Why I Killed My Best Friend Read online

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA MICHALOPOULOU

  “Flawlessly translated, WIKMBF uses the backdrop of Greek politics, radical protests, and the art world to explore the dangers and joys that come with BFFs. Or, as the narrator puts it, ‘odiodsamato,’ which translates roughly as ‘frienemies.’”—Gary Shteyngart

  “What typifies Michalopoulou’s novels is their artful structure, the stories within stories, alternative versions of the same event, an intense, introspective, sometimes obsessive, female protagonist who seeks to express herself in some form of art, characters that slip away from us just as we think we know who they are, and an unreliable narrative that is constantly being undercut, reworked, tilted at a different angle and, indeed, brought into connection with the real world.”—Vivienne Nilan

  ALSO BY AMANDA MICHALOPOULOU IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

  I’D LIKE

  Copyright © 2003 by Amanda Michalopoulou

  Translation copyright © 2014 by Karen Emmerich

  Originally Published by Kastaniōtēs, Athens, Greece as Giati skotosa tin kaliteri mou fili

  First edition, 2014

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Available upon request.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-934824-94-8

  This project is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  This book was published with the support of the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Tourism and the National Book Centre of Greece.

  Design by N. J. Furl

  Open Letter is the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press: Lattimore Hall 411, Box 270082, Rochester, NY 14627

  www.openletterbooks.org

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Translator’s Acknowledgments

  One

  A wild animal charges into the room and knocks me to the floor before I know what’s hit me. All I see is an eye glaring fiercely from beneath a tuft of blond hair.

  “Niaaar!” it roars. “I’m a tiger! I’ll tear you to shreds!”

  The first graders and I have been sitting and drawing in a circle on the floor, as we do every afternoon. I’ve just gotten them under control; my reward is the dry, monotonous scuffing of pencils on paper. Natasha, one of the shyest girls, starts to shriek when she sees me flat on my back on the floor. Panos shapes his fingers into a gun and lets out a string of incoherent sounds, something between machine gun fire and spitting. The tiger pounces on him and bites the barrel of his gun. While he’s recovering from the shock, it lunges at me again, trying out a new set of roars. I look over and see Saroglou, the principal, standing in the door, one hand over her heart.

  “My Lord, Maria! She slipped right through my hands . . .”

  I grab the girl by the wrists to immobilize her. It’s a trick I’ve learned well, how to grab a child by the wrists. “What’s going on? How on earth did she—”

  “You think I’ve ever seen anything like it? Spoiled tomboy!”

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She’s new. Her name’s Daphne Malouhou. The family just moved back to Athens from Paris. Her parents work long hours, and they asked if we’d let her into the after-school program. Do you think you can handle her?”

  The little girl continues to struggle as if possessed. I have her by the arms, but she keeps flailing her feet in the air. She crumples Natasha’s drawing with her shoes and Natasha begins to wail inconsolably. By now the rest of the kids are whimpering, too. In hopes of calming them down, I tell Saroglou to leave and close the door behind her. Then I tell the kids we’re going on a journey into the jungle, where we’ll turn into wild animals and show our hooked claws, just as Daphne did. They start to roar like lions and slowly but surely stop being afraid of the newcomer. To add to the atmosphere, I beat a rhythm on the floor with my fingertips. A stream of memories from Africa floods my mind: suya with peanuts at the beach, imitation Coca-Cola, hide-and-seek with Unto Punto behind the badminton court.

  Daphne is still prancing around bewitched, half horse, half tiger. She elbows the other kids out of the way as she takes a victory lap around the room, but her primary target is me, the animal tamer. She rushes at me, grabs both my thighs and squeezes. How strong she is! She raises her head and stares at me intently. I shiver: that same dimple in her chin. The same look in her eye. The same tenacity. All that’s missing is a white streak in her eyebrow.

  “Are you going to be a good girl now?”

  “Not if I don’t want to!”

  “Daphne, I’m not kidding!”

  “Me neither,” she says, and pinches my calf.

  It isn’t so much the commotion caused by her entrance that convinces me. Or even the hard evidence: France, the dimple, the blond hair, the resemblance. It’s the pinch that does it.

  “What’s your mother’s name?” I ask.

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Your mother’s name is Anna.”

  The girl jumps back.

  “You’re a witch!” she says.

  “Of course I’m a witch. And if you don’t behave, I’ll turn you into a tiger for good.”

  Her mouth drops open. Then she closes and opens it a few times, soundlessly. Like our goldfish, back then, in Ikeja.

  Two

  I’m crouching on the lawn under the palm trees at our house in Ikeja. I’m eating something green and crunchy, using both hands because, as Gwendolyn says, you can’t catch fleas with one finger. Across from me is the stone pond with the goldfish, only it’s empty now. We can’t bring our fish with us to Athens. Where do fish go when people move? I hope they go down a pipe into the sea to find their long-lost families, and hug by rubbing their scales together since they don’t have any arms. When fish move to a new place, there are no suitcases, no tears. Mom and I have the handkerchiefs she embroidered with our initials in case we want to cry, and a shipping container for our things. Unto Punto carries everything out of the house, even my roller skates. Except for Dad’s things. Dad’s going to stay in Nigeria with the empty goldfish pond.

  It’s summer and the rainy season has started. We have to leave before the beginning of the school year so I can adjust to the “Greek system.” In the Greek system the blackboard isn’t divided in half and all the kids in the class are the same age. That’s because there are lots of kids of every age. Mom says I won’t have to leave for school at five-thirty every morning. In the Greek system the schools are close to your house. So what time will I leave? More like seven-fifteen. But then I’ll be out in the heat, I’ll be all sweaty when I get to school. Oh, silly, it’s not hot in Greece. In winter people wear sweaters, heavy clothes. They go to movies and plays.

  Greece is our real home, Africa is the fake one. In Ikeja there are periods of political unrest. Whenever you hear the words “state of emergency,” or “Igbo and Hausa,” or the name General Ojuku, you know there won’t be any school. In Greece there’s been democracy for two straight years, so there’s no escaping homework. Why should I have to go to school every day in a place where it’s cold? What do I care about movies and plays? I’m happy with the squash club and the Marine Club where the U. S. Marines have real Coca-Cola at their parties on Fridays. I don’t want for us to lose Gwendolyn and Unto Punto and go and live in an “apartment,” as Mom whispers to Aunt Amalia over the phone. I want to ride my bike in the house, do slalom turns around the columns, ring my bell drin-dran-drin and have Gwendolyn say, “You crazy girl! I thought someone was at the door again!” and laugh out loud,
holding her belly.

  Mom comes up behind me silently, grabs my hair and slaps my face twice, fast. Then she pries my mouth open with her fingers.

  “What’s gotten into you? Spit it out! Now!”

  A green pulp dribbles from my mouth, mixing with tears and snot.

  “Haven’t I told you to never, ever eat crickets again?”

  I eat crickets because Africa is my real home. Greece, the fake one.

  I’m on the balcony of our apartment, crying and crying. I stuck my head through the railing and now I can’t get it out. I was just playing, I sucked in my cheeks, held my breath, and, oop, popped my head between the bars, which are as hot as the sand at the beach in Badagri or at Tarkwa Bay. Right away the floral-patterned lounge chairs sprang up before me, the banana boats and the bar that sells suya. A two-naira suya, please. With onions! Now my ears are as hot as the suya grill.

  Exarheia Square is the ugliest place in the whole world. We live in a building that was designed by someone important. Everyone calls it the “blue building.” On the ground floor is Floral, a patisserie where mostly old people sit. The cars rev their engines and honk. At night I can’t sleep from the screeching of brakes in the street. The apartment is called a quad because there are four rooms in total. There’s a porthole window in the front door. The whole place is the size of one of the rooms in our house in Ikeja, only it’s divided into smaller rooms. There are two bedrooms, not five. One bathroom, not three. There’s no game room and no storage room, just a tiny pantry off the kitchen. And I’m not allowed to ride my bicycle in the apartment, because there are “people” living downstairs. Besides, even if I were allowed, how can you ride your bike in a quad? There are no columns to do turns around. If I want to ride my bike, I go to the Field of Ares with Mom and her cousin, Aunt Amalia, who’s an old maid, like Gwendolyn. But that’s where the similarity ends: Aunt Amalia is thin as a rail and very pale, like she’s sick. Sure, she knows the names of all the movie stars, but she laughs with her mouth closed. I miss Gwendolyn so much, with her belly laughs and her proverbs! Which one would she tell me now to make me feel better? No matter how wrong things go, salt never gets worms? Gwendolyn equals joy. Joy equals Africa. So I’m crying for lots of reasons, not just because my head got stuck in the railing.

  I hear Mom letting herself into the apartment. Her footsteps echo down the hall.

  “Maria! Mariiiia!”

  When she finally finds me she lets out a shriek. “Maria, why do you do this to me? You’re nine years old, practically a woman! It’s time you grew up!”

  A man saws through the bars and sets me free. As he saws he keeps saying, “You’re quite a handful, aren’t you?” Mom is pacing up and down in the hall. She’s angry, I can tell from the click of her heels. When she sees me come running inside she grabs me with both hands and shakes me, squeezing my wrists. No, I’m not going to cry. I’m nine years old now, practically a woman.

  I wait for Mom to lie down for her afternoon siesta, go into my room and close the door. I take off all my clothes, then put on the white uniform from my school in Nigeria so the stewardesses will know I go to school in Ikeja and let me onto the plane. I have a whole bunch of naira in my pocket. How much can a child’s ticket to Africa cost? Five naira? Six? Or maybe it’ll be really expensive, and since I don’t have any money, they’ll make me work in the fields until my feet are all callused. I pull my suitcase out of my closet and pack a dress that Mom and Gwendolyn sewed, two monogrammed handkerchiefs, and my colored pencils. I can’t find any drawing paper, but that’s okay, they’ll give me some on the plane. I sneak into the kitchen and take two cans of Nounou evaporated milk, a box of Alsa Mousse, a package of Miranda cookies, and two eggs. If we land in Lagos late and I have to sleep on the beach, I’ll fry the eggs in the sand. There’ll be plenty of bananas to pick, but I might as well bring a few for the road. I wrap my roller skates in a towel so the wheels won’t clatter. Dear Mom, I write in a note, I’m going to see Gwendolyn and Dad for a few days. Come as soon as you can! And bring my bicycle. Love, Maria. On the bottom of the page I draw the stone pond in Ikeja, with the goldfish flopping around on the ground, out of the water. If she doesn’t feel sorry for me, maybe she’ll at least feel sorry for our fish.

  Lots of busses are passing by. I get on the one the most people are waiting for. The eggs roll around in my suitcase. I hope they don’t break.

  “A ticket for the airport, please. Can I pay in naira?”

  The ticket collector smiles. He looks like Unto Punto, only he’s white. Neither one of them has many teeth. “You give someone the slip?” he asks.

  “Excuse me?” Giving someone the slip doesn’t mean anything to me. My Greek isn’t very good.

  “Where do you live, miss?”

  “In Exarheia, but right now I’m going to Nigeria, to see Gwendolyn and Dad.”

  “Nigeria? The black people will eat you!”

  “Black people don’t eat!”

  “Oh, they eat, all right.”

  “Yes, but they eat yams or amala or moyin-moyin, not other people!”

  “But you’re so small and tender, they’ll open their mouths, mmmm, and gobble you up in a single bite, because people in Africa are very hungry. Haven’t you heard?”

  Heard what? Has there been more unrest? Another state of emergency? Did General Ojuku come back? Maybe the ticket collector is right, and instead of hugging me Gwendolyn will sink her teeth into me, saying, “The fear of tomorrow makes the snail carry its home wherever it goes.” How could the world have changed so much in just two weeks? Does salt really not get worms? I get off at the next stop, on the verge of tears. But I’m not going to cry. I’m nine years old, practically a woman.

  I sit down on my suitcase and eat my banana as slowly as I can, running my tongue over my broken tooth. The story is that I broke it just now, during my adventures, I’m the heroine of a fairytale who has to endure various trials. I squint my eyes and pretend I’m on our covered veranda in Ikeja, under the bougainvillea. I’m eating vanilla ice cream, my favorite flavor. Gwendolyn is ironing in the shade and telling me my favorite story, the one about the two friends, Dola and Bambi. Dola has a walnut tree and animals are always eating its leaves. Bambi gives her a big pot with a hole in the bottom to plant her tree in, so the animals won’t be able to get at the leaves. When Dola starts to make lots of money from selling her walnuts, Bambi gets jealous and wants her pot back. But for that to happen they have to kill the tree, since now it’s rooted in the pot. Bambi is stubborn. She wants her pot back! The village judge decides in her favor—Bambi will get her pot. So the poor walnut tree dies. The next year, Dola gives Bambi a gold necklace for her birthday. Ten years later she decides she wants it back. But in order to get at the necklace, Bambi’s head will have to come off. They go back to the village judge and he says that since Dola insists, they’ll have to cut off Bambi’s head, and that’s that. Bambi cries a river of tears, Dola takes pity on her, and in the end Bambi lives. No one is jealous of anyone anymore, because jealousy is the worst thing of all.

  Two police officers appear just as it’s getting dark. They say they’ll take me home in their patrol car and ask if I’ve thought about how my mother must feel. I have thought about that, I think about it all the time, we’re not happy in this country and we need to go home soon, while Gwendolyn is still our friend and cares about us and doesn’t have the heart to eat us.

  Mom has been crying. Her eyes are puffy. She doesn’t shake me, doesn’t squeeze my wrists, just combs her fingers through my hair.

  “I think the eggs in my suitcase broke,” I say.

  “No use crying over broken eggs,” Mom replies, which is almost as clever as one of Gwendolyn’s proverbs. Then she hugs me. Her hugs still smell just as warm, just as African as ever.

  •

  I’m wearing a light blue school smock out of Laura Peiraiki-Patraiki fabric that we bought at Mignon. It has two sashes at the sides that tie in a bow at the back, like
Gwendolyn’s aprons. I’ve got my red backpack over both shoulders so I don’t get a hunchback. My ponytail bounces up and down, creating a breeze that cools the nape of my neck. Mom and I are walking hand in hand down Themistocles Street. For the first little while she’ll take me to school and pick me up at the end of the day, but I have to learn the route in case she’s sick one day and can’t come. “If you get sick, I’ll stay home and take care of you,” I say. Mom laughs with her whole body, since she’s wearing her dress with the big yellow daisies and the pleats on the front. In that dress she laughs even when she’s not laughing.

  She drops me off at the entrance to my new elementary school. I wave to her from inside the fence like a tiger in a cage. We’re supposed to line up according to grade, so I get into line with the other fourth graders for the annual blessing, the national anthem, and morning prayer. After that we do drills—at ease! attention! at ease! attention!—and then finally file into our classrooms, which all have doors that open onto the schoolyard. Mine is D3, a room that’s painted green halfway up and white the rest of the way, with a world map hanging from a nail over the blackboard. Whenever we have to write on the board the map gets rolled up to make space. My teacher’s name is Aphrodite Dikaiakou and she looks sort of African, which is a good sign. She has short, curly hair and dark skin. I go sit at a desk in the last row, in the empty seat next to a girl with braids who tells me her name is Angeliki Kotaki. She has a mole on her eyebrow that looks like a smushed turd. I feel sorry for her because of the mole and decide to protect her. I’ll become her best friend and if people dare to make fun of her, they’ll have me to deal with.

  “You, new girl, stand up!”

  Kyria Aphrodite is talking to me.

  “Well, where have you come to us from?”

  “From Africa.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t come from the moon?”

  The other kids laugh. The boy in front of me turns around and makes animal faces. I gather my courage and cry, “I came from Africa! From Nigeria!”