strong smell of the sea, the dampness of the air on his skin, the rhythmic lap of the waves against the sea wall, were all magnified.
‘And you realise it’s different every day? Every . . . single . . . day. In the summer the air is so still, and the water so flat – like oil – and I know the mountains disappear in the haze. The heat bounces off these stones and I feel it through the soles of my shoes.’
Both men stood facing out to sea. It could not be described as a typical Thessaloniki morning. As the man had said, no two days were ever the same, but there was one constant in the sweeping view laid out in front of them: a sense of both history and timelessness.
‘I feel people around me. Not just people like you who are in the present, but others too. This place is crowded with the past, teeming with people – and they are as real as you. I can see them neither more nor less clearly. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, it does, of course it does.’
Mitsos did not want to turn his back and walk away, even though this young man would not see it. Just in those few moments with him, he felt his senses had been stirred. Philosophy classes had taught him that the things you see are not necessarily the most real, but this was a new experience of it.
‘My name’s Pavlos,’ the blind man said.
‘And mine is Dimitri, but everyone calls me Mitsos.’
‘I love this place,’ Pavlos said. His words were heartfelt. ‘There are probably easier places for a blind person to live, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’
‘No, I see . . . I mean, I can understand that. It’s a beau— I mean an amazing city.’ Mitsos quickly corrected himself, annoyed by his own carelessness. ‘Look . . . I’d better get back to my grandparents,’ he said. ‘But it’s been great to meet you.’
‘It was good to meet you too. And thanks for helping me across.’
Pavlos turned and walked away, resuming the rapid tapping of his spindly white stick. Mitsos stood and watched him for a while. He was quite sure that Pavlos could feel the warmth of his eyes on his back. He hoped so, and suppressed the urge to rush towards him, to share his walk along the sea, to continue talking to him. Perhaps another day . . .
I love this place – the words seemed to echo around him.
He returned to the café table, visibly affected by this encounter.
‘That was nice of you to give him a hand,’ said his grandfather. ‘We see him most days when we are out and he has had a few near misses on this road. People just don’t care.’
‘Are you all right, Mitsos?’ asked his grandmother. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘I’m fine. I’m just thinking about something he said . . .’ Mitsos replied. ‘He loves this city so much, even though it must be really hard for him.’
‘We can sympathise with that, can’t we, Katerina?’ responded his grandfather. ‘These uneven pavements are difficult for us and nobody seems to be doing anything about it, in spite of election promises.’
‘So why do you stay?’ asked Mitsos. ‘You know that Mum and Dad really wish you would come and live with us in London. Life would be so much easier for you there.’
The nonagenarians had open invitations from their son, who lived in leafy Highgate, and also from their daughter, who lived in the States, in a wealthy Boston suburb, but something kept them from choosing an easier life. Mitsos had often overheard his parents discussing this.
Katerina shot the briefest glance at her husband.
‘Why do we stay?’ she exclaimed, leaning forward and seizing her grandson’s hand. ‘Even if we were given as many diamonds as there are drops in that ocean, there is nothing that would induce us to leave! We will stay in Thessaloniki until we die.’
The strength of the words took the boy completely by surprise. For a moment, her eyes blazed and then they welled up, but not in the way that old eyes sometimes seem to water for no apparent reason. These were
‘And you realise it’s different every day? Every . . . single . . . day. In the summer the air is so still, and the water so flat – like oil – and I know the mountains disappear in the haze. The heat bounces off these stones and I feel it through the soles of my shoes.’
Both men stood facing out to sea. It could not be described as a typical Thessaloniki morning. As the man had said, no two days were ever the same, but there was one constant in the sweeping view laid out in front of them: a sense of both history and timelessness.
‘I feel people around me. Not just people like you who are in the present, but others too. This place is crowded with the past, teeming with people – and they are as real as you. I can see them neither more nor less clearly. Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, it does, of course it does.’
Mitsos did not want to turn his back and walk away, even though this young man would not see it. Just in those few moments with him, he felt his senses had been stirred. Philosophy classes had taught him that the things you see are not necessarily the most real, but this was a new experience of it.
‘My name’s Pavlos,’ the blind man said.
‘And mine is Dimitri, but everyone calls me Mitsos.’
‘I love this place,’ Pavlos said. His words were heartfelt. ‘There are probably easier places for a blind person to live, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’
‘No, I see . . . I mean, I can understand that. It’s a beau— I mean an amazing city.’ Mitsos quickly corrected himself, annoyed by his own carelessness. ‘Look . . . I’d better get back to my grandparents,’ he said. ‘But it’s been great to meet you.’
‘It was good to meet you too. And thanks for helping me across.’
Pavlos turned and walked away, resuming the rapid tapping of his spindly white stick. Mitsos stood and watched him for a while. He was quite sure that Pavlos could feel the warmth of his eyes on his back. He hoped so, and suppressed the urge to rush towards him, to share his walk along the sea, to continue talking to him. Perhaps another day . . .
I love this place – the words seemed to echo around him.
He returned to the café table, visibly affected by this encounter.
‘That was nice of you to give him a hand,’ said his grandfather. ‘We see him most days when we are out and he has had a few near misses on this road. People just don’t care.’
‘Are you all right, Mitsos?’ asked his grandmother. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘I’m fine. I’m just thinking about something he said . . .’ Mitsos replied. ‘He loves this city so much, even though it must be really hard for him.’
‘We can sympathise with that, can’t we, Katerina?’ responded his grandfather. ‘These uneven pavements are difficult for us and nobody seems to be doing anything about it, in spite of election promises.’
‘So why do you stay?’ asked Mitsos. ‘You know that Mum and Dad really wish you would come and live with us in London. Life would be so much easier for you there.’
The nonagenarians had open invitations from their son, who lived in leafy Highgate, and also from their daughter, who lived in the States, in a wealthy Boston suburb, but something kept them from choosing an easier life. Mitsos had often overheard his parents discussing this.
Katerina shot the briefest glance at her husband.
‘Why do we stay?’ she exclaimed, leaning forward and seizing her grandson’s hand. ‘Even if we were given as many diamonds as there are drops in that ocean, there is nothing that would induce us to leave! We will stay in Thessaloniki until we die.’
The strength of the words took the boy completely by surprise. For a moment, her eyes blazed and then they welled up, but not in the way that old eyes sometimes seem to water for no apparent reason. These were
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