Έμπαινε, έβγαινε σαν τα ανθρωπάκια στο κεντρικό ρολόι αναζητώντας έναν άνθρωπο.
Άδεια η πλατεία και οι δρόμοι. Τενεκεδόκουτα αφημένα κάτω, απομεινάρια φαγητού και περιτυλίγματος από τα άπειρα φαγάδικα της περιοχής.
Το αεράκι, που φυσούσε που και που, μετακινούσε τις χαρτοπετσέτες κι έκανε κάποιο παραθυρόφυλλο να χτυπά σπάζοντας μια επιμένουσα σιωπή.
Ο χώρος έμοιαζε να έχει εγκαταλειφθεί εσπευσμένα. Τα υπολείμματα τροφής και τα κουτάκια μπύρας και αναψυκτικού, που συναντούσαν τα πόδια της καθώς τα έσερνε από απελπισία και κούραση, αυτό μηνούσαν.
Ένας άνθρωπος. Δεν υπάρχει κανείς; Που εξαφανίσθηκαν; Ένοιωθε την κούραση μακρινού ταξιδιού πάνω της. Αναζητούσε γνώριμους, άγνωστους, κάποιον τέλος πάντων, να ολοκληρώσει την αποστολή. Όλοι είχαν εξαφανισθεί. Οι άνθρωποι που έψαχνε. Είχε μια στυφή γεύση στο στόμα, μια πίκρα, από την απογοήτευση.
Τι ακριβώς συνέβη; αναρωτήθηκε. Το σίγουρο ήταν πως έμοιαζε να είναι ο τελευταίος άνθρωπος αυτής της μικρής πόλης.
Της πέρασε από το μυαλό μην είναι πίσω από τις κουρτίνες και κρυφοκοιτάζουν πίσω από τις δαντέλες; Γρήγορα το απέρριψε. Κοιτάχθηκε καλού κακού μην έχει κάτι που τους τρομάζει, κάτι το ξενικό, το αποκρουστικό. Εκτός από άπειρη σκόνη στο βαρύ αμπέχωνο και τα βαριά παπούτσια δεν πρόσεξε τίποτα.
Τα μαλλιά της. Α ναι! Αυτά!
Αυτά τους τρόμαξαν. Κόκκινα σαν φλόγες μακριά, ξεχτένιστα, πλαισιώναν ακατάστατα το χλωμό της πρόσωπο, αφήνοντας να προβάλλει, μέσα από σκόνη αιώνων, υποψία εκπάγλου ομορφιάς.
Συνέχισε την περιπλάνησή της.
Η κούραση και το αναπάντητο, το επαναλαμβανόμενο, φαινόταν ήδη στον βηματισμό της. Άτονος.
Την εικοστή φορά που μπήκε στην πλατεία ένοιωσε την παρουσία κι άλλου ζωντανού. Το μύρισε, το διαισθάνθηκε, το σίγουρο ήταν ότι το είδε μπροστά της να καταβροχθίζει κάτι που πριν ώρες πρέπει να ήταν κοτόπουλο. Καθόλου δεν ταράχτηκε, συνέχισε την απόλαυση.
Ήταν ένα κακοζωισμένο, μαλλιαρό, θεοβρώμικο, μικρόσωμο σκυλάκι. Όταν πλησίασε αρκετά, απόρρησε κι η ίδια πως και δεν του απηύθυνε την ερώτηση που τόση ώρα τη βασάνιζε. Γύρισε, την κοίταξε, καθόλου δεν τρόμαξε, μετά βίας ξεχώριζαν δύο ολοστρόγγυλα μαύρα μάτια χαμένα πίσω από πλήθος, υπόπτου καθαριότητας, τριχών.
Της φάνηκε ή όχι ότι σαν άνθρωπος σήκωσε το ένα πόδι, σφούγγισε το στόμα, και ξεκίνησε.
Μπροστά αυτός, πίσω αυτή, σ’ ένα νωθρό περίπατο. Άφησαν πίσω τους την πλατεία, την πρώτη ομόκεντρη γειτονιά, και πήραν το δρόμο δυτικά. Τα απρόσωπα εμπορικά δώσαν τη θέση τους στα σπίτια με τα κεραμίδια και τα χρώματα, τις αυλές με τα γιασεμιά, τα αγιοκλιματά, τις γαζίες, τις τριανταφυλλιές.
Ήταν προχωρημένος Μάιος.
Η μαγιάτικη ζέστη, συνηγορούσης και της σκόνης των δρόμων, δεν διευκόλυναν το περπάτημα, αλλά δεν αφαιρούσαν και κάτι από τη σιωπή.
Αυτή σε πλάκωνε. Η απουσία των ανθρώπων, η «άκρα του τάφου» σιωπή, προκαλούσαν ένα φόβο, που σταδιακά εξελισσόταν σε πανικό. Ο σκύλος γύριζε που και που και κοίταζε αν τον ακολουθούσε. Ακόμη δεν ήξερε γιατί το έκανε. Ίσως γύρευε την απάντηση για την ερήμωση της πόλης.
Τι γύρευε αυτή σ’ αυτό το κοιμητήριο; Τι ζητάει σ’ ένα κόσμο μόνη; Και η αποστολή της;
Ποιά απειλή έδιωξε τους ανθρώπους της; Σε ποιά μονοπάτια μπήκαν οι ζωές τους;
Μήπως έχει πεθάνει και δεν το ξέρει; Μήπως αναίτια ζει;
Μήπως γνώριμους ζητάει να διώξει το κακό, το κακό που διαισθανόταν;
Η αιωρούμενη απειλή ακολουθούσε ως ίσκιος όπως αυτή το σκύλο.
Τα χονδροπάπουτσα, καθώς σερνόταν, σήκωναν τη σκόνη ανακατεύοντας την με τις μυρωδιές των κήπων.
Σαν σημείωμα της φάνηκε.
Το σίγουρο ήταν, αν έκρινε από τα αποφάγια, οι άνθρωποι έφυγαν εσπευσμένα. Η απειλή ήταν ξαφνική. Η εκκένωση έγινε «εν μία νυκτί».
Ο λόγος ήταν επιτακτικός. Δεν σήκωνε ολιγωρίες. Είπε να μπει σε κάποιο από τα σπίτια να δει. Μην ήταν κανένας άρρωστος, κανένας ανήμπορος, ηλικιωμένος; Να δει πως τ’ άφησαν. Τακτοποιημένα ή αφημένα όπως σε πανικό; Κι αν την λέγαν κλέφτρα; Αν την πιάνανε την ώρα που δρασκελούσε το κατώφλι;
Αν αόρατα μάτια την παρακολουθούσαν;
Ο φόβος τη λαχάνιασε. Μπορεί και η ανηφόρα.
Ξάφνου ένας υπόκωφος κτύπος έσπασε από μακριά τη σιωπή.
Επαναλαμβανόταν. Νταπ-νταπ.
Το σκυλί έστρεψε ανήσυχο κατά εκεί τα αυτιά του κι ακολούθησε το χτύπο.
Νταπ-νταπ κι από πίσω αυτή.
Επιτέλους κάτι κινείται εκτός από αυτούς. Καθώς πλησίαζαν ο ήχος γινόταν πιο δυνατός.
Ανησυχούσε τώρα για το τί, την προκαλούσε.
Φθάσαν μπροστά σε μια αυλή, με υψηλούς μαντρότοιχους. Η παλιά ξύλινη αυλόπορτα, μισάνοιχτη. Χώθηκε ο σκύλος στο άνοιγμα, παραμέρισε κι αυτή, ακολούθησε από πίσω.
Κάτω από μια συκιά, μια υψηλή γυναίκα, σωματώδης με ανασηκωμένα μανίκια, μαζεμένα φούστα και μεσοφόρια, έσκαβε με έναν κασμά.
Τα μαλλιά της συγκρατούσε λευκό μαντήλι, και οι άσπρες γάμπες της άστραφταν δίπλα σε χώματα, βγαλμένα από πρόσφατο ανοιγμένο λάκκο, χώματα παράξενα, κόκκινα-άλικα. Δίπλα και ανάμεσά τους περήφανα στεκόταν μεγάλα κιούπια.
Μεγάλα κιούπια, δίπλα στα κόκκινα χώματα.
Ο ιδρώτας γυάλιζε σ’ όλο το μέτωπο όταν γύρισε να τους κοιτάξει, το σκύλο κι αυτή.
Έδειξε απορρημένη αλλά για λίγο.
- Βιάζομαι, είπε και ξαναγύρισε στο σκάψιμο. Πρέπει να προλάβω.
- Τους άλλους; τόλμησα να πω. Ο σκύλος γαύγισε δίπλα μου.
- Φύγαν.
- Πού;
- Ποιος ξέρει; Πόλεμος γίνεται. Πόλεμος. Εγώ θάβω τα κιούπια με τυρί, μέλι, λάδι, στάρι. Θα τα χρειασθούν τα παιδιά μου.
- Συ πούθε έρχεσαι; Ξενομερίτισσα μοιάζεις. Αλλόκοτη η θωριά σου. Τα μαλλιά σαν το χώμα είναι κόκκινα. Άλικα, κόκκινα. Τι ζητάς;
- Μαρία με λένε. Η Μαρία του Λάμπη.
- Εγώ; Άμπα δεν φεύγω. Θα μείνω να τελειώσω την ταφή, μέλι, λάδι, στάρι και κρασί. Αντέχουν στο χώμα... ποιό χώμα δηλαδή; Κόκκινο βάφθηκε. Λες από το αίμα; Το αίμα των νεκρών;
- Εγώ; Άμπα δεν φεύγω. Θα μείνω να τελειώσω την ταφή, μέλι, λάδι, στάρι και κρασί. Αντέχουν στο χώμα... ποιό χώμα δηλαδή; Κόκκινο βάφθηκε. Λες από το αίμα; Το αίμα των νεκρών;
- Δεν ξέρω. Εγώ από όνειρο έρχομαι σε όνειρο χάνομαι. Τις μνήμες των νεκρών κουβαλάω. Αναζητάω τους ανθρώπους να τις δώσω. Κάπου να τις εναποθέσω. Μου είπαν: «Τα κόκκινα μαλλιά όσο κρατούν εσύ να ψάχνεις. Μην κουραστείς! Μην σταματήσεις! Ο κόσμος πρέπει να ξέρει. Να ξέρει τους νεκρούς».
English Translation
Title: Crimson Red
Written by Maria Toloudi
She’s been wandering for hours in the empty square and the surrounding streets.
She was coming in and out, like those little figures in the city center clock, in search of a human being.
Both, the square and the streets were empty. Tin cans were ditched on the tarmac, remnants of food, and wrappers from the countless canteens in the area.
The breeze that blew from time to time stirred the paper napkins, and forced a shutter to batter against the wall, breaking a persistent silence.
The whole place seemed to have been abandoned in a rush. That was what the remains of food, beer cans, and soda meant to say, coming in contact with her feet as she dragged and kicked them because of despair and fatigue.
Just a single human. Is there anybody here? Where are they all gone? She felt like fatigue of a long voyage fell upon her. She sought friends, maybe strangers, someone, for cryin’ out loud, to complete her mission. All had disappeared. People that she’s been looking for. She felt a sour taste in her mouth, a bitterness of disappointment.
What did exactly happen, she wondered. She seemed to be the last person in this small town for sure.
English Translation
Title: Crimson Red
Written by Maria Toloudi
She’s been wandering for hours in the empty square and the surrounding streets.
She was coming in and out, like those little figures in the city center clock, in search of a human being.
Both, the square and the streets were empty. Tin cans were ditched on the tarmac, remnants of food, and wrappers from the countless canteens in the area.
The breeze that blew from time to time stirred the paper napkins, and forced a shutter to batter against the wall, breaking a persistent silence.
The whole place seemed to have been abandoned in a rush. That was what the remains of food, beer cans, and soda meant to say, coming in contact with her feet as she dragged and kicked them because of despair and fatigue.
Just a single human. Is there anybody here? Where are they all gone? She felt like fatigue of a long voyage fell upon her. She sought friends, maybe strangers, someone, for cryin’ out loud, to complete her mission. All had disappeared. People that she’s been looking for. She felt a sour taste in her mouth, a bitterness of disappointment.
What did exactly happen, she wondered. She seemed to be the last person in this small town for sure.
It crossed her mind whether they were hidden behind curtains and peeked through the lace. She quickly dismissed that. She looked at herself carefully to make sure there was nothing that might have scared them, something alien, or repulsive. Besides vast amounts of dust on her thick coat and her hefty boots, she didn’t notice anything else.
Her hair. Oh yes! Them!
It was her hair that scared them. Red and long like flames, messy, framing untidily her pale face by allowing, through centuries old dust, an allegedly exceptional beauty to be exposed.
She continued her meandering.
Her fatigue and the unresponsiveness, the monotonous, was already manifested in her pace. Languid.
The twentieth time she entered the square she felt the presence of another being. She smelled it, she sensed it, for sure she saw it in front of her to devour something that few hours ago must have been a chicken. Not at all upset, it continued its delight.
It was a harsh-living, hairy, dirty, little dog. After she came close, she wondered how she didn’t ask it the question that distressed her for so long. It turned around, it looked at her, not at all frightened, you could hardly distinguish two perfectly round black eyes, lost behind the swarm of bristles of questionable freshness.
It seemed to her that it lifted one foot like a man, sponged its mouth and departed.
With the dog in front and her in the back, they continued a lethargic walk. They left the square behind, and then the first nearby neighborhood, and took the street to the west. The impersonal commercial sites were swapped for houses with roof tiles and colors, courtyards with jasmine, grapevines, and roses.
It was close to the end of May.
The May heat, reinforced by the dust of the roads, did not make the walking easier, but also did not deprive anything of the quietness.
It was the silence that overwhelmed her. The absence of people, the cemetery-like stillness initiated an anxiety that gradually turned into panic. The dog turned around and looked, to see whether she was still following. Yet she didn’t know why she did it. Maybe she looked for an answer about the desolation of the city.
What was she looking for in that cemetery? What was she looking for in this world all of her own? How about her mission?
Which menace drove her people away? Which pathways have their lives turned to?
Had she already died and she wasn’t yet aware? Does she still live without a reason?
Or is she looking for friends to chase the wickedness away, the evil that she felt approaching?
The hanging peril followed her like a shadow, just like she followed the dog.
Her brogan stirred the dust, mixing it with the scent of gardens.
It appeared to her as a paper-note.
Sure thing, if she had to guess from the food leftovers, people must have fled in a rush. The threat was unexpected. The evacuation took place "overnight".
The reason was compelling. It couldn't accommodate delays. She thought of entering one of the houses to see. Whether there were any people left in it, ill, helpless, elderly. To see how they had abandoned the house. Tidy or deserted like in a rush? What if they blamed her to be a burglar? What if they caught her when she stepped over the threshold?
What if unseen eyes were still watching her?
She gasped from anguish. Maybe from the uphill walk.
Suddenly a thud broke the silence from far away.
It kept repeating. Dap-dap.
The dog twisted restless its ears in that direction and went after the beat.
It advanced... dap-dap, and her behind it.
Finally, something other than them appeared to be moving. As they approached the sound became louder.
She was now worried about what it was; it excited her.
They arrived in front of a courtyard with huge walls. The old wooden gate stood half open. The dog pressed through the opening, she stood aside and she trailed behind.
Under a fig tree, a tall beefy woman with raised sleeves, an amassed skirt and petticoats, was digging with a pick.
A white scarf held her hair together, and her pale legs were gleaming beside the earth plucked from a recently dug pit; strange soils, crimson red. Beside and between them large pots stood proudly.
Large sized pots they were, alongside the red soil.
Her sweat sparkled all over her forehead as she turned to look at them, her and the dog.
She appeared worrisome, but not for long.
- I’m in a hurry, she said, and went back to digging. I have to catch up.
- The rest of them? I dared ask. The dog barked beside me.
- They've left.
- Where to?
- Who knows? There’s a war going on. A war. I’m concealing the pots with cheese, honey, oil, and wheat. My children will need it.
- How about you? Where do you come from? You look like a stranger. A peculiar face you got. Your hair is red as the soil. Scarlet, red. What are you looking for?
- My name is Maria. Maria of Lampis.
- Me? No way, I’m not going. I’ll stay here to complete the burial, honey, oil, wheat and wine. They are quite resilient to the soil; what kind of soil has this become anyways? It’s been tinted red. Would you say it’s the blood? The blood of the dead?
- Don’t know. I come from a dream; into a dream I will be lost. I am bearing the memories of the dead. I am seeking out the human beings to pass them to. Somewhere to lay them down. They told me: "As long as your red hair stands, keep searching. Don’t get exhausted! Don’t rest! People have to find out. To learn about the dead."
Her hair. Oh yes! Them!
It was her hair that scared them. Red and long like flames, messy, framing untidily her pale face by allowing, through centuries old dust, an allegedly exceptional beauty to be exposed.
She continued her meandering.
Her fatigue and the unresponsiveness, the monotonous, was already manifested in her pace. Languid.
The twentieth time she entered the square she felt the presence of another being. She smelled it, she sensed it, for sure she saw it in front of her to devour something that few hours ago must have been a chicken. Not at all upset, it continued its delight.
It was a harsh-living, hairy, dirty, little dog. After she came close, she wondered how she didn’t ask it the question that distressed her for so long. It turned around, it looked at her, not at all frightened, you could hardly distinguish two perfectly round black eyes, lost behind the swarm of bristles of questionable freshness.
It seemed to her that it lifted one foot like a man, sponged its mouth and departed.
With the dog in front and her in the back, they continued a lethargic walk. They left the square behind, and then the first nearby neighborhood, and took the street to the west. The impersonal commercial sites were swapped for houses with roof tiles and colors, courtyards with jasmine, grapevines, and roses.
It was close to the end of May.
The May heat, reinforced by the dust of the roads, did not make the walking easier, but also did not deprive anything of the quietness.
It was the silence that overwhelmed her. The absence of people, the cemetery-like stillness initiated an anxiety that gradually turned into panic. The dog turned around and looked, to see whether she was still following. Yet she didn’t know why she did it. Maybe she looked for an answer about the desolation of the city.
What was she looking for in that cemetery? What was she looking for in this world all of her own? How about her mission?
Which menace drove her people away? Which pathways have their lives turned to?
Had she already died and she wasn’t yet aware? Does she still live without a reason?
Or is she looking for friends to chase the wickedness away, the evil that she felt approaching?
The hanging peril followed her like a shadow, just like she followed the dog.
Her brogan stirred the dust, mixing it with the scent of gardens.
It appeared to her as a paper-note.
Sure thing, if she had to guess from the food leftovers, people must have fled in a rush. The threat was unexpected. The evacuation took place "overnight".
The reason was compelling. It couldn't accommodate delays. She thought of entering one of the houses to see. Whether there were any people left in it, ill, helpless, elderly. To see how they had abandoned the house. Tidy or deserted like in a rush? What if they blamed her to be a burglar? What if they caught her when she stepped over the threshold?
What if unseen eyes were still watching her?
She gasped from anguish. Maybe from the uphill walk.
Suddenly a thud broke the silence from far away.
It kept repeating. Dap-dap.
The dog twisted restless its ears in that direction and went after the beat.
It advanced... dap-dap, and her behind it.
Finally, something other than them appeared to be moving. As they approached the sound became louder.
She was now worried about what it was; it excited her.
They arrived in front of a courtyard with huge walls. The old wooden gate stood half open. The dog pressed through the opening, she stood aside and she trailed behind.
Under a fig tree, a tall beefy woman with raised sleeves, an amassed skirt and petticoats, was digging with a pick.
A white scarf held her hair together, and her pale legs were gleaming beside the earth plucked from a recently dug pit; strange soils, crimson red. Beside and between them large pots stood proudly.
Large sized pots they were, alongside the red soil.
Her sweat sparkled all over her forehead as she turned to look at them, her and the dog.
She appeared worrisome, but not for long.
- I’m in a hurry, she said, and went back to digging. I have to catch up.
- The rest of them? I dared ask. The dog barked beside me.
- They've left.
- Where to?
- Who knows? There’s a war going on. A war. I’m concealing the pots with cheese, honey, oil, and wheat. My children will need it.
- How about you? Where do you come from? You look like a stranger. A peculiar face you got. Your hair is red as the soil. Scarlet, red. What are you looking for?
- My name is Maria. Maria of Lampis.
- Me? No way, I’m not going. I’ll stay here to complete the burial, honey, oil, wheat and wine. They are quite resilient to the soil; what kind of soil has this become anyways? It’s been tinted red. Would you say it’s the blood? The blood of the dead?
- Don’t know. I come from a dream; into a dream I will be lost. I am bearing the memories of the dead. I am seeking out the human beings to pass them to. Somewhere to lay them down. They told me: "As long as your red hair stands, keep searching. Don’t get exhausted! Don’t rest! People have to find out. To learn about the dead."
