The Messenger of Athens: A Novel by Anne Zouroudi Page A

shrunk his frame, and his arthritic hands were covered by the jacket sleeves almost to the fingertips). He wore awhite shirt, bought this morning for this occasion; they had pressed out its pinned-in creases—the sweet smell of ironing starch mingled with the candle smoke—and its collar, buttoned tight, hung loose around his neck.
    Around his nostrils, a fat fly crawled.
    The women—his mother and Aunt Maria, Aunt Anna and poor Aunt Sofia—watched him in silence. Elpida, Theo’s wife, yawned. He’d asked her not to wear that skirt; it didn’t cover her knees. Theo pushed by her to where his grandmother sat at Grandpa’s side. He squeezed his grandmother’s hands, touched his face lightly to hers, left and right; the wetness of her tears was cold on his cheeks.
    “Theo,” she whispered.
“Theo mou, agapi mou.”
He was unsure whether she meant him, or Grandpa. He had been baptized with his grandfather’s name; he was the living memorial now to Grandpa’s time on earth.
    “May his memory be eternal,” he said. “He’s with the saints now, Grandma.”
    There were voices from the street. Aunt Sofia lifted the curtain of hand-crocheted net and peered through the window at her back.
    “The priest’s here,” she said.
    The women began to wail.
    I n the kitchen, Pappa Philippas was preparing the tools of his trade. He was a tall, stooping man, gaunt-faced with pale eyes set in hollow, shadowed sockets. The children were afraid of him; if he caught them in misdemeanors, hepinched them with his bony fingers. He had never married; he had been disappointed in love. As he had aged, his disappointment had overgrown him, like ivy.
    “Condolences to you, Theo,” said the priest. His voice was slow, and morbid. “Your grandfather was a good man.”
    He laid an ornate incense burner on the stove-top, and beside it matches, a cylinder of charcoal and a tiny box of incense. Theo unscrewed the top from a bottle of Scotch and held up the bottle to the priest.
    “Drink, Father?”
    “Just a small one, Theo. I don’t like to drink while I’m on duty.”
    On a tin tray covered in an embroidered cloth, the women had laid out rows of mismatched glass tumblers, brought from other homes, borrowed from the neighbors. Theo poured a finger of liquor for them both. Pappa Philippas struck a match and put the flame to the charcoal until it fizzed bright sparks, then placed the charcoal in the burner. Choosing a piece of opaque, ivory-colored incense from the tiny box, he laid it carefully on the hot charcoal and lowered the lid of the burner. Heavy, rose-scented smoke billowed through filigree holes.
    Pappa Philippas drank down his whiskey, and, gathering up the jangling chains of the burner, gave a practice swing. He closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a few words in rehearsal—
Holy God, Holy Strength, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us
—then, opening the door into the parlor, he began the mournful chant of the Service for All the Dead.

     
    T he men had gathered outside. They smoked, sipped whisky, found nothing to say. Theo’s father, Michaelis, leaned with Uncle Janis against the house wall, arms around each other’s shoulders, the stubble of mourning already on their faces. Uncle Janis was weeping; his father’s eyes were bloodshot. Theo’s brother, Takis, stood with Cousin Lukas. Out of respect, Lukas had washed his hands; the grime still on his forearms formed a sleeve above his wrists. Takis had slicked his hair back like a pimp. He swigged on a bottle of German lager and winked at Theo.
O God of spirits and all flesh, who trampled down death and crushed the Devil, giving life to your world; O Lord, give rest to the soul of your servant Thodoris, who has fallen asleep, in a place of light, a place of green pasture, a place of refreshment, whence pain, grief and sighing have fled away
. The wind was from the north, and bitter, and the sky threatened rain; through the closed, curtained window of the parlor, the