Thoreau Bound, page 55
Tears streamed from his face like a statue in the rain. He raised his hands to the evening sky.
“Peggio di cosi si muore! It could not be worse!”
More sirens blared, more vehicles topped with swirling lights drove on the paved street lined with restaurants that faced the dock. A policeman had grabbed the arm of Mother Whackanzakis, and she shook herself free, then strode to the police chief to explain that her girls were good. The chief grabbed her arm then yanked the woman toward a waiting police wagon.
“Stop,” I said, stepping in front of the police chief to block his path. “She’s a woman, treat her gently. And until she’s had the chance to see a lawyer, to tell her side of the story, and to get a fair trial, she is as innocent as your mother or your sister or your wife.”
It may have been that I underestimated the innocence of that policeman’s female relations. Nevertheless, the savvy Greeks found a way to do their job without doing me harm. With a “Sorry, Mister Thoreau,” a fishnet made from thick rope was dropped over my head and body, then tied to a post so that I could not move forward and interfere with the arrests.
At the same time, a policeman seized the arm of the young Dolcezza.
Panzano watched helplessly until he remembered her feminine kiss, and the man-making words of the Mother-nun. With a raging shout, he charged forward like a ram. Empowered by love, he knocked down policeman after policeman the way a bowling ball tumbles the ten pins.
It took six strong men to hold him and then wrestle him to the deck. After a fierce struggle, with his arms tied behind his back, he crawled from a swarm of officers and then stood up on his knees to shout his last words to his love.
“Coraggio, Dolcezza, courage!” Panzano yelled. “Le do una mano fin dove posso! I’ll help you as much as I can!”
62
A Can of Worms Never Opens Itself
When I stepped through the doorway of the courtroom I was relieved to see that the judge was a woman, between seventy-five and eighty years old. My relief turned to disbelief as I read her gold nameplate: Judge Skleerokardos. And then disbelief plunged into despair when I glanced at the wall above her seat. There sat a framed etching by Gustave Doré, depicting souls in hell, masses of men and women chained together as they climbed a mountain, without hope, prisoners of their past misdeeds. Carved above the drawing on a wooden plaque were the large-lettered words:
Quivi sospiri pianti ed alti guai
Risonavan per l’aer senza stele!
From reading Dante, I knew these Italian words would mean:
‘Here sighs, and groans, and deep laments
Resounded through the starless air!’
The courtroom was packed with defendants and their relatives, the first group waiting to be tried, and the second waiting to weep over the results. I found a seat beside Pateras, who squeezed my hand with fatherly warmth and encouragement.
“Pay attention to this judge, Thoreau. I know her as well as anyone, and I know her type. In her entire body there is not one unselfish bone. They have a dozen names for her here: some have said she is ‘pathologically willful,’ others call her ‘the pit bull’. When she gets a notion in her head, a herd of wild bulls cannot drive it out. She’s the one who denied our petition to prevent coastal development, and she presided over the case that sent Kosmos to the jail in Athens for twenty years. Maybe the third time with her will be luckier. What do you think?”
“Court is now in session,” boomed the solemn voice of the bailiff. “All rise.”
We stood up as the Judge climbed the steps to her padded seat, and we sat down when she banged her gavel three times against her desk. Turning her head slowly, she examined the faces in the courtroom.
“A can of worms,” she said, “never opens itself.”
Random titters at this canny remark brought her gavel crashing against the desk, and the instant she shouted “Silence!” there was silence absolute. The Judge placed a pillow on her desk then held up a black feather. She dropped the feather and it swayed down back and forth until it landed on the pillow without a sound.
“Did you hear that?” the Judge bellowed. “If you cannot hear the feather falling on the pillow case, then there is too much noise in my courtroom!”
She glared at the roomful of lawyers, defendants, reporters, and relatives.
“What do I mean when I say, ‘A can of worms never opens itself’? ... I mean that this court accepts no excuses — no excuses! — for breaking the laws of this land. Every adult must be responsible for his or her own actions, and accept the consequences that those actions bring. My job is to uphold the law, in order to protect the law-abiding citizens from the lawless ones. ... Let us now hear the first case.”
Pateras studied her two stern eyes that, long ago, had lost compassion’s humanizing gleam. With his sharp elbow he jabbed my ribs.
“They say,” he said, “that her backside is so hard it can cut diamonds. And that whenever a man stands in front of her, he feels like his two delicate olives are being hammered between her gavel and her desk.”
“Is she any more compassionate towards women?” I asked.
“Towards women she is even worse,” Pateras whispered. “She thinks that women are stronger than men, and therefore women should set examples for good conduct. And woe to the ones who do not.”
An attorney in a white suit sheepishly approached the Judge’s bench.
“Your honor,” he said, “as you know, six months ago the teenaged boys on Crete began to imitate a bizarre fad started in Athens two years ago: they are eating cats. A victim of this irresistible peer pressure, my 16-year-old client — who has pleaded innocent — is accused of eating his neighbor’s favorite pet.”
“I do not see the defendant in the courtroom,” said the Judge.
“Your Honor,” the attorney meekly replied. “From eating the cat he is sick in the stomach — ”
“Counselor!” shouted the Judge. “Your client will appear in this court by three p.m. today or I will send a cat that will eat him for lunch and you for dessert. Next case!”
Another suited attorney creeped before the bench.
“Your honor, my client is an American — ”
“We will not hold that against him,” said the Judge. “Unless he admits to it. Continue, counselor.”
“He became involved in a wrestling match with the chef-owner of the best restaurant in Crete. My client simply said that he did not like the coffee — ”
“Wait a moment, counselor,” said the Judge, as she glanced at papers on her desk. “What were the defendant’s exact words?”
“My client said — ”
“Speak loudly enough for the whole courtroom to hear,” said the Judge.
“My client said: ‘This coffee is so weak, it is holding on to the sides of the cup.’”
Laughter tried to ring around the courtroom but three poundings from the gavel beat it back.
“I’ve been told,” said the Judge, “that we have some of that coffee here today. Let me have a cup.”
And after she had tasted half of it, she said, “This coffee is superb. In pronouncing my sentence, I want to emphasize two factors. Firstly, to insult our coffee — or our bread, our olive oil, our wine — is to insult the entire national character of the Greeks. Why? Because everything that we create is made with quality and pride. And secondly, we must protect our society from fools who have prejudices instead of artistic tastes, the self-deceivers who call themselves critics of food, culture, politics, or art. When these idiots gain power and prestige, then the worst things are praised as the best things, and the best things die from neglect. ... Now in this case, since there were no damages to the chef himself or to any property, I order that the defendant pay a sum of five-thousand Euros —”
The crowd murmured in shock at the announcement of this large sum, wondering how much more strongly the Judge would punish those who were convicted of a more serious offense.
“ — five thousand Euros to be paid to our city’s general fund. In addition, for the remainder of the defendant’s vacation in Crete, he will be banned from entering all eating establishments. He is permitted to drink drinks and to eat food only from bottles and cans.”
The Judge shuffled some papers on her desk.
“We have heard cases of eating and drinking,” she said. “now we have a woman accused of being merry. Counselor may approach the bench.”
“Your honor,” said the lawyer. “My client, the defendant, owns a store on Sagapodia Avenue, where she sells kisses to lonely men. Her customers are separated from her by a wall, and she kisses their lips through a cut-out hole. We have provided proof that there is nothing more to it than that: no other body contact, I mean. We intend to defend our client with a simple and indisputable argument. Kissing is not harmful, and self-employment is not harmful, and therefore my client should be permitted to remain in business, without interference from the court.”
“Counselor,” said the Judge. “Please take the stand ... If I sprinkled a few drops of water on your head, would that hurt you?”
“Of course not, your honor.”
“And if I dropped a handful of clay soil on your head?”
“No, your honor, that would not hurt at all.”
“But suppose,” said the Judge, “that I mixed that water and clay-soil, baked it in a high-temperature oven, and then dropped this brick onto your head. Would that hurt you?”
“Yes, but Your Honor — ”
“My honor has nothing to do with it!” snapped Judge said. “It is the honor of your client and her clientele that I am concerned about. The kissing store will be closed immediately, and a fine of ten thousand Euros will be remanded to our town’s treasury. Next case.”
Pateras stood up and then approached the Judge.
“Judge Skleerokardos,” he said. “My first client has been accused of obstructing justice. The Tourist Police were attempting to make arrests, and he — one man alone — knocked down ten officers before six more policemen wrestled him to the ground. I request that my client be rewarded one thousand Euros.”
The Judge shook her head.
“And why does a man who breaks the law deserve to be rewarded?”
Pateras coolly replied.
“My client provided a valuable public service. He demonstrated that the town’s police officers are in such poor physical condition that it takes more than a dozen of them to subdue one flabby tourist run amok.”
“Your client may take the stand,” said the Judge.
When Pateras looked towards the doors of the courtroom, the Judge said: “If your client does not appear then his bail money will be forfeited, his trial will be postponed, and he will remain incarcerated until that next trial.”
After tense seconds, two wooden doors opened, followed by an out-of-breath Panzano running into the courtroom.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Judge,” he said. “I am so sorry to be not on time. Tardiness runs in my family, like the revenge of Montezuma. My father always looks at me and says: ‘Some men are born late, others achieve lateness, others have lateness thrust upon them.’ And my mother tells me ‘Panzano, you will be late for your own funeral.’”
“You just were,” said the Judge. “Sit down on the witness stand then tell the court your name.”
“I am Panzano Panettone.”
“You have admitted,” said the Judge, “that the charges against you are true?”
“I knocked down the policemen,” Panzano said. “I was not thinking before I was doing. Piu stupido di cosi si muore — nobody could be more stupid than that.”
“Can you explain your actions, Panzano?” the Judge asked.
“I was in love with a nun named Dolcezza, and the police were taking her away.”
The Judge grimaced as she shook her head.
“What is the problem with this beast called Love, that countless crimes are perpetrated in her name? So many men, so many stuporous moments. ... Panzano, no matter how much you are in love, you are not permitted to defy the law. You had known the woman for how long?”
Laughter shook the courtroom after Panzano replied:
“For a long time, your honor. For almost twelve hours!”
The Judge’s cold-stone eyes rolled upwards.
“It has been well-documented that testosterone impairs the functioning of the human brain. Do you still believe that those spasmodic glandular eruptions could constitute even the flimsiest shadow of genuine Love?”
Pateras translated that sentence by whispering into the ear of his client these simple words: ‘Are you still in love with her?’
And then Panzano replied: “Last week she confessed to me that her name is not Dolcezza and she is not a nun. And I told her that I will love her forever, no matter what her name is and no matter what she has done.”
Knowing what was coming, Pateras tried to slow down the avalanche.
“Judge Skleerokardos,” he said, “I would like to remind the court that in the brief scuffle with Mr. Panettone, no officers were injured.”
The Judge signed a paper then handed it to her clerk.
“Mr. Panettone, it is clear to me that you enjoy knocking things down. Therefore I order that you be sent to our town prison, where you will be provided with a hammer to knock down large chunks of stones. Based on your conduct during the first week, the length of your term in jail will be decided at a future time. Next case.”
As he left the stand Panzano shouted: “If it will help Dolcezza I will knock down every mountain in Greece!”
Twelve women sat down in two rows of seats at the front of the courtroom, to the left of the Judge. Pateras spoke a few words to the women and then faced the Judge’s bench.
“Judge Skleerokardos,” he said, “I would like to introduce my twelve clients to the court. These first ten have been called Forza, Donnabella, Volutta, Scherza, Agevolezza, Impetuosamenta, Anima, Celerita, Bria, Voleggianda. They are not the nuns that they pretended to be. They are gypsies, by profession, and their real names are Katerina, Meli, Romantza, Thalia, Cinarella, Fenella, Floure, Kisaiya, Mizella and Narilla.”
The gypsies had been cleaned and dressed in simple dresses, which made them look slender and poised and alert, like cats eager to escape the house.
“My next client, Mother Zitella Whackanzakis, is here before you because out of pity from her large heart, she tried to help these gypsies to escape. And my last client also befriended the gypsy women and tried to help them. As a nun she was known as Dolcezza, but in reality she is a student at the University in Athens. She is my granddaughter and her name is Irene.”
Panzano applauded and the crowd in the courtroom buzzed until the gavel hammered three times against the desk. The Judge spoke.
“The ten defendants accused of robbery and fraud have agreed to make a full confession of their crimes, on the condition that all charges would be dropped against Mother Whackanzakis and Irene. To those terms the court agrees.”
The Judge instructed Mother Whackanzakis and Irene to leave the defendants’ seats but remain in the courtroom; and then she held up a booklet with many pages.
“Before me, I have a list of complaints against the ten defendants, a list as long as the Iliad. Pickpocketing. Shoplifting. Collecting money for nonexistent charities. Begging in public places. Kissing a man with two lips while snatching his wallet with one hand. Swiping breads and cheeses from bakeries and shops.”
“Judge Skleerokardos,” said Pateras. “Before pronouncing sentences, I would like the court to consider the defendants’ youth and circumstances. Additionally I propose that since a term in confinement would be an excessive hardship on these women who have always lived in the outdoors, I will volunteer myself to serve their entire terms in jail. And I can guarantee that never again will they commit these crimes.”
“Pateras,” said the Judge. “You would like to guarantee that, but you cannot. It is impossible to blot out the stains of a criminal heart as easily as one wipes a blackboard with a sponge. The court denies your request. If there is no other evidence to present, then — for the safety of the citizens and the tourists of Crete — I will now recommend my sentence. One hundred years in total: for each one of the defendants, ten years in jail with no parole.”
Wails and shouts from the courtroom, at the harshness of the punishment, quickly evaporated when the Judge banged her gavel and shouted:
“If we do not get silence immediately then I will clear this court!”
Silence. Heartlessly did her eyes flash.
“Ten years each, to begin — ”
The heavy doors of the courtroom swung open and in walked a man in his mid-fifties, supported by a cane in his right hand, and a well-built woman on his left.
“I have come from Athens,” he said, “thanks to the efforts of a young man named Panzano, who drove me to Piraeus and then paid my boat fare from there to here. I have something urgent to say about the problem of the gypsies.”
The Judged shook her head.
“The evidence against them is overwhelming, and the defendants have admitted their guilt. It is too late.”
“Is it ever too late,” asked Kosmos, “to discover the whole truth, and to do what is good and right?”
There was a silent pause as the Judge weighed these words on the tipsy scales that balance Truth, Justice, and Efficiency. She looked behind her, on the wall, at the motto from Dante’s hopeless hell. She sipped the last mouthful of cold coffee, and then drummed her fingers against her desk. At last, glancing at her gold watch — or gold locket — she shook her head and sighed.
“The court will hear you,” said the Judge. “Take your seat on the witness stand.”
63
The Trial of the Gypsies
There is one photograph of the American bard that Walt Whitman-lovers especially love. Not the tilted-hat standing-up photo from Leaves of Grass; not the white-haired sitting-down picture that shows him one stanza away from death. This supreme photograph gives us a man smiling joyfully, filled with the great secret of life. He is confidence without vanity, boldness without aggression, love without shame. Tenderly, the Poet looks into your eyes, speaks to you alone, and with the voice of a brother he whispers, “Walk with me, just a little ways, and you will understand.”
