DocHeart
07-05-2011, 09:59 AM
So this was my entry for the June '11 elimination (where the readers of LitNet showed that they know their onions by voting the BEST story to the top).
I originally wrote this some months ago as a 3,500-word story, in Greek. Translating it was fun, but reducing it to 2,000 words was a challenge and, at times, a struggle. Why did I even do that rather than write something from scratch? I guess because I thought I could. In retrospect, however, I can see now that this distillation process might have left my characters only sketchily portrayed, and the events with too little space in which to unfold.
I would be interested in your feedback on this.
I would also like to thank everyone who read it - and everyone who voted for it. This was my first ever entry, and I admit that I grinned from ear to ear every time I saw the vote count go up.
Best regards to all,
DH
**********************************
Hioulia/Julia
When Hioulia would finally recover from her violent panting, forming on her bright red, heart-shaped lips could be seen a smile. It was the smile of a little girl who just did something naughty, and seeing it affected me in a different way each time. It would sometimes spur me into making love to her again straight away. Other times it would make me throw my lips on hers hungrily and dig with my tongue into the recesses of her mouth. That night, it made me position my nose in front of her mouth, synchronize my breathing to inhale when she exhales, and take inside me the air that was coming out of her lungs.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh, be quiet. I’m breathing you in,” I whispered.
***
An unexpected summer storm makes the bathers abandon the beach in great hurry, leaving behind towels, sunglasses and slices of watermelon. She’s running beside me, laughing loudly amidst fat, warm raindrops. “Four-hour flight and six-hour drive to get from London to bloody Elafonisos and we get this? We could get this in Brighton!”
We take cover under the canopy of a harbour taverna. I order ouzo, olives, and cheese. She smokes staring at the rain splashing into gentle waves. “I called my dad this morning,” she says without taking her eyes off the Aegean. “Letter from Edinburgh.”
A cold feeling descends on my shoulders. But I regain my composure before she turns to look at me. “They’ve accepted me. I’m on Nicholson’s research group.”
“Congratulations, baby.”
She lowers her head. “ I wish my dad hadn’t called. It could have waited until we got back. But since I know, I thought it’d be fair to tell you. I’m sorry.”
I kiss her over the table. “I’ll see you on weekends, and we’ll have holidays together. I promise to continue taking you to rainy Greek islands.” I sound convincing. I have always been preparing myself for the moment I would start losing Hioulia. With a woman like that I suppose one has to.
I toss off my t-shirt and my shoes and climb over the wooden fence that separates the sea from the taverna floor. “Come on,” I urge her. “Let’s swim in the rain.”
We walk in the water until it covers our chests. The rain decides to fall less intensely, as if we have piqued its interest. I make love to her in the sea. The waves mostly caress our shoulders, but sometimes they submerge us. We come up from under it coughing and laughing, drinking salty saliva from each other’s mouth.
***
Steven is a tall, thin, grey-haired, softly-spoken London stock-broker and professor of Economics at Imperial. He drives a Bentley and lives in Chelsea with his young, beautiful wife. He’s wearing a dark grey pin-stripe suit and a pair of shiny shoes that probably cost as much as my salary.
Earlier, in the taxi on the way to my hotel, my cell phone had rung. “Happy birthday, my dear Themi! May you live to be a hundred and all that jazz. How’s the weather in New York? What? You’re in London? There used to be a time when you’d let me know when you would be in town, you bad boy. Listen, I’ll be in Camden in the afternoon. Fancy lunch?”
She was right to tell Steven to come without asking me. I would have stubbornly said I’d rather not, and it really was time I met him. Be a grown-up. I mean, I hadn’t even gone to the wedding.
“Orthopedics, eh?” he says wiping the remains of his risotto with a piece of corn bread.
“Correct,” I reply.
“You know, I was playing tennis the other day and my knee went kind of funny, like I twisted it. It hurt quite badly for a couple of days. Still does occasionally.”
“Ligament,” I diagnose confidently behind my martini.
“Really? That can become serious, can’t it?”
“It can, if you don’t treat it.”
“Oh. Oh wow. Well. I’d better see someone about it, then. And Julia said it was nothing.”
“Who?”
She looks at me disapprovingly, frowning. She’s wearing a grey suit and white shirt, unbuttoned at the front, a slim gold chain around her neck. She’s cut her hair shorter and dyed it jet black.
“Oh – you mean – oh, right, of course. I always think of her as Hioulia, you see. The Greek version. He – oo – leee – ah.”
A few seconds of silence come. Hioulia shakes her head from left to right with a faint smile on her face. I drain my drink and wave for another. Steven takes a sip of iced water, then looks at his watch. “Gosh, look at the time. Got to get back to work.” He kisses his wife hurriedly. “Love you, doc.”
“Love you too, big boy,” she responds, and a sharp instrument of annoyance pierces my brain.
“Themis, it was a pleasure. Do come round for a barbeque sometime, ok?” He shakes my hand. The waiter places a fresh martini in front of me. “Tim, on my tab, please.” He disappears into the suitably grey London afternoon.
I lean forward and take her hand in mine. She doesn’t draw it away.
“So, what do you think of all this marriage lark?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“You’re happy?”
“I’m not unhappy. Yes, it’s good. I like it. I’m happy.”
“You would have been happier with me.”
Her smile has faded away and has now been replaced by a soft, feminine, self-defensive eye flutter. “I don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do.”
“We should go.”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
“Yes, we should.”
“Hioulia, I wasn’t going to bother you. You called. You suggested lunch. What did you think, that it would be all civilized and neutral?”
“Themi, please stop.”
“You should never have left me.”
She raises her voice. “I’m pregnant. Now stop. Please?”
I spend the night in my hotel room, with a bottle of scotch and a pack of Camels. I while away the hours looking at the view of the city lights, countless and colourful. Anger is initially softened by the booze, and finally succeeded by sweet nostalgia. I get lost in a drunken haze of memories of tight embraces in the night and thousands of morning kisses. Words of love. Promises of eternal presence.
***
Alan Millar is a true Scotsman. He alternates between big sips of his Guinness and small sips of his malt effortlessly and smoothly. He is also one of the top neuroscientists in the world, with brilliant careers as a doctor and as a professor on both sides of the Atlantic. He looks uncannily like Woody Allen.
He drains his pint and waves for another, handing me back the bunch of test result print-outs. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Themi. You’re a doctor. You know what this is already. 6.5 disability rating within 5 months. It’s aggressive. She won’t have another go at pregnancy, and she won’t go into any kind of remission."
I nod and empty my own glass. Ice has melted inside the whisky and the last sip doesn’t burn my throat at all. I order another. No ice. “No, alright Alan, come on now, give it to me straight. Is it bad?”
He gives a laugh; obviously, my sad joke relieves him more than it does me. “I’m sorry, old chap. Kevin! Make the gentleman’s a double, please.”
***
“She ate today. Nearly an entire portion of roast and mash. She’s been doing rather well over the last few days, actually.”
Steven’s house is spacious, but not showy. No paintings, sculptures, or any of that. Several photographs in frames here and there; I glance at them as I pass. Look at her laughing out loud as he’s kissing her neck: she’s really been happy with this guy.
At the top of the stairs, he stops. “She’s through that door. You go. I’ll see her later.”
“Hello darling,” I smile.
“Hello monster,” she smiles back. Yes, that same naughty smile again. It remains unaffected by the illness that’s eating away at her. She has got out of bed to receive me and is sat in a wheelchair, properly dressed. Flat black shoes. Black slacks, white shirt.
“You look good.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
This should be the goodbye we never said to each other, but it isn’t. It’s another kind of goodbye. It’s laden with the realization of a greater end. It is hopeless and final. I go to speak, but she places her finger in front of her lips and stops me.
“Themi, I want you to know one thing. I’ve always been sad that we didn’t make it.”
I am filled with disorienting, conflicting emotions. I want to chastise her for saying a thing like that which devalues her life with Steven. Simultaneously, I’m filled with an impossible desire to stay here, in this room, lock the world and her husband outside, wait here with her until she dies, then die myself, holding her.
All I can manage is a kiss on her forehead. She raises a violently shaking hand to my head and touches my hair, then turns her lips upwards and kisses my chin. She breathes irregularly. “How’s New York treating you?”
I straighten up and move away. “Not bad. But I’m coming back. Next month.”
“Got homesick?”
“I suppose so.” But the truth is I’m coming back to London to be close to her, whether she’s still alive or not. The truth is I’m coming back to the place where we lived together, because it has now become the only place on Earth that seems real, even merely believable. Everything else I’ve done in-between seems made-up, and all other cities are made of cardboard and plastecine.
“Themi? You…” She stops to give a sigh and hastily wipe a tear from her cheek. “You will – you know – move on, right? Live on? Life goes on and all that jazz, yes? I mean, you will find someone and be happy with her, right?”
I fix my stare on her face. I want to suck it with my eyes and fill my brain with it and never forget it. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes. I will do just that.”
“Good,” she smiles, sobbing very mildly.
***
“Another?”
“No thanks, Steve. I’m driving. In fact, I think I’m gonna go off now. Need to hit the sack.” I put out my cigar.
“Alright, then, pal.” He gets up. “Don’t be a stranger. Oh, by the way…” he grabs my coat off the hanger and holds it up for me to put it on. “Christmas. I don’t know if you’ve got any plans or anything, but I’ll be going to my sister in Surrey. Her cooking is awful, but her husband makes a very nice mulled wine. Consider yourself invited, alright?”
“Thanks, Steve. I’ll let you know in time.”
“Say, can I ask you a weird question?”
“Those are my favourite kind.”
“Did you ever get this feeling… I mean, while you were with her. Did you ever get a feeling that no matter what you did, you would one day lose her?”
There is a horse-shoe decorated with mistletoe on his front door. She bought it last year. I know because he’s told me. We’ve told each other everything about our times with her.
“I did get this feeling. Exactly like you describe it.”
He is expressionless. “Merry Christmas, man.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I unbutton my coat and walk on the snow, allowing the freezing wind to pierce me deeper. Snowflakes come down from the sky spreading a white silence in the night. Past years might be blanketed by its whiteness, and they deserve to sleep for a while. But once another sunny day comes her face will be once again painted on the clouds, engraved on the building walls, dominating my reality.
Just like I want it to.
Just like it should.
I originally wrote this some months ago as a 3,500-word story, in Greek. Translating it was fun, but reducing it to 2,000 words was a challenge and, at times, a struggle. Why did I even do that rather than write something from scratch? I guess because I thought I could. In retrospect, however, I can see now that this distillation process might have left my characters only sketchily portrayed, and the events with too little space in which to unfold.
I would be interested in your feedback on this.
I would also like to thank everyone who read it - and everyone who voted for it. This was my first ever entry, and I admit that I grinned from ear to ear every time I saw the vote count go up.
Best regards to all,
DH
**********************************
Hioulia/Julia
When Hioulia would finally recover from her violent panting, forming on her bright red, heart-shaped lips could be seen a smile. It was the smile of a little girl who just did something naughty, and seeing it affected me in a different way each time. It would sometimes spur me into making love to her again straight away. Other times it would make me throw my lips on hers hungrily and dig with my tongue into the recesses of her mouth. That night, it made me position my nose in front of her mouth, synchronize my breathing to inhale when she exhales, and take inside me the air that was coming out of her lungs.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh, be quiet. I’m breathing you in,” I whispered.
***
An unexpected summer storm makes the bathers abandon the beach in great hurry, leaving behind towels, sunglasses and slices of watermelon. She’s running beside me, laughing loudly amidst fat, warm raindrops. “Four-hour flight and six-hour drive to get from London to bloody Elafonisos and we get this? We could get this in Brighton!”
We take cover under the canopy of a harbour taverna. I order ouzo, olives, and cheese. She smokes staring at the rain splashing into gentle waves. “I called my dad this morning,” she says without taking her eyes off the Aegean. “Letter from Edinburgh.”
A cold feeling descends on my shoulders. But I regain my composure before she turns to look at me. “They’ve accepted me. I’m on Nicholson’s research group.”
“Congratulations, baby.”
She lowers her head. “ I wish my dad hadn’t called. It could have waited until we got back. But since I know, I thought it’d be fair to tell you. I’m sorry.”
I kiss her over the table. “I’ll see you on weekends, and we’ll have holidays together. I promise to continue taking you to rainy Greek islands.” I sound convincing. I have always been preparing myself for the moment I would start losing Hioulia. With a woman like that I suppose one has to.
I toss off my t-shirt and my shoes and climb over the wooden fence that separates the sea from the taverna floor. “Come on,” I urge her. “Let’s swim in the rain.”
We walk in the water until it covers our chests. The rain decides to fall less intensely, as if we have piqued its interest. I make love to her in the sea. The waves mostly caress our shoulders, but sometimes they submerge us. We come up from under it coughing and laughing, drinking salty saliva from each other’s mouth.
***
Steven is a tall, thin, grey-haired, softly-spoken London stock-broker and professor of Economics at Imperial. He drives a Bentley and lives in Chelsea with his young, beautiful wife. He’s wearing a dark grey pin-stripe suit and a pair of shiny shoes that probably cost as much as my salary.
Earlier, in the taxi on the way to my hotel, my cell phone had rung. “Happy birthday, my dear Themi! May you live to be a hundred and all that jazz. How’s the weather in New York? What? You’re in London? There used to be a time when you’d let me know when you would be in town, you bad boy. Listen, I’ll be in Camden in the afternoon. Fancy lunch?”
She was right to tell Steven to come without asking me. I would have stubbornly said I’d rather not, and it really was time I met him. Be a grown-up. I mean, I hadn’t even gone to the wedding.
“Orthopedics, eh?” he says wiping the remains of his risotto with a piece of corn bread.
“Correct,” I reply.
“You know, I was playing tennis the other day and my knee went kind of funny, like I twisted it. It hurt quite badly for a couple of days. Still does occasionally.”
“Ligament,” I diagnose confidently behind my martini.
“Really? That can become serious, can’t it?”
“It can, if you don’t treat it.”
“Oh. Oh wow. Well. I’d better see someone about it, then. And Julia said it was nothing.”
“Who?”
She looks at me disapprovingly, frowning. She’s wearing a grey suit and white shirt, unbuttoned at the front, a slim gold chain around her neck. She’s cut her hair shorter and dyed it jet black.
“Oh – you mean – oh, right, of course. I always think of her as Hioulia, you see. The Greek version. He – oo – leee – ah.”
A few seconds of silence come. Hioulia shakes her head from left to right with a faint smile on her face. I drain my drink and wave for another. Steven takes a sip of iced water, then looks at his watch. “Gosh, look at the time. Got to get back to work.” He kisses his wife hurriedly. “Love you, doc.”
“Love you too, big boy,” she responds, and a sharp instrument of annoyance pierces my brain.
“Themis, it was a pleasure. Do come round for a barbeque sometime, ok?” He shakes my hand. The waiter places a fresh martini in front of me. “Tim, on my tab, please.” He disappears into the suitably grey London afternoon.
I lean forward and take her hand in mine. She doesn’t draw it away.
“So, what do you think of all this marriage lark?”
“It’s not too bad.”
“You’re happy?”
“I’m not unhappy. Yes, it’s good. I like it. I’m happy.”
“You would have been happier with me.”
Her smile has faded away and has now been replaced by a soft, feminine, self-defensive eye flutter. “I don’t know that.”
“Yes, you do.”
“We should go.”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
“Yes, we should.”
“Hioulia, I wasn’t going to bother you. You called. You suggested lunch. What did you think, that it would be all civilized and neutral?”
“Themi, please stop.”
“You should never have left me.”
She raises her voice. “I’m pregnant. Now stop. Please?”
I spend the night in my hotel room, with a bottle of scotch and a pack of Camels. I while away the hours looking at the view of the city lights, countless and colourful. Anger is initially softened by the booze, and finally succeeded by sweet nostalgia. I get lost in a drunken haze of memories of tight embraces in the night and thousands of morning kisses. Words of love. Promises of eternal presence.
***
Alan Millar is a true Scotsman. He alternates between big sips of his Guinness and small sips of his malt effortlessly and smoothly. He is also one of the top neuroscientists in the world, with brilliant careers as a doctor and as a professor on both sides of the Atlantic. He looks uncannily like Woody Allen.
He drains his pint and waves for another, handing me back the bunch of test result print-outs. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Themi. You’re a doctor. You know what this is already. 6.5 disability rating within 5 months. It’s aggressive. She won’t have another go at pregnancy, and she won’t go into any kind of remission."
I nod and empty my own glass. Ice has melted inside the whisky and the last sip doesn’t burn my throat at all. I order another. No ice. “No, alright Alan, come on now, give it to me straight. Is it bad?”
He gives a laugh; obviously, my sad joke relieves him more than it does me. “I’m sorry, old chap. Kevin! Make the gentleman’s a double, please.”
***
“She ate today. Nearly an entire portion of roast and mash. She’s been doing rather well over the last few days, actually.”
Steven’s house is spacious, but not showy. No paintings, sculptures, or any of that. Several photographs in frames here and there; I glance at them as I pass. Look at her laughing out loud as he’s kissing her neck: she’s really been happy with this guy.
At the top of the stairs, he stops. “She’s through that door. You go. I’ll see her later.”
“Hello darling,” I smile.
“Hello monster,” she smiles back. Yes, that same naughty smile again. It remains unaffected by the illness that’s eating away at her. She has got out of bed to receive me and is sat in a wheelchair, properly dressed. Flat black shoes. Black slacks, white shirt.
“You look good.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
This should be the goodbye we never said to each other, but it isn’t. It’s another kind of goodbye. It’s laden with the realization of a greater end. It is hopeless and final. I go to speak, but she places her finger in front of her lips and stops me.
“Themi, I want you to know one thing. I’ve always been sad that we didn’t make it.”
I am filled with disorienting, conflicting emotions. I want to chastise her for saying a thing like that which devalues her life with Steven. Simultaneously, I’m filled with an impossible desire to stay here, in this room, lock the world and her husband outside, wait here with her until she dies, then die myself, holding her.
All I can manage is a kiss on her forehead. She raises a violently shaking hand to my head and touches my hair, then turns her lips upwards and kisses my chin. She breathes irregularly. “How’s New York treating you?”
I straighten up and move away. “Not bad. But I’m coming back. Next month.”
“Got homesick?”
“I suppose so.” But the truth is I’m coming back to London to be close to her, whether she’s still alive or not. The truth is I’m coming back to the place where we lived together, because it has now become the only place on Earth that seems real, even merely believable. Everything else I’ve done in-between seems made-up, and all other cities are made of cardboard and plastecine.
“Themi? You…” She stops to give a sigh and hastily wipe a tear from her cheek. “You will – you know – move on, right? Live on? Life goes on and all that jazz, yes? I mean, you will find someone and be happy with her, right?”
I fix my stare on her face. I want to suck it with my eyes and fill my brain with it and never forget it. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes. I will do just that.”
“Good,” she smiles, sobbing very mildly.
***
“Another?”
“No thanks, Steve. I’m driving. In fact, I think I’m gonna go off now. Need to hit the sack.” I put out my cigar.
“Alright, then, pal.” He gets up. “Don’t be a stranger. Oh, by the way…” he grabs my coat off the hanger and holds it up for me to put it on. “Christmas. I don’t know if you’ve got any plans or anything, but I’ll be going to my sister in Surrey. Her cooking is awful, but her husband makes a very nice mulled wine. Consider yourself invited, alright?”
“Thanks, Steve. I’ll let you know in time.”
“Say, can I ask you a weird question?”
“Those are my favourite kind.”
“Did you ever get this feeling… I mean, while you were with her. Did you ever get a feeling that no matter what you did, you would one day lose her?”
There is a horse-shoe decorated with mistletoe on his front door. She bought it last year. I know because he’s told me. We’ve told each other everything about our times with her.
“I did get this feeling. Exactly like you describe it.”
He is expressionless. “Merry Christmas, man.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I unbutton my coat and walk on the snow, allowing the freezing wind to pierce me deeper. Snowflakes come down from the sky spreading a white silence in the night. Past years might be blanketed by its whiteness, and they deserve to sleep for a while. But once another sunny day comes her face will be once again painted on the clouds, engraved on the building walls, dominating my reality.
Just like I want it to.
Just like it should.