Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  ‘That husband of mine won’t fix anything around the house, and the things he brings home – he collects rubbish, I tell you … po, po! Then he goes down to the village to tend to his bees and fields. And my sons – I told them to get an education. But one works in a periptero, stooping all day to serve his customers, and the other in a pizza shop. What sort of life is that for two young men? And when are they going to find wives? They go out every night, but no wives …’

  The boys stop by the tiny kitchen and look at me sympathetically. ‘Tin zalises, Mama.’ You’ve made her dizzy. But when they leave again, the onslaught continues. I listen politely.

  Late most nights, I don jeans and a denim jacket and join my cousins on the back of their bikes to see heavy metal bands in obscure clubs on suburban side streets. Most of the men have long hair, leather jackets, tattoos. The women wear multiple earrings, shaved heads, heavy boots. We enter the clubs under cover of darkness and are spewed out, blinking, into the morning light. My cousins go straight to work and I sleep into the afternoon.

  On other nights, they take me to underground venues in the city, where we listen to rembetika and down ouzo shots, sharing small plates of chips and pork, olives and feta. When we don’t go out, we sit on the veranda, sometimes pulling at a sweet-smelling joint, blowing smoke into the summer night. George, the eldest, pulls back at his pony tail and makes small talk. His younger brother, Saki, is quiet, his eyes expressive. In profile, he looks like a less lined version of my father. He is philosophical, whimsical, funny.

  They do as they please, these cousins of mine, ignoring their mother’s nagging to settle down. My uncle Panayioti comes and goes, visiting his brother down the road, tending the bees he keeps in a lot down the street. He deflects his wife’s complaints good-naturedly, breaks out spontaneously into folk songs at the top of his voice, and brings home the honeycomb to show me how the bees are progressing. I feel an easy sense of acceptance, and meld seamlessly into their eccentric family life. But soon, before I can put on too much weight from all this eating, I announce that I will be going down south, to visit the village where my father’s parents live.

  ‘They will be very glad to see you, Spirithoula,’ my aunt says. ‘Here’s some money to help you get down there.’ She hands me a wad of 1000 drachma notes. ‘And I’ll just pack some food for the journey.’

  THEIO PANAYIOTI ON KEEPING BEES

  Theio Panayioti speaks here about some of the more novel aspects of bee-keeping.

  Bees produce from April to late May, when the spring flowers are in bloom. I collect the honey in August.

  Before collecting a wild hive, I spend time near the bees; they get used to my smell and so don’t chase me away. I put my own empty hive next to the wild one and drape a sheet over the top. The mouth of the empty hive has lemon juice on it, which attracts the bees.

  There’s a device you can use to extract the poison from bees. I’ve read about it on the internet. People use the poison to create medicines – it is good for rheumatism, cancer and fever, and sells for very good prices. I don’t have the device but I wish I did. I do harvest the royal jelly. The queen produces small sacs of jelly to feed the young bees in the springtime; they look like little earrings on the hive. The jelly is good for rheumatism and for nervous conditions – it makes you feel relaxed. It’s also good for older men, to help them perform for younger women!

  I burn dried pine needles in the smoker to make the bees a bit dizzy so that I can safely remove each frame and extract the honey. I remove the wax from these with a long, sharp knife. I put the honeycomb on a poplin cloth and rest this over a basin, letting the honey drain for a day or so. I store it in a cool, dry place in glass jars. I eat it on friganies, dried bread crackers, or give it to my brother and his family. Although the honey is delicious, the main reason I keep bees is for the love of it.

  Pastelli (honey sesame bars)

  Makes about 25 pieces

  Pastelli are often brought back to Australia as a gift by relatives visiting Greece. Zevgolatio, in the south of Greece, is famous for them; they are often sold at train and bus stations as a snack for travellers. They are chewy, sticky and nourishing. The type of honey you use makes a big difference – thyme honey is gorgeous – but any aromatic honey will do.

  Ingredients

  3 cups sesame seeds

  ½ cup nuts such as peanuts, cashews or pistachios

  1¼ cups honey

  ¾ cup water

  1 cinnamon stick

  5 cloves

  A piece of lemon peel

  Method

  Toast the sesame seeds and nuts under a grill or in a hot frying pan, tossing them regularly so that they don’t burn. When they are golden, set them aside. Place the remaining ingredients into a saucepan and boil until the mixture has thickened (if you own a kitchen thermometer, you can remove the mixture from the heat when it reads 130°C). With a slotted spoon, remove the cinnamon, cloves and lemon peel.

  With a clean, damp cloth, wet a heat-proof surface such as a glass or marble cutting board, or a metal tray. Add the seeds and nuts to the honey mixture and mix them thoroughly until all the dry ingredients are covered with honey. Working quickly, pour the mixture onto your chosen surface and smooth it with a spatula until it is about a centimetre thick. Place a piece of baking paper over the top and gently roll it with a rolling pin to create an even surface. Remove the baking paper and allow the mixture to cool thoroughly before cutting it into bars or thin strips. Stored in a glass container or wrapped individually in waxed paper, these will keep for over a week.

  To Mati

  No one who errs unwillingly is evil

  Sophocles

  ‘Iegoni tou Tsintzira.’ Tsintziras’s granddaughter.

  ‘Irthe.’ She has come.

  The women’s whispers reach me at the doorway. One woman, her dark eyes staring at me from under her headscarf, stretches gnarled hands to touch me. Her eyes devour me. Before I can get my bearings, the other women have come towards me; now they are all touching me, kissing me. I feel stripped bare, as if a strange energy has passed through my clothes and under my very skin. I feel their eyes are saying, ‘Dionysios’s granddaughter has come to the village, but our children, our grandchildren, are still in far off Australia.’ Theia Kanella, Dad’s sister, senses my distress and gently leads me to a seat.

  My grandmother proudly sits down beside me. She crosses her ankles, showing off the moccasins I have brought her from Australia. They aren’t really for outdoor wear, but she wants to make it known that her granddaughter has brought her a special gift from the exoterico, from abroad. She is keen for the priest’s wife to notice them. As soon as we have had coffee and a sweet, she quickly bids our host goodbye. She doesn’t want the women of the village to have too much of me. I am her granddaughter, and on our first day together in fifteen years, she wants me to herself.

  As we walk through the village, people come and introduce themselves. My aunt patiently explains the connections between each person and our family.

  The village has contracted to a few dozen elderly villagers, along with some itinerant Albanian workers. The cafeneion only opens in the summertime, when the families of the villagers come to visit. I tower over the counter now, where once I had to look up to see the man serving me.

  Finally, we get back to Yiayia and Pappou’s house. As we go up the front steps, a vivid image comes back to me: Pappou standing on this porch, shooting a rifle into the air. The first-born son had returned. Now his son’s daughter has also made a pilgrimage. We have lunch. My grandparents have slaughtered a chicken in my honour; the flavour is as gamey and strong as I remember it. We wipe up the sauce with crusty, dense bread. As I eat, my grandparents look on approvingly.

  ‘You’re just like your mother. She couldn’t get enough bread when she came here last. She’s a good woman. I don’t know what my son did to deserve her …’

  Yiayia speaks of my father lovingly, but doesn’t hold back when it comes t
o his flaws.

  ‘If it wasn’t for your mother, that son of mine would be out on the street. She looks after him, works hard, keeps him from drinking himself to death. Just because I’m far away, don’t think I don’t know what’s going on.’ She taps a bent finger to the side of her head. ‘I might not know how to read very well, but I know what’s going on.’

  Pappou listens, amused. It seems he is used to his wife’s outpourings. I too am smiling. My grandmother doesn’t pull any punches. I feel at home; these people know my family. They know their foibles and love them regardless.

  After lunch, it’s Theia Kanella’s turn to drag me away.

  ‘The bus back to Kyparissia leaves at three o’clock. But we’ll be back in a few days. Spirithoula wants to stay with you.’ She looks at me. She can’t understand why I want to stay in the village. She worries that I will be uncomfortable. But I want to spend time with my grandparents. I don’t know when, or if, I will see them again.

  We take the bus down the mountain and half an hour later we are in the cool confines of my theia’s home.

  ‘I don’t feel so well. I’m going to lie down.’

  I feel nauseous. My body feels heavy and my limbs ache. I can barely stand up.

  My aunty takes one look at me.

  ‘Oh, se matiasane.’ They put the evil eye on you. She is referring to the women in the village: the way they looked at me, their energy. For the first time in my life, I wonder if there is something to ‘the evil eye’, the belief that people can inadvertently make you sick by looking at you with envy.

  I am very familiar with the evil eye. My mother is a keeper of the incantation to ‘lift’ the eye once it has been cast. The incantation can be passed on, usually from an elder of the opposite sex.

  Knowing the incantation makes Mum very popular. It’s not unusual for the phone to ring, sometimes quite late at night.

  ‘I don’t feel well. Can you check me for mati, the eye?’

  ‘Okay, just wait a second.’

  Mum recites an incantation known only to her. If she starts yawning and her tummy starts gurgling, she knows her patient has the evil eye. Mum will then make the sign of the cross and the spitting sound, ‘ppt, ppt, ppt’.

  ‘Yes, you are matiasmeni. Say the Lord’s Prayer three times, pass your hands under your armpits three times and sniff them, and then change out of all your clothes. Have a shower if you can, so as to wash it off.’

  ‘Thanks, Theia.’

  If it isn’t the evil eye, she will suggest the caller have a lie down.

  As a youngster, it was affirming to have Mum stand over me and murmur the incantation. It was worth being ill just to have her pay me this sort of special attention. But as I got older, I was disdainful – the evil eye was just a silly folk superstition.

  ‘I don’t really believe in the evil eye. It defies logic,’ I say weakly to my aunt.

  ‘Oh, it’s true alright. My neighbour across the road, one day she complimented me on my zucchini plants, which were thriving in the front garden. The next day, every single plant was dead. She’s done it to me many times. She doesn’t mean harm. It’s just her eyes. People with blue eyes are the worst.’

  She stands over me and mutters a prayer.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. You can only teach the prayer when it’s a full moon. If you ask your mum, she might teach you.’

  As my aunty continues to mutter, she yawns loudly. I can hear her stomach gurgling.

  ‘Po, po. Eisai poli matiasmeni.’ Oh, oh, you have a serious case of the evil eye.

  She is taking the evil from my body and ingesting it into hers. I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep and don’t wake for two hours. When I get up, I feel refreshed, and very hungry.

  I join my aunt at the stove, where she is making calamari stew. My appetite is well and truly back. We will have the dish with rice and more of the decadent bread. I can feel my bottom expanding already.

  Over dinner, we talk more about my family. I sense that I can speak openly with my father’s sister. In the few days I have spent with her, she appears sensitive and loyal like my father, but she faces her difficulties stoically, with humour.

  ‘I really don’t know what Dad expects of me. We always argue. It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong; I just want to go out, experience things a bit.’

  ‘Your dad’s got a lovely wife, two great kids … what more does he want?’ she says. ‘Things have changed here in Greece. All the neolea, the young people, go out now. It’s not like it used to be.’

  ‘I guess Dad’s trying to hold on to the Greece that he knew in the ’60s.’ I feel a sudden desire to protect Dad. I am far from him, and yet so close to where he grew up – it gives me a different perspective.

  My aunt doesn’t complain, but I know her life has been hard. Her husband died when her children were young. She raised three boys on her own. She worked night shifts as a nursing aid in a hospital to make ends meet. And she missed out on an education, which she sorely pined for.

  ‘I studied for the exams year after year so that I could go to high school, even after my parents took me out of school. But there was only enough money to educate one child, and that was your father. Anyway, it wasn’t seen as important to educate girls back then. I guess my parents didn’t know any better.’

  I feel sorry for my aunt, but she is optimistic.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. My life is okay. I’ve got three good boys, even if they are all in Athens now. My home. Good neighbours. And you. Why don’t you stay in Greece? Marry someone here? I know a good boy who’s a baker. You could have all the bread you like.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Theia. It’s lovely here. But my life is in Melbourne …’

  I want to joke, ‘You can’t live on bread alone,’ but it doesn’t translate.

  FROM MUM TO THE MIDDLE EAST: A POTTED HISTORY OF THE EVIL EYE

  The evil eye is not so much about evil as envy. But the ‘envious gaze’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  If someone says to you, ‘That new coat looks nice on you,’ and you are a believer in the evil eye, you might try to deflect the compliment. Why? The premise behind the evil eye is that the person making the compliment is motivated (usually unwittingly) by envy. And their envy can make you, or your children, plants or livestock, sick. In extreme cases, their envy can make things wither up and die.

  Although rituals to ward it off vary, the idea of the evil eye is widespread. It is thought to have originated in ancient Sumar (modern-day Iraq). It is mentioned in the Old Testament, as well as in ancient Roman and Greek texts. Its believers come from places as far-flung as Spain and Portugal, India, the Middle East, Scandinavia, Britain and North Africa; they are Christian, Muslim, Hindu and Jewish.

  If you are a believer and happen to be of Greek background, you may say ‘pppt, pppt, pppt’, which is thought to ward off the eye. If your faith is Islamic, you might utter ‘Mahsa’Allah’ (‘God has willed it’); or if it is Judaic, ‘B’li ayin hara’ (‘Without an evil eye’). Talismans are often pinned onto the singlets of babies, who are thought to be the most susceptible. In Greek and Turkish cultures, the talisman is usually a blue bead or token with an eye on it. In the Middle East, an eye might be drawn onto a hand or marked on a horseshoe.

  Scholars have seen the eye as a symbol of women’s genitalia (the pupil being the vagina, the lids the labia, and the lashes pubic hair) or of a phallus. The Italian amulet, a horn, is more obviously phallic, as is the hand gesture, the fica sign (representing a phallus in a vagina). Italian men are known to touch their genitalia briefly so as to ward off the evil eye and avoid ensuing impotence. Even Freud had something to say about it: ‘Whoever possesses something at once valuable and fragile is afraid of the envy of others, in that he projects onto them the envy that he would have felt in their place.’

  The folklorist Alan Dundes, in his essay Wet and Dry: The Evil Eye, theorised that the belief is closely linked to no
tions that water equates to life and dryness to death. Dundes suggests that what is common to most cultures is a belief that the evil eye ‘dries things up’ (for example the milk from a cow’s udder or a woman’s breast, the sperm from a man’s testes, or the water from a healthy young fruit tree). Many talismans represent water or moisture, which have a reviving effect. Dundes ends his treatise: ‘I can only hope in closing that my argument holds water but that my ideas are not all wet. God forbid that anyone who disagrees with me should give me a withering look, or tell me to go dry up and blow away.’

  Do I believe in the evil eye? My logical city persona scoffs at it, but my village alter ego is still undecided. One thing I am sure of: Thiea Kanella’s calamari stew has definite restorative properties.

  Theia Kanella’s calamari stew

  Serves 4 to 6

  The trick to creating tender calamari is to cook it either very quickly (for example, by frying) or very slowly, as in this dish, which my Theia Kanella cooks to perfection.

  Ingredients

  A generous splash of olive oil

  1 large onion, sliced

  2 cloves garlic, sliced

  6 large tomatoes, cut in half and grated (discard the skins) or

  1 can chopped tomatoes

  3 small whole calamari, prepared as per the recipe on here

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Heat the oil in a casserole dish and sauté the onions until translucent. Add the garlic and the tomatoes and cook for 15 minutes over a low heat. Add the prepared calamari. Cover and cook on a low heat for at least an hour, until the calamari is tender and the sauce thick. Add a little water if it becomes too dry. Season to taste. Serve with rice, pasta or vegetables. Don’t forget to mop the sauces up with your homemade bread.