grave abandon of the zeimbekikodance in dark night clubs. Akeady hewas desperate to go home, away from thosedrab, sprawling suburbs, and from drudgery inthose dusty factories.At last she saw the row of peeling woodenhouses. Old kyria Eleni next door, scarvedand robed in black as always, was shelling peason her front porch by the orange glow of thestreetlamp, pods heaped in her broad lap. Sheslapped at a mosquito on her sagging throatand shrilled a delighted greeting at Soula. Shewaved, pushed open the rusty gate, unlockedthe blue door and plodded barefoot along thematting to the kitchen.The dingy, narrow room, yellow-coated bythe naked light bulb, was hot and smelled ofhnoleum and stale oil and of the onions withbrown-paper skms hanging plaited on the wall18 WESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968