Thoreau Bound, page 57
“Where do you work, Mother?”
“In Rome, at ‘The Church of the Everlasting Bingo’. And at its branch office in Thessaloniki, in the ‘Home for the Nearly Virtuous’.”
“How did you first meet the ten defendants?”
“I received a letter, from an organization named WANDERBORE, stating that there were ten gypsies who needed help. I journeyed to Crete in order to bring them to Thessaloniki, where they would be safe from the police.”
The Judge looked into the eyes of the Mother-nun.
“Are you willing to accept the responsibility for managing these ten young women? I warn you to consider that these gypsies have lived nothing but vagabond lives. The wild grape seed does not often grow into a calm oak tree. Are you willing to take these women to another country, care for them as your own daughters, and support them there?”
“I am willing,” said the Mother-nun.
“You are willing but are you able?” asked the Judge. “Do you have resources to finance not only their food and housing, but also the passports and visas and paperwork, and the outrageous fees that the attorneys will demand for the simple act of preparing these legal documents?”
“I do not have the money for this,” said the Mother-nun.
Voices in the courtroom buzzed and then the Mother-nun spoke more.
“I have not enough money myself, but I know a man who has much more than he needs. He might be willing to pay the money, if I give him something that he wants.”
The Judge scribbled a note on her writing pad.
“As I consider this request, I would now ask the defendants if they are willing to place themselves under the legal guardianship of Mother Whackanzakis.”
Katerina jumped up.
“We are willing a million times!” she shouted. “If Mother Whackanzakis gets us out of this mess, we who preyed like tigers will graze like lambs. We will be good, I swear it! When she says ‘Jump!’ we will jump up to the moon, and when she hollers ‘Stop!’ then we will freeze in mid-air!”
The Judge motioned with her hand for Kosmos to step up to her bench beside her. She whispered into his ear.
“No, that would be impossible,” Kosmos said. “I cannot do that.”
The Judge banged her gavel twice.
“Then it will be my unfortunate duty to deny the request to —”
“Perimeneteh! Wait!” shouted Kosmos. “I agree to those slave-driving terms. I agree.”
Flat onto the desk the Judge lay her gavel down.
“In that case, pending the proof of funding and necessary paperwork, I order that the legal guardianship of the ten gypsies be placed in the honest hands of Mother Whackanzakis. Funding for this project must be provided to this court within thirty days. Until then the defendants will continue to be guests of our county jail. I warn the defendants that if the promised funding does not appear in thirty days, or if their conduct is unsatisfactory, then without hesitation I will recommend the original sentence of ten years each.”
“Might they do some community service work for a few hours a day during their jail time?” asked the Mother-nun.
“I will consider that request. This court is now adjourned until three p.m.”
The Judge stood up and packed her papers into a black briefcase. Kosmos approached her.
“How are you, my dear Judge?” he said. “I didn’t forget your birthday. Here is a card that I made myself.”
“I will read it later,” said the Judge. “I have time for one more story from you, Kosmos. Why are you limping and leaning on that cane?”
“It is nothing,” he said. “I was doing some civil disobedience in Agia Souvlakis, when a wall fell down and broke my hip. The doctor promised that I will be dancing in less than a year, though for the rest of my life I will have some pain or discomfort there. It’s good for me! That pain will never let me forget that in fifty-five years of living, there was one moment when I had the courage to stand up and fight for something that I loved with my whole heart.”
The Judge opened her gold locket, and then kissed the fifty-year-old photograph.
“I trust, Kosmos, that you will also not forget your part of the bargain we made today?”
Kosmos, with great affection, squeezed the elderly woman’s hand.
“I promise I will phone you one time every week, Mother dear.”
64
Poverty and Nakedness Do Not Matter
At Penelope’s house, in Agia Souvlakis, Kosmos had asked me to join his family and friends. The get-together would celebrate three miraculous events: Kosmos’s freedom, the trial of the gypsies, and what he called ‘shocking good news.’ When everyone — Penelope, Irene, Pateras, Aspasia, Ligeia, Georgios, Rakis, the wife of Rakis, and I — had gathered in the backyard garden and then undressed, Kosmos raised his wine glass.
“There is a an old Cretan saying I want to share with you,” he said. “‘Poverty and nakedness do not matter if you have a good wife.’ Today, for the first time in my life, I would like to discover if those words are true.”
With his arm around Penelope’s shoulders, he gazed at her affectionately.
“Penelope, you are the Crete that Homer raved about: ‘Ravisher of eyes, bountiful and many-manned, with ninety cities gleaming twixt her boundless hills.’ ... Let these bare witnesses bear witness that on this day I asked you to come live with me and be my wife.”
Penelope finished the last bite of her pear, then tossed it over her shoulder into the pumpkin patch.
“No,” she said. “I will not.”
The face of Kosmos wrinkled with shock and disappointment.
“No?” shouted Kosmos. “There are two kinds of noes. Do you mean the permanent ‘no’ that means never, the way the Spartans resolved to die before they let the Persians pass? Or do you mean the temporary ‘no’ that a woman says when she is flattered by the man’s advances, but can’t quite decide how much she loves and how much she desires?”
Penelope stuck both hands onto her hips.
“Do you mean,” she said, “the permanent husband, who is faithful to his wife? Or the temporary husband, who dances with Selena while thinking of Helena?”
Kosmos raised his hands to the sky.
“The Hindus have a theory that a man’s past actions haunt him throughout his reincarnated lives. I don’t know much about that. But I do know that what a man does in his past always runs up and catches him, just at the moment when he tries to transform himself into a nobler man.”
“Kosmos,” said Penelope. “A good marriage is both a pleasure and a business. For the business part to succeed, it needs a bit of money and a sound financial plan. If we were younger, then the money wouldn’t matter: we could live on water and lust. This morning I sent nearly my whole savings to help the gypsies, in case that well-meaning Mother-nun fails to get the funding that she needs. Now I have nothing saved, and I refuse to be financially supported by any man.”
“This news is wonderful, Penelope!” said Kosmos. “Yesterday afternoon, I asked Rakis to drive to Agios Nikolodeonos and take all my savings to the Mother-nun. Now we are poor, we can be poor together. We are lonely, we can be lonely together. We can’t afford new clothes, we can be naked together. Kosmos and Penelope make the perfect match!”
Penelope shook her head and then Kosmos touched her arm gently.
“Don’t do it for yourself, Penelope — do it for womankind. Marrying me takes one more rogue out of circulation. You’ll be a hero to the women of the world.”
Penelope laughed, still shaking her head.
“Between the two of us,” she said, “we could not cough up ten Euros for the marriage license.”
Kosmos reached for his pockets before he recalled that had no pockets and no pants — but even if he had been wearing pants, there would have been nothing in them to take out.
“Stay here, Penelope, I’ll be back in thirty minutes and I’ll ask to marry you again. What logic cannot conquer laughter can.”
Grabbing his cane, Kosmos hobbled into Penelope’s house, to the middle room where we had stored his furniture, books, and all the worldly possessions from his house in Dembacchae.
Pateras placed his hand on my shoulder then spoke in his deep voice.
“What an actress that woman is!” he said, laughing with a broad smile. “Don’t worry about her, Thoreau — you’ll soon see that Penelope is not as poor as she claims to be. I smell a wedding in the air this afternoon, and if they can survive together for the first three hours, then their marriage will last another fifty years. What about you, Thoreau — getting married this week? What are your plans?”
The old man’s directness made me laugh.
“My plans, Pateras? ... To stay single for as long as possible. And to stay in Greece until my money dries up, or my tourist visa expires — whichever comes first.”
Pateras smiled.
“When that money disappears, you should know that the experiment called Sextopias is still alive, and that you will be welcome there with open hearts, open arms, and open everything else. Aspasia and I are starting a new place near my home town. Ligeia is making something around Paleohora, and Priestos has a place near the Samaria Gorge. And that sweet couple Nikos and Hagfa — do you remember them? — have joined their lives, and found some land not far from Rethymnon. Don’t tell Kosmos yet — his next wife will break the good news later today — Penelope has plans for a community on the Greek mainland. That will be five groups, and I am happy about that, but secretly my heart wishes that there could be six.”
He squeezed my hand warmly, in such a way I wondered if he had just dropped a hint: I should consider becoming the founder of the sixth place.
“Pateras,” I said. “Are you certain that this world is ready for the free expression of sexuality and love?”
“This world may never be ready,” he said. “but it’s the only world we have. In every age, a handful of enlightened individuals arise, and civilization never advances until these individuals seize the chance to think and to live freely, in their own way.”
I looked at his eyes, and the hope that glowed there had scattered every shard of fear.
“What will you do if you’re discovered by curious tourists or prying police?”
“We will protect our community,” he said, “by living simply without many luxuries or things. In that way the people whose lives spin around possessing and possessions will have no interest in us at all. Even if they do seize our property or force us to stop expressing our passionate way of life, then we will find some way to carry on. Thoreau, do you know the dramas of Aeschylus? In one of these, two friends meet, and the first one asks: ‘What’s the news in Athens? Is it still unsacked?’And the second man, knowing that the city had been taken by invaders, replies profoundly: ‘Yes, in its living men its foundation stands secure.’ ... We are strong because we have the truth of the heart within us. Inside all living women and men, burning like the sun, is the dream of paradise and the all-powerful desire to give unselfish love.”
Partings! Could this be the last time I would see the kind face of Pateras, the last time I could learn from his wisdom and experience? By looking at my face he read my mind, then answered these questions before I asked.
“There is a Greek tradition, Thoreau, that when an old man parts from a young man, he gives the young man two gifts: bread for his body, thoughts for his soul. You’re a smart man, but many smart men get lured into the concrete jungle then lose their way. Don’t shrivel up into one of those vain intellectual-types who spend forever arguing whether a zebra has black stripes on a white body, or white stripes on a body that’s black. Look at the great persons in history and you’ll see three common themes: they are men of action, they are men of non-violence, and their ideas and their actions are as one. The best technology today will be outmoded five years hence, but the best love stories will inspire us forever. Love is everything! Learning how to live better means learning how to change yourself, how to grow in love.”
He placed a loaf of dark bread into my hands.
“And now I will tell you what I have learned in my eighty years of making mistakes with women. When I found Aspasia I knew I had learned something at last, but up till then I was as big a fool as any man. You may tell this secret to any woman you like, but never reveal it to another man.”
Pateras whispered a perplexing passage into my curious ear. The moment Pateras had finished, Kosmos shouted that he needed me to help him with some work inside the house of Penelope.
“Take her feet, Thoreau, and help me move her. Am I getting weaker as I get older? This damn Snake Goddess feels heavier every time I pick her up.”
After carrying the Snake Goddess to the middle of the room, we found the wooden statue of Priapus which had been smothered between heaps of clothing and boxes of books. Kosmos pulled out his art supplies, then cut two pieces of canvas to make two face-sized masks. He mixed some paints, then in mere minutes he painted one of the masks with the face of Penelope.
“Twenty years ago she looked like this, Thoreau,” he said. “Why did it take me twenty years of wandering to realize how I need her in my life?”
He finished the mask of young Penelope, then pulled out a mirror and sketched his own face on the remaining mask. Clearly it was Kosmos, but a satyr-like Kosmos with slanted eyebrows and a sly grin.
“Not quite right ... Ah, your eyes! With your eyes here, my mask will be irresistible.”
Kosmos, mixed some paints as he envisioned how he would capture the clear passion in my eyes. While he worked he talked about his life, and mine.
“We know how to love and play, Thoreau, but we haven’t yet found our work. That’s the only thing we need to be colossal men! If we stay this way, we won’t be the worst men, and we won’t be the best. We’ll never hurt anybody, but we’ll never do anything great.”
“What about your art, Kosmos?” I asked.
“My art? Every artist needs three qualities: imagination, daring, and discipline. Of those first two qualities I have more than enough. But my lack of discipline makes me a babbler and a dabbler, instead of a serious artist who struggles to give form to his dreams. If only I had practiced my painting for one hour more every day, just one hour more! I could have been a professional artist, and made a living doing something I loved.”
His hand wiped his eyes.
“For years I blamed lack of money for my failure: with money, I pretended, I would have had time to paint, time to study the master painters, time to perfect techniques and learn the open secrets from the best of the best. But money was never the real problem: I wanted to chase women more than I wanted to make masterpieces. No, I never had the discipline to be a real artist, and worse than that I never had the guts. Why didn’t I put my heart on the canvas? I was afraid that nobody would understand me. And I thought that the censor-morons would call my work old-fashioned, or primitive, or Romantic, or idealistic or obscene. And they would have, that’s for sure! But I should have painted whatever I wanted to paint, and then told them all to go to hell on the back of a galloping mule.”
And now he spoke to me the way a father would have spoken to his son.
“You know, Thoreau, I’ve spent many weeks thinking about what I would say to you on our last day together.”
“Our last day? I’ll be back in Greece next year, Kosmos. Or at the latest, the year after that.”
Kosmos shook his head.
“You say those words now, and that’s what you believe. ‘Keep the soup warm, darling, I’ll be back!’ That’s what I’ve sworn to dozens of women when I’ve left their beds after a passionate night. I told them I’d be back next evening, but most of the time I never went back. What do you think, Thoreau: Are men slaves to the past, or are we free? In the mornings I believe that every man is free to shape this day into a thousand possibilities. But every night, as I compare what I accomplished to what I’d dreamed, I think that all our choices are made by two women: Fate and Luck.”
Memories from long ago tugged him, his eyes reddened with tears, then he wiped his eyes and put the final brush strokes on the mask’s eyes.
“You know what hurts me most, Thoreau? ... The way people exist without living. The way they cause their own suffering, suffering that nothing except their own brave actions can relieve. You know how I want to be remembered? As the man who advised: ‘Don’t wait!’ ... Don’t wait till tomorrow for the world to change — you can change the world right now by starting with your own sweet self.”
He tied the masks onto the heads of the wooden statues, then asked me to help him to carry the statues outside to Penelope and the guests. When Penelope saw the two wooden figures — Priapus and the Snake Goddess with the faces of Kosmos and Penelope — she laughed wildly, and then she hugged Kosmos with all her might.
“Let’s get married right this minute!” she said.
“I was thinking,” replied Kosmos, “about setting the date for two summers from now.”
“Right now or nevermore!” shouted Penelope.
The ancient village leader, Tiropitas, now ambled into the garden.
“They told me to come with a marriage license and join Penelope and Kosmos. I’m late because I didn’t believe them — I thought they were playing pranks on an old man. Let’s do this quick, before the both of you change your minds and I lose my ten Euros fee.”
Tiropitas stepped between Penelope and Kosmos.
“This is a poem of Plato, called, ‘I throw the apple.’ Does anyone have an apple? ... There’s not one apple left in all of Crete, eh? We’ll use this pomegranate, then. Join hands, you two lovebirds, and repeat after me:
“I throw the apple to you, take it free
If you accept, then give me your virginity.
If you decline to give, then take it anyway
