grandfather. ‘We just have to put up with it though, Mitsos. And hope that things get better.’
As well as the teachers and the doctors, the garbage men were striking and, as usual, there was no public transport. The holes in the roads and cracks in the pavement would remainunrepaired for many months more. Life at the best of times was tough for the old couple, and Mitsos was suddenly aware of their frailty as he glimpsed his grandmother’s badly scarred arm and his grandfather’s twisted, arthritic hands.
At the same moment he noticed a man making his way along the pavement towards them, tapping a white stick in front of him. His route was an obstacle course: cars illegally parked half on the pavement, uneven verges, random bollards and café tables, all of which needed to be negotiated. Mitsos leaped to his feet as he saw the man hesitate, finally baffled by a café sign that had been planted right in the centre of the pavement.
‘Let me help you,’ he said. ‘Where is it that you want to go?’
He looked into a face that was younger than his own and with almost translucent sightless eyes. The skin was pale, and across one eyelid zigzagged a clumsily sewn scar.
The blind man smiled in Mitsos’ direction.
‘I’m OK,’ he replied. ‘I come this way every day. But there’s always something new to deal with . . .’
Cars thundered past on the brief stretch of road that took them to the next set of lights, almost drowning out Mitsos’ next words.
‘Well, let me take you across the road at least.’
He took the blind man’s arm and they walked together to the other side, though Mitsos could feel his confidence and determination, and was almost embarrassed to have helped him.
As they stepped on to the pavement opposite, he loosened his hold on the man’s arm. Now their eyes seemed to meet.
‘Thank you.’
Mitsos realised there was a new danger for the blind man on this side of the road. Close by was a sheer drop into the sea.
‘You know the sea is right there, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I walk here every day.
Promenaders seemed lost inside their own worlds, or immersed in their privately pounding music, and were oblivious to the man’s vulnerability. Several times his white stick caught their eye in the fraction of a second before a potential collision.
‘Wouldn’t it be safer, less crowded, to go elsewhere?’ Mitsos asked him.
‘It would, but then I’d be missing all of this. . .’ he replied.
He indicated with a sweep of his arm the sea around him and the curving bay that stretched in a satisfying semicircle before them, and then pointed dead ahead, to the snow-capped mountains that lay a hundred kilometres away across the sea.
‘Mount Olympus. This ever-changing sea. The tankers. The fishing vessels. I know you think I can’t see them, but I could once. I know they are there, I still have them in my mind’s eye, and I always will have. And it’s not just what you are looking at, is it? Just close your eyes.’
The young man took Mitsos’ hand and held on to it. Mitsos was surprised by the smooth, marble coolness of his fine fingers and was grateful for the physical reassurance that he was not alone. He realised what it would be like to be standing there in the dark, a solitary, vulnerable figure on this busy esplanade.
And in that moment, as his world went black, Mitsos felt hissenses heighten. Noises that were loud became a deafening roar, and the heat of the sun on his head almost made him swoon.
‘Stay like this,’ urged the blind man as he felt a momentary withdrawal from his grip. ‘Just for a few minutes more.’
‘Of course,’ Mitsos replied, ‘it’s shocking how intense everything feels. I’m just trying to get used to it. I feel so exposed in this crowded place.’
Without opening his eyes, he could tell from the tone of the response that the man was smiling.
‘Just another moment. And then you will feel so much more . . .’
He was right.
The
As well as the teachers and the doctors, the garbage men were striking and, as usual, there was no public transport. The holes in the roads and cracks in the pavement would remainunrepaired for many months more. Life at the best of times was tough for the old couple, and Mitsos was suddenly aware of their frailty as he glimpsed his grandmother’s badly scarred arm and his grandfather’s twisted, arthritic hands.
At the same moment he noticed a man making his way along the pavement towards them, tapping a white stick in front of him. His route was an obstacle course: cars illegally parked half on the pavement, uneven verges, random bollards and café tables, all of which needed to be negotiated. Mitsos leaped to his feet as he saw the man hesitate, finally baffled by a café sign that had been planted right in the centre of the pavement.
‘Let me help you,’ he said. ‘Where is it that you want to go?’
He looked into a face that was younger than his own and with almost translucent sightless eyes. The skin was pale, and across one eyelid zigzagged a clumsily sewn scar.
The blind man smiled in Mitsos’ direction.
‘I’m OK,’ he replied. ‘I come this way every day. But there’s always something new to deal with . . .’
Cars thundered past on the brief stretch of road that took them to the next set of lights, almost drowning out Mitsos’ next words.
‘Well, let me take you across the road at least.’
He took the blind man’s arm and they walked together to the other side, though Mitsos could feel his confidence and determination, and was almost embarrassed to have helped him.
As they stepped on to the pavement opposite, he loosened his hold on the man’s arm. Now their eyes seemed to meet.
‘Thank you.’
Mitsos realised there was a new danger for the blind man on this side of the road. Close by was a sheer drop into the sea.
‘You know the sea is right there, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I walk here every day.
Promenaders seemed lost inside their own worlds, or immersed in their privately pounding music, and were oblivious to the man’s vulnerability. Several times his white stick caught their eye in the fraction of a second before a potential collision.
‘Wouldn’t it be safer, less crowded, to go elsewhere?’ Mitsos asked him.
‘It would, but then I’d be missing all of this. . .’ he replied.
He indicated with a sweep of his arm the sea around him and the curving bay that stretched in a satisfying semicircle before them, and then pointed dead ahead, to the snow-capped mountains that lay a hundred kilometres away across the sea.
‘Mount Olympus. This ever-changing sea. The tankers. The fishing vessels. I know you think I can’t see them, but I could once. I know they are there, I still have them in my mind’s eye, and I always will have. And it’s not just what you are looking at, is it? Just close your eyes.’
The young man took Mitsos’ hand and held on to it. Mitsos was surprised by the smooth, marble coolness of his fine fingers and was grateful for the physical reassurance that he was not alone. He realised what it would be like to be standing there in the dark, a solitary, vulnerable figure on this busy esplanade.
And in that moment, as his world went black, Mitsos felt hissenses heighten. Noises that were loud became a deafening roar, and the heat of the sun on his head almost made him swoon.
‘Stay like this,’ urged the blind man as he felt a momentary withdrawal from his grip. ‘Just for a few minutes more.’
‘Of course,’ Mitsos replied, ‘it’s shocking how intense everything feels. I’m just trying to get used to it. I feel so exposed in this crowded place.’
Without opening his eyes, he could tell from the tone of the response that the man was smiling.
‘Just another moment. And then you will feel so much more . . .’
He was right.
The
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