The Lace Tablecloth Read online

  Left alone in the pitch-black room Tasia struggled with a million demons, while countless incoherent thoughts tormented her. Despite her efforts to stay awake, her eyes — heavy with sleep — would shut, bringing back the vivid dreams and nightmares. Only when the first light of dawn fell shyly on the walls, the familiar morning sounds somewhat muffled the humdrum sounds of wailing. The yard’s cockerel asserted its own voice above the others, carrying her to a deep, dreamless sleep. Her mother came to wake her up when the sun was already high.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she exclaimed as she helped the drowsy Tasia get up. ‘Such a big girl and you’ve wet the bed! Shame on you! Shame on you!’

  In less than twenty-four hours Tasia’s world had turned upside down. Nothing was the same any more and nothing was real. The streets, the people, the animals, the whole village had a dream-like quality. Even her parents had changed and she felt scared to touch them in case she discovered they were only shadows or that she would see them dissolve into nothingness and disappear forever.

  She was afraid to be alone in the house, and even more so to go out of the house. When she had to go to the toilet she’d hold on till the last minute, and then she’d run like mad behind the barn to the furthermost part of their fenced yard where the toilet was.

  At bedtime, as her mother took her up to the loft, her panic would reach crescendo. Holding tight onto her mother’s skirt, she’d watch, petrified, the hundreds of shadows dancing around on the walls created by the light of the kerosene lamp her mother held in her hands. With the door closing behind her mother, Tasia would find herself once more alone and scared in the darkness of her room, her heart beating close to breaking point. Her only salvation was the light of the stars trembling on the velvety black firmament filling her with a feeling of wonder. She was determined to stay awake, scared of the vivid dreams of grotesque monsters chasing her, but also afraid she would wet the bed. However, as the milky, early daylight would enter her room, she’d drift off to a deep and peaceful sleep, only to awake in a wet bed once again. She felt bewildered and, full of shame, she’d listen to her mother scolding her.

  ‘Just look at you. You’re a grown-up girl. Soon we’ll be looking to you find a husband and you’re still wetting the bed! As though I haven’t got enough to do. Shame on you! Shame!’

  Lately, she had noticed there was something wrong with her mother. She didn’t look well and was getting cranky over nothing. She complained of feeling sick and dizzy, and one morning Tasia saw her vomit behind the chicken shed.

  ‘Will you stop following me around like a shadow! What’s wrong with you? Let me do my work!’ she scolded the nervous Tasia who kept close to her in order to feel safe.

  There were times when Tasia felt certain her mother was not her real mother. She dreamt of having a beautiful, gentle and caring mother who would come one day to take her away to a magical place. She’d fill her up with hugs and kisses, not like that mother who never hugged and kissed her, but only scolded and punished her for no reason at all because she didn’t love her.

  Tasia felt differently about her father. He was sweet and gentle, always taking her in his arms, kissing and tickling her till she convulsed with laughter. If he saw her crying, he would dance her on his knees and wipe away her tears with his rough and callused palm.

  The bed-wetting continued, making her feel wretched. Tired and upset, she was lost in a confusing, dream-like world, her vivid imagination obscuring reality. In her tormented mind she invented a repugnant and invisible monster spying on everything and everybody from above, a monster capable of knowing every one of her thoughts and every one of her deeds. The realisation that she couldn’t even hide her thoughts from that monster terrified her, as she knew some of her thoughts weren’t that pure. One day when her mother hit her for no reason at all, Tasia, full of anger said ‘shut up’ under her breath. She knew this expression was bad from the way Takis and Michalis, two boys in her neighbourhood, shouted it at each other when they had a fight, even though she wasn’t sure what it meant. But the monster knew about it and one way of punishing her was to make her mother sick, cranky and vomit. The only way she could pacify that heartless monster was not to think badly of anybody but to be a good and obedient girl. She had to be careful not to upset her mother, not even to have bad thoughts about her, so that she would regain her health and they would live happily and contented as before.

  One thing she couldn’t understand was how, after the episode with the guerrillas and the Germans, people went back to their way of life as if nothing had happened. After a few days even Chrisula, George’s wife, had resumed her usual activities. She dug the vegetable garden, drew water from the well to water the pigs and chickens, carried water from the common water tap, milked the sheep and did whatever she had done when her husband was still with her. The only difference was that instead of wearing her beautifully embroidered aprons and the colourful kerchiefs, she was now covered in black from head to toe, leaving only her eyes uncovered.

  Late in the evenings, Tasia would hear the voices and laughter of children playing their usual games of hopscotch, skipping, hide-and-seek and leapfrog in the nearby streets. Her initial response was surprise, but then she got angry. How could they be so stupid! Even George’s children. Didn’t they know nothing was real, that everything was a big lie, bleak, nasty and ugly? The reason she was the only one who knew about it, was because she was different. That’s why no one could understand her and why she couldn’t understand anybody.

  She even felt angry towards her father every time she heard him whistle a tune as he took care of the animals. How could he be happy? There was only one thing certain: she didn’t belong to this village and she didn’t belong to this house or to this family. She didn’t even belong to this world! She was a complete stranger and terribly alone.

  As time moved on, Tasia’s mother no longer complained of dizzy spells and nausea, but continued to be off-colour. She had now grown fat and round like a barrel, unable to do any hard work. Tasia’s father undertook most of her chores and so had to start work by daybreak. He had to take care of the animals, chop wood and carry it indoors, and even bring water from the communal water tap. Every Saturday morning he would fill up the oven with kindling wood ready to light the oven, preparing it for the baking of the weekly bread. After that, he would do his own work: ploughing, pruning, gathering wood from the forest, all types of work previously shared with his wife.

  Wednesdays were the days he would get up extremely early. He’d load up the mules and head for the weekly market in Kailaria, a town whose name had changed to Ptolemais a few years earlier.

  Despite her ill health, Tasia’s mother never stopped working manically in the house. as though wanting to arrive at a time when there wouldn’t be any more work to be done. At night, she would sit under the kerosene lamp and weave at her loom. And when the kerosene ran out, she would light a piece of pinewood, steady it by the fireplace, and start spinning the fluffy wool turning it into a fine thread. The black smoke would fill their nostrils.

  Meanwhile, the days got shorter and the temperature began to drop. The sky was constantly grey and cloudy. The rains came, strong and persistent. Soon after, the cold north wind turned the mud and the water in the potholes to ice. White and fluffy, the first snow made the village look pristine and beautiful as it covered up the mess and the dirt. Soon after though, the snow turned to ice and the streets became slippery and difficult to cross without falling and breaking bones. The people stayed indoors. The shepherds had their sheep secured in their wintering folds, while the wolves’ hungry howling could be heard close-by.

  The freezing wind rushed through the gaps around the doors and windows turning the entire house into a frozen dungeon, except for the large family room — on the left of the entrance door — where a big open fireplace burned day and night. On either side of the fireplace there were two low-standing trestle beds, each large enough to sleep three or four people. As the cold increased,
her parents arranged for Tasia to sleep down there close to them and, miraculously, the bed-wetting stopped.

  Most of the floor space in the family room was occupied by the two simply made trestle beds: a number of boards were arranged on low trestles and the mattresses made of sackcloth and filled with maize leaves lay on top of the boards. A thick, home-woven red- and blue-coloured rug covered each mattress and hung down to the floor. Elongated pillows, covered with the same woven material and also filled with maize leaves, leant against the walls.

  The temperature in this room was always pleasant and everything that could be done indoors was done in there. When any one of them had to leave the room for any reason, they’d come running back and stand in front of the fireplace with hands outstretched to the fire to warm and defrost their stiff fingers.

  Tasia slept in the upper corner of the left trestle bed next to the only window. The walls of the house were very thick and the window-frame was flush with the outer wall leaving a deep cavity large enough for Tasia to sit in and look out in the yard.

  From there in the mornings she could see her father run from the shed to the barn and to the chicken house. She’d watch him draw water from the well, carry animal fodder and run left and right. On rainy days he used to wear a sack folded into a hood on his head.

  After completing his outdoor duties, he’d come back to the room with an enamel bowl filled with chestnuts in one hand and a small jug filled with wine in the other. He’d lie at the edge of one trestle bed close to the fire, taking his time to pierce the skin of the chestnuts with his clasp-knife before placing them on the embers to roast. When they were ready he would pick them up one by one with tongs to let them cool a bit before peeling them, all the time dancing them on his hands to avoid getting burnt. Tasia was always prepared to catch any peeled chestnut her father would throw her way, rushing to catch even those thrown towards her mother, who sat close-by, knitting. Her father ate every third or forth chestnut, munching it with pleasure, while taking sips from his homemade wine. Gradually, his breath would get heavy and he’d drift off to asleep.

  That was when Tasia — soothed by the warmth and gentle lullaby-like sound of the water boiling in the blackened kettle over the trivet — would also find her eyelids becoming heavy. At times like this life was good, the world was peaceful and friendly, and Tasia loved everything and everybody.

  At the back of the room stood a large wardrobe, and a loom which often lulled Tasia to sleep with its rhythmic beat as her mother weaved late into the night. Tasia was always curious about the big wardrobe and all the things stored in its deep shelves and drawers.

  She knew, of course, that in the second right-hand drawer her mother kept a beautiful finely laced tablecloth. The first time she had set eyes on it she was enthralled. She couldn’t believe human hands could produce such an exquisite thing: such birds, flowers and animals, the like of which even nature couldn’t produce. What shook her even more was the effect this tablecloth had on her mother. Tasia watched her take the tablecloth out of the drawer with trembling hands and place it on the bed. She unfolded it with great care, all the time sighing deeply and crying. She couldn’t figure out if her mother was crying because she was also touched by the tablecloth’s beauty or for some other reason.

  She was overwhelmed by the whole scene. When she touched the tablecloth and felt the silky yarn of its tassels slip through her fingers, she got goose-pimples. She somehow knew there was something mysterious — without knowing what — binding the tablecloth to her mother.

  The moment she opened her eyes, the exceptional brightness that filled the room prompted her to look out the window. Tasia was aghast. Every corner of the yard was completely covered by snow. It was still falling, thick, but delicate. Even her father’s footprints as he was going in and out of one shed to the next were disappearing under the new snowflakes. As if in a dream she positioned herself in the windowsill and sat there staring at the snowflakes dancing delicately and playfully. She undid the stitches from the upper part of an old knitted sock and wound the wool into a ball without taking her eyes away from the snow. Her mother, with a big tray on her knees, shifted an amount of dried beans from one side of the tray to the other removing any stones and other debris before cooking them.

  Tasia was waiting anxiously for her mother to finish what she was doing as she had promised to show her how to cast on stitches and knit. There was an eerie silence outside as the snow muffled other sounds. Inside, Tasia could hear the gentle snoring of her father, the occasional crackle of the burning logs and the constant sound of water boiling in the kettle. There was also the faint noise of beans being shifted over the metal tray.

  Suddenly, a terrible cry shook the room. The tray fell from her mother’s knees and the beans spilled all over the floor. Petrified, Tasia jumped from her seat and ran close to her moaning mother. Her father jumped to his feet also.

  ‘Is it time?’ he asked, and her mother nodded ‘yes’.

  ‘Come,’ he said to a startled Tasia grabbing her by the arm. ‘We must go.’

  There was no time for her to ask where and why or time to put on her wooden clogs properly such was the way her father pulled and forced her to run after him. Soon the strap of her right clog got twisted and it slipped off her foot. She continued to run with one clog while the snow clung to her socks freezing her feet.

  Fortunately, they didn’t have to go far. They crossed the road, and three houses further down the lane they entered the yard of Yiayia Vaya. It was as if she had expected them because she had already opened the front door. ‘Tsoupra’ was the only word Tasia could understand from what Yiayia Vaya was saying. She took Tasia in her arms and kissed her with affection.

  ‘You’ll stay here with Yiayia Vaya till I come back,’ her father commanded. ‘Be a good girl and don’t upset Yiayia. Do you understand?’ he said, and left Yiayia Vaya’s house, running.

  Tasia kept quiet in the arms of this woman she had learnt to call Yiayia Vaya. She had seen her in the front yard of her house tending her flowers practically every day. But it was the first time she had been inside her house and, come to think of it, the first time had she had entered anyone else’s house. In the arms of Yiayia Vaya she was carried to a beautiful room. It was very warm, even though there wasn’t an open fireplace. She was sat on a strange-looking couch with lovely embroidered small pillows next to a round table covered with a crocheted tablecloth and loaded with vases and photographs. Full of curiosity, Tasia studied the room, noticing all the strange things it contained. She had never seen most of the items before and Tasia had no idea why Yiayia Vaya had them.

  She could feel the heat coming out of a big black box in the corner but could see no flame. There was a round white thing with black lines hanging on the wall, making a strange tick-tock sound. There were pictures of trees and flowers around the walls and photographs of people she didn’t know.

  The smells and noises of this room were strange to Tasia, as was the incessant talk of Yiayia Vaya who spoke in a language she couldn’t understand. But her warmth and affection made Tasia feel secure, even when she was left alone in the room while Yiayia fetched a bowl of roasted chickpeas and raisins for Tasia, a treat she always loved.

  In this strange, new environment her concern about her mother was forgotten for a while. But while enjoying the chickpeas Tasia remembered her mother’s scream and began to cry. Yiayia Vayia tried to calm her by taking her in her arms and hugging her. Finally, Yiayia Vayia sang a soothing song, and rocked Tasia in her arms back and forth as if trying to put a baby to sleep. At that stage she remembered her father’s words telling her to be a good girl and not to make Yiayia Vayia upset. Full of shame she tried to control her whining in an effort to prove also to herself she was now a big girl and a good girl.

  The time was moving very slowly. By the time her father came to collect her, Yiayia Vayia had lit the kerosene lamp. Outside it was pitch-black. She saw her father all happy and smiling and knew her mother was all
right. But she was mystified to see him embrace and repeatedly kiss Yiayia Vaya on the cheek. She moved closer to hear what they were talking about with such excitement and squeezed her body between them, pulling her father’s trouser leg to make him notice her.

  ‘My daughter! My little daughter!’ he said, lifting her in his arms and throwing her up the air. ‘Come! Come! Time to welcome your baby brother!’

  So, that’s what it was. She had a baby brother! Her mother had made her a baby brother. She had given birth, like Agnoula, their neighbour, had to Theo. Agnoula was also swollen up just like her mother was before she gave birth. Why hadn’t Tasia realised it? Why had no one ever told her about it? Her brother grew inside her mother’s belly and now he had been born. But how, and where from? Regardless, having a brother must be very good because she had never seen her father look so happy.

  She had never seen her mother so happy either. She looked tired but very beautiful, with her smiling face glowing. She was reclining in bed, supported by several pillows behind her back. Her long brown hair was loose over her shoulders and over her wide, white, open nightdress, leaving her left breast bare. Tasia went close and lifted herself on tiptoe curious to see what her brother looked like. Her mother was so absorbed in holding the nipple of her breast between her two fingers and trying to put it into the baby’s mouth, that she didn’t notice Tasia.

  ‘Come! Climb on the bed and have a better look,’ her father prompted her, and she got up and leaned over, yearning to see her baby brother. But the moment she saw him, her excitement evaporated. They were excited over that thing? What was the big fuss for? He was not only so tiny he couldn’t keep his eyes open but he was all puffed up, full of wrinkles, and ugly. She couldn’t understand what was so special about him to make her parents so happy. She was loathe to put her finger on him, let alone play with him. She bent over to get a closer look, and then her mother noticed her.