Chapter 2: Truce to be Told

DK981 was just chilling on her bed. The dark summer night in Athens was unbearable to cope with. Too much pollution and too much noise. She had burned her arms badly trying to fix her car breaking down in the middle of the motorway that went across Athens. She had to drive through twice a day, to visit Orestis in the hospital. She did not feel too much pain, or rather, she had a way of copying with it since she was very little. She was ridiculously bored; she played her piano and sang 'Riders on the Storm' by the Doors but she felt like she needed to practice more. Her fingers where rusty. Then she thought to herself maybe it is about time she starts putting all Anna's memories together, maybe in the form of a digital diary. She sat on her notebook and started to write. As the thoughts flowed inside her head she felt unstoppable. She had to fix them in a proper order. So she wrote and wrote and wrote. 


I had lived a difficult life so far, yet always managing things on my own. My friends of course played a big part on this, with the most drastic being, perhaps Eleni. This woman was strong and got me out of madness at all times, and mostly, getting my out of my prison in Bedford Street South in 2009. She kept on reminding me that 'I survived the violence and the unknown so far' so I shouldn't be such a cry baby! She was the Athena to my Odysseus, divine, unreal, inteligent. if Jocke knew the whole story, he would probably say something cute, like: 'this was because I am from the island of Cephallonia, next to Ithaka, just like Odysseus'. I did not have to explain to him about the epic, he had watched the tales of King of Ithaca on Swedish TV when he was little, just as I have always admired the  strong sons of Odin. Inter-cultural exchange between the south and the north of Europe was a common phenomenon of the 80s when we both grew up. Him in the furthest north and I on the south.  In fact, when he told me his middle name was Nils, I almost let out a girly cry: 'HEY, just like Nils Holgersson'. However, to return to my somehow magical self-sufficiency, I was totally obsessed with Odysseus from a young age. Being from where I'm from, most of the village elders (including my older uncles and grandfathers) could recite whole rhapsodies just for fun, at a drinking party, or when we went hunting and fishing.  Then, as a student in Athens, Greece, I had to cope with both the Iliad and the Odyssey at school, some of it in the authentic Homeric verses. 


As an adult  classicist, I taught the Odyssey for some years, in a private high school in Athens, in Liverpool University and in a college in Blackburn. I found it almost as medicinal as cooking. I identified with Odysseus, because he was a smart motherfucker. Every time, the reaction of my students was the same: they loved it. Everyone loved Odysseus, especially boys, although they had a problem with Telemachus. He was an undecided, young teen like them, who thought he knew more that he did. The girls where slightly upset about him shagging his way through the Mediterranean sea, but they literally loved Circe: especially the heart-broken ones. She was independent and magical. My class in Blackburn used to laugh when I told them that Odysseus threatened her with 'his sword'. Kerry used to call it his 'meat-sword'.  They somehow head-hunted me to teach them straight after, putting pressure on their other lecturers to hire me. I was honoured. 

I was extremely happy to teach them. In a lot of ways, they reminded me of myself, just slightly wiser. On my fridge, in Sweden, I had a picture they painted for me. Alex, a gifted student of mine, drew the Divine Hierarchy in Homer. It was manga style drawings. Zeus was at the top. He was happy and bearded, surrounded by lightnings. Then right below there were Poseidon and Hades. According to Alex 'they were only slightly lower'. Poseidon had a dark, shaggy beard and was swimming in the sea with octopus and fish in trendy shades that said ‘sup’ and ‘yo’ to one another. Hades was just darker and had a quite trimmed beard. Athena had bright eyes and ‘gave quite a bit of advice’. Circe was had enough power for the gods to warn about her. Hyperion was not really important to the rest of the gods but he had a white man’s blonde 'fro and he was 'important enough to get Zeus to do stuff'. Calypso had long wavy hair with flowers on. She was 'important for the gods to need her permission'. Cyclops had ‘no authority whatsoever’, but he had contacts (Poseidon). Hermes was something of a tea boy that 'at least got to take part in the meetings. My students were so funny, but Alex was one of a kind. I thought one day he would become a great illustrator or author. I was following his work on deviant art. I was excited about how they received the ancient tale of Odysseus.  I, also, had a small fascination with the King of Ithaka. I always thought of myself as him.

As every other Greek that respects his/herself, I left Greece at the not-so.tender tender age of 22 to move to Liverpool, UK. The transition was hard at first, yet I got used to it. I have always been an outcast, my whole life. My parents were immigrants in Sydney, Australia before I was born. The very same day I was born in Athens, Greece, my father naturalised me as an Australian citizen. We moved there for some months when I was thirteen years old, It was my first trip abroad and I was properly freaked out by the prospect of having to speak or write in English. As my parents still had bonds and business in Australia, I had to adapt, so my mother sent me to school for a few months. It was her idea of learning English. I was thrown properly into deep waters and I did not like it at all. But I got used to it and in the end, when we were about to move back to Greece I just felt sorry and upset, the same way I felt when we left Greece for Oz. I did my first degree in Athens, in Theatrical Studies, but my love for the ancient world grew so big that I decided to pursue an academic career as a classicist, specialised in the social aspects of ancient theatre in Southern Europe. I was in general a person interested in so many dfferent things: a scatterbrain. Maro always said that I was different. I played the piano and sang a little. I was actually raised almost girly doing classical ballet and french and all, only to brave myself  to fencing during my University studies in Britain. Yorgos was there too, supporting my boy-sides, unlike other males,  yet he has always been selfish and absent. I did not know he was like that, until after I agreed to marry him. He loved me, but in all the ways he wanted to love me; not the way I needed to be loved. He was supporting and giving, but also needy and, well, as I figured out later, nuts.

After my separation from Yorgos, my life changed a lot. I spent a whole month locked in 4 Normanton Avenue cooking on occasion for Eleni and Cecilie. Despite not having enough money to afford a room of my own, they were kind and offered me a spot on Eleni's double bed. I was not enslaved to cook for them, of course, but I did it out of both courtesy and pleasure. It was a safety checkpoint for me. It was the only thing I had in common with my previous state of being, during my four year marriage to Yorgos. Ever since then, I’ve always found cooking to be medicinal. As my two housemates worked 9-5 at the University, I was left alone for most of the day; these hours where as important to me as physiotherapy is for a person who’s been in a coma for years. With the little money I had, I bought some weed and smoked constantly, I spoke to friends I haven’t seen for at least 5 years. I remember vividly thinking that my relationship with Yorgos was absolute and addictive, despite its bad points. At first, I cried a lot, on my own and in Eleni’s arms. I wasn’t yet feeling comfortable with Cecilie, she was a bit distant and cold, although gentle to me, perhaps deep down understanding my condition. Thinking back, I believe I looked frightened. I remember looking at my face in the mirror and identifying fear, curiosity and disbelief, a little bit like my first memory of a fox, that hurt herself on a trap; She was found by me and my parents in the woods of Athens. My father brought it come and treated it. He did not allow me to go near it as it was too feral and despite being hurt it would still try to stand up and walk away.

At this point, I was just scared of bumping randomly into Yorgos in Liverpool. I remember these days vividly. My fear of light in any shape or form, got worse when the weather went surprisingly sunny and bright. It was the June of 2009. The sky in Britain was glorious. Cecilie was going out for walks to the park with other people from our department, the School of Archaeology, Classics and Egyptology, and I was constantly invited. Part of me did not want to go as my marriage and runaway had been discussed  too much. Eleni had circulated an email around in which she blatantly stated who I was, what I did and how the University should protect me from him. It was about the 5^th day of my runaway when Cecilie stood before me and asked me if I want to go out to the park with her. I said no; I was frightened: four Normanton Avenue was my self-imposed jail. I will never forget the day Eleni got me out of there. It was a week after my trip back from Israel. She sat me down and finally convinced me to leave him, using pen and paper. 'You do not owe him anything, he owes you everything, she said. His degree, his world, his minimum sanity'. Eleni hired a van for me and never asked for the money back. She waited outside my flat wearing dark glasses and her excavation hat. Twenty minutes after he was gone, she rang my bell. I was gathering my things in the house in strategic places for a whole week. I was scared. She was brave. We sipped a few shots of tequila, finished packing and when the man with the van came over, I was as pale as a sheet. I had no idea of the future. I only knew I wouldn't be beaten and yelled at anymore. She held my hand and got me out. A few hours after we moved out together and after we washed all my clothes and organised my things in the small flat, her nose started to bleed. She was mentally exhausted. And so was I. She took a picture of me infront of all my things, giggling like a school girl. 'Now you have your freedom, you might as well pose like the Statue of Liberty in front of your shite' she said. And I did. 

It was approximately ten days after I left home I decided I’ve had enough of Liverpool and my new friend from Norway, Arne Christian, bought me a ticket to Trondheim. I went via London so I stayed a night over the Holland Road House with my bohemian Irish friend, Laura. It was a night in which I had to sleep on her porch with her friend, Alice. Sebastian, our good German was there too but hedid not stay over,  as he had a new beau who was jealous of all us ladies. I was so comfortable with my real friends, always. Because I knew I could be myself and they would encourage me to be so, just like I encouraged them to be themselves. Laura back then, lived in that weird house and had what Sebastian called ‘a bed that would put Odysseus in shame’. It was a large wooden bed brought from Thailand or india, nobody knew. The house had three floors and worn out lush furniture; yet it was in a bad condition. It served as a commune of Kiwi backpackers. There were mice in the kitchen. But it was fascinating staying there. It had two bathrooms and their walls were covered with cult and religious images from all over the world. Zoroastrian deities, Buddhas, Jesuses, everything pretty much but Allah, as it was natural, as Allah cannot be depicted. I was kind of sad to go to Norway, although I really enjoyed hanging out with my friends in that weird  place in London.

I loved Norway for several reasons: it was my first trip abroad after my marriage in which I felt truly free to do whatever the hell I wanted. Plus, it was mountainous, green and with a dark blue sea just nearby; a bit like Cephallonia, only significantly cooler. It was nice- I spent some time in Oslo and I visited a lot of museums, from Kon-tikki to Munch and Viking exhibitions. Everything was interesting and new. Back to England, I started relaxing. Summer moved on and I started making small plans for the future. I needed a job immediately and a place I could call home, for a while. It was about a month I left Yorgos abruptly and our miserable student flat in Bedford Street South, when my phone rang; it was one of those summer Saturdays when both Eleni and Cecilie would be at home. Cecilie was cooking her mother’s gulash recipe- beef stew cooked with cinnamon, potatoes and tomatoes.  The phone rang about three times more before I picked it- I was fascinated by the stories about Cecilie’s mother’s family. They were originally from Czech Republic but moved to Norway during the war. I looked at my mobile as I picked it. It was Daniil, my brother. Ever since that day I know that when he calls me, there is something serious going on. He told me dad had a stroke and a heart attack while in Cephallonia and was urgently transported  to Athens in a coma. I had to go back to Greece immediately. I had to go back to Athens then Cephallonia, face all my fears, relatives, my father's illness. The thought of Cephallonia filled me with joy- truth to be told. I was not allowed to go there for almost five years because of Yorgos. He was jealous of my male buddies and family. He was an anti-social man that thrived on keeping me to himself and bullying me. 

Prior to my trip, I went to meet my good friend Bob Goodman in Manchester and spent a day with him. I remember smoking a spliff prior to boarding and looking at the stones outside Manchester Airport and having flashbacks of the Cephallonian sea pebbles that were shiny and coloured like gems, yet hot and painful to walk on with no flip-flops. I went through Scylla and Charybdis that summer in Athens. Eleni came to visit for a few days. If she was not there, I would probably kill myself. I phoned my father figure and line manager at the time (I was working for a small publishing company) Andrew, and asked him to talk to me as the pain in my head was getting worse; for a few nights, I felt like I was hallucinating and my father’s health problems were sinking somehow into me. I thought I was close to a stroke myself. Once I calmed down a little I thought about it. A few years after, in Sweden, Marie-Lise, a French friend, told me that when someone dies, his closest relatives resemble him. She wisely added that 'this happens because humans need to carry their dead with them'. Virginia, our American friend, once said that when her mother died, she picked all her habits after staying next to her on her deathbed. She was a  girl body-builder that loved making pancakes for breakfast and knitted excessively after her mother died, picking her habits up…not quite your average person. Yet again, authors are funny people. Like me. If I can call myself an author, that is! Sometimes, I don't really know what I am. But I am most definitely, not a saint. That, I know. In times of truce, I retreat, and although I love my friends, I need my solitude. 'Like a lynx' as Jocke told me. 'Good that makes two of us' he added.