beginnings: work in progress

- by Skorda

He was born on the bar of the Messogia Taverna.

George himself had no recollection of the event, of course, but as a child he had heard the story of his birth so many times, and with such vivid detail, that the stories became his own. They mingled in his mind with other childhood memories, and eventually he became thoroughly convinced that he could remember the exact moment of his own birth.

George carried the memories of his early life in Greece as a secret treasure, tucked tightly into a small corner of his mind. The memories of his birth were the most precious, for these belonged to him alone. In his darkest moments, when he felt isolated from the world around him, and very far from home, when he could feel his will for living buckling under the painful weight of regret loneliness and fear, he would ease these memories out from the dark corners of his mind and find comfort. Searching for meaning in his existence, as if to somehow affirm his own human value, he would relive each step of his journey from nothingness to being.

His earliest memory was that of surprise, as he felt his infant form move from the womb, sliding from wet to dry, from warm to cold, and from calm to chaos at that first shocking moment when he was slapped into awareness. He savored the memory of that moment when he opened his eyes for the first time and found himself looking directly into his mother's weary but beautiful face, with boundless love flowing from her to him. His attention would then be drawn to the loving smiles of the five other women surrounding his newborn self, his childhood "aunties", who were wrapping him up in a warm towel and blanketing him with effusive welcomes into the world. George's first earthly breaths drew in the stink of wine and grease and blood and piss. These odors, intertwined as they were with that initial moment of bliss and unconditional love, would forever bring him comfort rather than revulsion. In the course of his life this would turn out to be a mixed blessing.

His mother had been a broad boned seventeen year old farm girl, poor and illiterate, like nearly all of the other women on the island.
But unlike the other young women, Maria Andoniou had been blessed with two great gifts, she possessed both a divine face and an extraordinary voice.

Maria's face had regular features and a serene expression. On any other island, or perhaps in all of Greece, her pleasantly normal looks would draw little notice. Here things were a bit different. On this island, her lovely countenance caused the local people to turn their heads, or to gasp in shock. Few islanders could look into her face. If one inadvertently caught sight of her, the immediate response was to begin making the sign of the cross, and then, just to be safe, to spit three times or to surreptitiously move towards a piece of wood and give three gentle knocks. It was a ghastly reality, a complete disgrace and yet it was the visible truth, this poor peasant girl's face was the embodiment of the island's sacred icon, the Panaghia Kounistria,

Maria never considered her looks as a blessing. As a child she was teased, taunted or simply ignored. She would run crying to her mother. "They hate me", she'd sob, "they will not play with me. I have no friends, mama." It was true, none of the youngsters wanted to share secrets with the face they had seen in church being kissed by the priest.

As she came into womanhood Maria's looks grew ever more lovely, but her troubles did not lessen. Like every other young girl on the island, she spent many hours waiting anxiously for the day when her parents would announce that they had made for her the perfect romantic match. The high point of every young girl's life was her wedding, but as time passed and no suitors arrived, Maria's father was growing desperate. Despite his daughter's beauty and talents, he found it difficult to negotiate a suitable marriage. Few young men want to be reminded of religion every time they climbed into their marital bed.

With the war, Maria's marital options grew even slimmer. Eventually, her father succeeded in making a deal with Yiannis Grammata,. Yianni was forty-seven, too old to be called to the war. He had some goats he tended, and a small boat he used for fishing. He was not very industrious, but he got by. He’d considered marriage a few times, but the thought of giving up his freedom made him tremble. Yianni was willing to make a deal for Maria. "She's strong, she's sturdy, and I've seen that she is a hard worker. I will take her, but we must also have the farm." The farm consisted of a several acres of olive trees and pastures for goats and sheep. It had been in Maria's family for several generations. Now it was to be given as prika, and Maria would live there as a married woman. Maria and Yianni had been married less than a year when George was born.

Maria's second gift was a near operatic voice. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, villagers would stop what they were doing, the hairs on the back of their necks would lift and they would find themselves transfixed, drawn by pure sound into a world where human experience and emotion were limitless. Nick, the ancient, nearly blind man who spent his days doing nothing more than sipping coffee and running worry beads through his arthritic fingers, was so moved by the sweet clear tones of Maria's singing voice that he once jumped to his feet and began yelling over and over in a loud and passionate voice, "Please, yes, let me, please!".

That evening at the Messogia, Maria had been halfway through a heart wrenching rendition through "Sinefiasmeni Kiriaki" when her water broke.

There were not many men in attendance at the taverna that evening. The war had broken down many of the traditions and taboos that separated the sexes, but most men still found themselves uncomfortable in the presence of a heavily pregnant young woman, especially one with the face of the Virgin Mary. The few men that had witnessed the imminent birth soon fled, leaving the women to tend to the mother and her ordeal.

The door closed behind the exiting men, and Maria began to sob.
The village five women murmured soothing phrases as they helped the frightened girl onto the broad wooden planks of the table, the very place where the group had been gathered just minutes before. Maria's sobbing continued, escalating into moans and screams. The table threatened to buckle under her heaving form, and the women, realizing that only the bar would be strong enough to support her, slipped their fingers under her back and moved her up onto the wide wooden planks of the bar. Maria gazed into the flickering reflections of candlelight as it bounced off of the glasses on the shelf above the bar. She gathered her strength and pushed. "Please God, let my baby be a boy", she prayed as the the strong contractive pain tore into her , "this world holds little joy for us women." And then she was looking into the red and wrinkled face of her child, her prayers answered.

©Skorda 2009