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
On the table Taki had left a crumpled Greeknewspaper, second- or third-hand; a glass hadleft a wet ring round a gaunt-faced politician.Moths had begun to thud against the ceiling.She peeled off the damp papers swaddling thefish, and dropped them into the sink—two greymullet with quivering, gold-plated eyes and tinyclamped teeth. They smelled faintly of rankblood.Through the open window the nasal sobsof Yannoula's favourite singer had begun todrift in from next door. Yannoula alwaysturned the radio full on, although the Australianson the other side were always complaining.Sometimes she sang, too, her voicehoarse and nostalgic. Yannoula had been inAustralia for ten years. A gust of laughterinterrupted the song. Soula wandered into thedark bedroom. It was still too hot to startcooking. The kitchen light- shining on themirror, rimmed her short, plump body andcoarse, curly black hair. No one could possiblytell yet. It was a secret. Pleased, she smiledsuddenly at her golden shadow, and danced afew steps to Yannoula's music, now a Kalamatiano.The bed gave a slow creak. Soula, startled,leapt for the light switch. In its yellow flashTaki yawned, his dazzled eyes squeezed shut.He was still in his wet bathers, and his brownface and woolly black hair were rimmed withsalt. Curled up beside him, the cat arched herblack belly. Stretching, Taki hung his sandyfeet carefully over the end of the bed."Agapoula mou, you're very pretty tonight,"he mumbled. "Turn the light off and comehere.""I didn't know you were home." She gropedin the sudden dark until her hands found thehomespun blanket. "I thought you were stillon the pier. Aren't you feeling well?""Of course I am. I was just hungry, so Icame back early. But that's all right, I wassleepy too." He rubbed the cat's purring throat."I'm sorry, Taki. I was held up. I'm not avery good wife.""Don't worry, you'll do." He smiled in thedarkness. "Did Petro give you the fish?""Yes, two mullet. Taki?" Hot blood wasthudding in her forehead. "I want to ask yousomething.""If you want to know if I caught any myself—no."He made a wry face. "If I had, I'dthrow old Petro's back into the sea.""No, I know. Would you like a beer?" . . .In the kitchen, Soula took a frosty brownbottle from the refrigerator and levered off themetal cap. Foam spurted over the crackedfloral oilcloth. She poured a frothy glass, andtook the glass and the bottle back into thebedroom."Come on, Soula," Taki said. "You have alittle bit with me, just this once?" From behindhe put his arms around her, pressing his mouthagainst her rough black hair, his breath warmon her nape. He tilted the bright beer to herlips. Grimacing at the acrid taste, she sipped alittle. He hugged her, gulped the rest, andpressed her shoulders down on to the pillow."Taki, when I'm pregnant, I'll be fat andbulging," she whispered. "You won't love meat aU.""Silly girl. You'll be fat and beautiful, likea ripe pear. Darling, turn round." Soula turnedand pressed his head against the gold cross ather throat, then, lifting his face, kissed his darklips. He closed his eyes. Soula sat up."Taki, what would you like our first childto be, a boy or a girl?""What the hell does that matter? I want itto be Greek. I mean- born in Greece, when wego home.""Taki," she whispered, twisting sweaty hands,"it's already on the way. July, the doctor said.That's why I'm late home."The kitchen light, caught in the mirror, glimmeredin his black-olive eyes. An aeroplanerumbled over the bay. Faintly she could stillhear the metallic twanging of bouzoukis."Oh, no. How did it happen?"Soula did not answer."Soula?""/ don't know!""You know we can't keep it. How would weever get home? Even if I got another job atnight . . .""I want to go home, too." Soula's voicequavered."Well, then! And you can have a dozenwhen we get back.""But this one's already here!""Oh, heU!""Don't you dare blame me!" Soula shoutedat his back. Her eyes swilled. "I didn't wantit. Perhaps you'll be lucky and it will die. Perhapswe both wiU! Then you'll be free again!"Crimson, she rushed out into the sudden yellowWESTERLY, No. 1, MARCH, 1968 19
- Page 1 and 2: westerlyA QUARTERLY REVIEW PRICE 60
- Page 3: westerlya quarterlyreviewEDITORIALC
- Page 6 and 7: Some JOURNALS published byUNIVERSIT
- Page 8 and 9: "WeU, maybe this one is, too.""With
- Page 10: a leer. What really infuriated her
- Page 13 and 14: Guest of honour? No less than the G
- Page 15 and 16: THE NAVIGATORS(To Albert Tucker)Bei
- Page 17 and 18: Mother of navigators.Beater of men.
- Page 19: Horizon-haunted men.Looters and Pir
- Page 23 and 24: FEARA thousand, thousand stars and
- Page 25 and 26: Judith ClarkeTHANK YOU MRS. GREENBE
- Page 27 and 28: Oh no, thought Lai Chandra, oh no.
- Page 29: "Nuance," she said- and "poetry,"an
- Page 32 and 33: TO WAKE, TO FLOWfor my wifeFor me t
- Page 34: With apparent indulgence Lola encou
- Page 39 and 40: or another, and some of the paintin
- Page 41: I do not think it has been fulfille
- Page 45 and 46: important thing for a writer who ha
- Page 47 and 48: from which she herself had sprung.
- Page 49 and 50: They are looking for him now in the
- Page 51 and 52: departure from what had come to be
- Page 53: ary degree the atmosphere of a trib
- Page 56 and 57: Blessed is the mother with her chil
- Page 58 and 59: IF YOU DON'T KNOW HOWDON'T DO ITft>
- Page 60 and 61: And yet perhaps both men drew from
- Page 62 and 63: other respects his attitude was mor
- Page 64 and 65: clearing and, as they are usually t
- Page 66 and 67: WHAT IS THECRITIC?The Critic is a c
- Page 68: JOHN KEATSBronze cast from a life m