I shall never forget that day in May, almost 35 years ago. I was a 5-year-old boy, feeling trapped within our tiny family home in Koukaki, an ancient, scenic neighborhood near the center of Athens. My mother, an English professor at a local high school, took me by the hand. Together, we exited the wood-paneled entrance of our house and strode toward our private paradise: a small garden brimming with colors and the fresh scents of spring. I wore only a maroon t-shirt and white underwear, trudging barefoot behind my mother, who moved with light, ballerina-like steps. We caressed the begonia plant, then moved on to the lilacs before departing through the solid metal gate that separated our humble dwelling from the rest of the world. Above us, a flock of mottled birds flapped their wings in the cloudless sky. Though she didn’t say where we were going, I knew in my heart we were heading to the sea, our favorite spot since I was a baby.
At Faliro beach, where we often went, we would sit on the dry sand and play until dark. Later, when I started learning to swim, my baby brother was born. Despite sharing the same blood, he seemed to despise the water, leaving the beach for just my mother and me.
As we reached the shore, I felt the familiar tingling of anticipation, knowing we would soon walk side-by-side on the scorching beige sand. However, this time my mother grabbed me by the waist and placed me on the part of the sand kissed by gentle waves, my underwear instantly soaking the dampness. She gave me one of her cherubic smiles and held my gaze. “Listen, sonny, I know things are tough at home with your little brother. Your father left us when you were a baby, not because he didn’t love us—he adored us, especially you—but his free spirit couldn’t rest, and family life was too heavy a burden. He will be back one day, I know. Until then, I’m responsible for you, and today you will learn the most precious lesson I can give.”
I stared into her almond-green eyes, waiting. “In life, you’ll often wonder if you’re on the right path, if you can tell good from evil, right from wrong. You’ll know you’re making the right decisions when you can hold a single grain of sand between your fingers. Swear you’ll never forget that.” I did, and then we played with stray branches, drawing shapes in the sand.
Since then, a lot of time has passed. I’m now approaching forty and have little to show for it. Or perhaps that’s a euphemism. Nothing would be closer to the truth. I haven’t been to the beach in over a decade, and my mother’s words now sound like a faint echo, losing their connection to my present reality, slowly drifting into oblivion.
Last Monday, I was awoken by the alarm clock only to realize that I was late for an appointment with a potential employer. As I was having my customary morning shower, I heard my landline ringing and then a message in a cold, monotone voice: “Mr. Passas, I’m calling to let you know that your appointment with Mr. Iriotis is canceled due to unforeseen circumstances. Our HR department is overflowing with applications, and we are pausing the process for an indefinite period.” That was my third rejection from a job within the last week. I felt jinxed for eternity.
Since my rendezvous had been canceled, I sat in front of my worn laptop screen and started surfing the Internet and the various social media where I maintained a few godforsaken accounts. I should have continued writing my memoir, my first attempt at crafting a novella-length manuscript, but I felt completely uninspired. The doorbell rang and brought me out of my reverie. When I opened the door, I saw Andreas, my best friend—perhaps my only one—standing in front of me, holding a bottle of 12-year malt in his right hand. He tilted his head to the side and flashed a wan grin that lasted less than a second. I invited him inside, and he searched for a place to sit in my crammed-as-hell apartment. He finally picked up a bunch of Britpop vinyl records which were laid on the sole armchair in my house and sat. He looked me in the eye and said, “Dimitri, I have some really bad news for you. Please don’t shoot the messenger.” He told me the last sentence as if he feared a violent reaction from me, something that had never happened in the past for as long as I can remember. He continued, “It’s about Sophia. She’s with Markos now and it’s official. They’re even discussing getting married shortly. I know it must hurt like the devil but it’s the truth and you should move on with your life.”
I was lost for words. During the last three months, Sophia and I dated, and I had thought she might be the one to finally break the spell and dissolve the ice inside me, opening a world of new possibilities. But now the dream had shattered in the most painful of ways. Markos, a former classmate of mine in high school and a bona fide Casanova-type jock, had won the heart of Queen Sophia, leaving me tattered. Andreas poured me a hefty glass of scotch while I struggled to come to terms with the inconceivable news. It felt like I’d hit rock bottom louder than ever before, which is saying something since my life has been largely trite and uneventful throughout. My feelings for Sophia had been incubating for several years, back in the day when I was a nobody and she was an upcoming musical singer and actress in Athens’ cultural scene. We happened to frequent the same bar as we had grown up in the same neighborhood. There had been countless nights during which I sat alone in the corner of the bar, observing her talking with her fancy friends, all sharing her artistic inclinations, while I drank beer after beer, sad and almost always alone.
It was pure luck that we first talked. We were the only two patrons sitting at the bar one early Sunday morning nearly two years ago. She was about to leave town and was waiting for her best friend, a devious redhead named Sonya, to pick her up for a trip to Nafplio. The bartender, one of the few people with whom I had exchanged some spare, drunken words, initiated a discussion that provided fertile ground for me to interject. Eventually, we spent a decent amount of time talking, first the three of us and then just me and Sophia. We even found some shared traits that made our contact more than just feasible. Perhaps desired? That was what I thought, at least. The whole shebang—me going out with her to restaurants, bars, and nightclubs during the last few months—felt like a whirlwind romance destined to end in the best way possible for both of us. But, as it turned out, our perceptions of the circumstances had been radically different. Now she was with an upper-class toff with much money to spare but lacking what I wanted to believe I possessed: spirit. After all, I was my father’s son, right? Dad had been a restless soul, constantly on the verge of achieving something truly great in his multiple areas of activity. He was a writer, a songwriter, an amateur actor, and a top-notch tenor saxophone player. His skill versatility, combined with a mercurial temperament, rendered him a man with whom people often felt rather uncomfortable, always sensing they were intruding into his treasured private space. Or at least that’s how my mother described him. He left us when I was only one and a half years old and never met my baby brother, Spyros.
It may strike you as strange that a man like me set out to write a memoir, a fictionally modified account of my worldly existence as perceived through my senses and intellect. The endeavor to see myself as the child I once was through the eyes of the adult I’ve become felt so intriguing that it even threatened my trademark inclination towards laziness and procrastination, urging me to act, to write. The truth is that Sophia inspired me to take the big leap from being a short story writer to becoming a fully-fledged author. Her irresistible allure decreed that she be captured and immortalized on the page; I would be the ecstatic mediator who extolled Sophia’s name and grace to all eternity. The memoir would be both for me and her in equal measure. Even one of the working titles, “The Wax Doll,” was a reference to Sophia’s nickname, conceived by me during the first years of our acquaintance when she used to shun all wooers who felt strong enough and tried their luck in getting to know her better. Her frosty behavior made her seem even more unattainable, an elf-like creature of immense beauty destined to live on her own, but also fueled rumors that she was a lesbian, something that had never been confirmed or denied. Anyway, Sophia proved to be the impetus that drove me to write the first thirty pages of my manuscript, but then I took a big break that seemed to have no end. Another unfinished project? I hoped not.
Yesterday, I had a scheduled appointment with my ENT for a follow-up after a nasty bout of tonsillitis that forced me to bed for more than ten days. What started as a faint tickle in my throat rapidly evolved into a nightmarish rollercoaster of fever, severe throat discomfort, and loss of my ability to speak. Thus, the doctor insisted that I provide a sample for a biopsy and convinced me that this was standard practice in cases like mine. I was supposed to meet him in the late afternoon. After a midday siesta, I woke up and realized that it was raining outside, or to be more accurate, a light
drizzle was falling from the vast skies. I put on a hoodie to protect myself from the elements and a pair of blue jeans. I didn’t find any reason to be anything other than casual in my attire. When I was ready, I took a last peek outside the window and saw the orange light from the streetlamps reflecting on the small pools of rainwater collected on the pavement. The doctor’s office was only a few steps away, so I refrained from using my car, which desperately needed gas.
As I arrived at the building that housed several professionals, chiefly doctors and lawyers, the thought struck me. A biopsy is always something to be afraid of, isn’t it? It may show something really bad, something that could change the course of your life for good. Even though I hadn’t initially dwelled on the possibility, I found myself sweating as I knocked on the doctor’s door. He didn’t have a secretary; he was an old-fashioned fella in every way imaginable—his clothes, choice of language, and overall behavior towards his patients were reminiscent of bygone eras. As I entered his oppressive one-room office, I detected an acrid stench emanating from the doc’s mouth, and the half-empty blister pack of mint lozenges on his desk did little to mask the foul consequences of his halitosis. I noticed that he avoided looking me in the eye, which upped my stress levels. When he spoke, he did so while wearing an indifferent frown: “Mr. Passas, the results from the biopsy are in this envelope.” He pushed the sealed piece of paper in my direction. “However, it is my duty to inform you about the findings and what they mean for your life from now on.”
My life from now on… I had to steel myself to keep from shaking. “There is a tumor in your larynx that needs to be surgically removed as quickly as possible. If the operation is successful, that will significantly improve your prognosis. I’m afraid that your vocal cords have been seriously affected, but we will know more after the surgery.” A protracted, weighty silence ensued. I looked at him, dumbfounded. And shocked, that goes without saying. Cancer of the larynx. The best news to end my day. “Of course, if needed, chemotherapy will help alleviate some of the symptoms, but it will not entirely eradicate the tumor. It’s up to you how you choose to proceed.” My throat was so constricted that the single word that came out of my mouth sounded more like a squeak: “Why?” He stared at me. “Are you asking about the causes?” I nodded and he continued: “Smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, certain STDs, and of course family history. In most cases, the disease is hereditary.” My mother had died of a stroke, and I had no idea what the case with my father was. Perhaps he was still alive. I wriggled in my seat and asked the question that burned inside my head: “Will I lose the ability to speak altogether?” He looked at me with something akin to pity. “Nobody can say for sure. It is certainly a strong possibility, and I would advise you to be prepared for a wide range of outcomes. However, it is important that you stay positive. Negativity will only worsen your situation.”
Feeling dizzy, I got up and asked the doctor about the cost of my visit. As soon as I gave him three 20-euro notes, I turned on my heel and walked out of the office without saying goodbye. I was suffocating. As I exited the building, I felt the night’s breeze as a blessing from God. I started walking to no determined destination with short, lugubrious steps.
The first rays of the sun hit my face while I sat on a wooden bench in a park somewhere in Athens. I ended up there after wandering around the city for what felt like an eternity. I longed to be somewhere that existed long before I was born and would still be there long after I was dead. I craved something permanent. That was the only quality that could soothe my agony, whose reverberations kept invariably dilating and constricting inside my mind and soul. There was a good chance that I would lose my voice for good. Human contact, the most fundamental of needs, would be rendered impossible. And that was not the worst of it. If the cancer had already spread to other organs, then my chances of survival in the near term were slim. At times like this, people tend to go back in time, delve into their past, and remember, reassess, and sometimes rebaptize what had already happened. They want to make amends with their loved ones and take care of unfinished business. I didn’t dare to do the same, as I was sure that this time travel would only serve to showcase the emptiness of my being. I’d become the fifth wheel on the stage of my own life, an irrelevant detail. My past was virtually non-existent, and I had just learned that my future would be very, very short-lived. The thought made my stomach twist itself into knots. Bleakness on all fronts. Desperation. Nothing seemed even remotely adequate to bring me what I needed most: a glimmer of hope amidst the all-encompassing darkness. Of course, there was writing. It was one of the few things that truly made me happy, if only for a short while. If I lost the power of speech, the written word would be the only thing left to communicate with the external world. A Latin adage reared its head inside my mind: “Verba volant, scripta manent,” which translates to “Spoken words fly away, written ones endure.” If the Latins were right, no matter how my disease developed, I would never be deprived of the opportunity to reach out to others. Nobody could take that away from me. That was a crumb of comfort.
I’m now sitting on the sand where my mother and I had that talk so many years earlier. Is it the same sand? Or does nothing stay the same in the universe? My eyes are fixed on the blue horizon, and I see the mild waves breaking on the shore, then ebbing away. I wish I had a pen and paper with me. But perhaps the water would damage my handwritten notes. In my mind’s eye, I see the ink quickly beginning to smear, unable to resist the effects of water. Can I write a new life for myself? Is it possible to rescript my existence, safe from the hurtful memories of the past? I take a handful of sand in my right hand and watch as it disperses between the cracks of my fingers. My mother’s words come back to me. I get on my knees and pinch the grains between my thumb and forefinger. I never get it right. It is impossible to hold a single grain in your hand. I keep on trying for what seems like an eternity. Any onlookers must think that I’m mad. And perhaps I am.
