142
143
“LETTERS” By Maria Eliades Translated into Greek by Maria Eliades and Eleni Pavlou Subject: Leaving Istanbul
Mar 14
Maria Eliades
Dear Eleni, I lit a candle today in Aghia Triada in Taksim Square. I don't know why I did it or who it was for – you, me, us? There is no us, I have yet to learn this. You, you're untouchable and me, well, my belief's shaky but I'll have to say this is for me. Perhaps if I wanted it to be for us I'd have to do two, but there I was with a single candle, tek as they say in Turkish, in the back of the old church by the long offering boxes with marble covers which say, 'Throw in the worth of your hands' with a finger painted in black pointing into the endless slat. I cross myself, thumb, forefinger, and middle finger pressed together, to touch my forehead, then navel, then just below my right shoulder, and just below my left shoulder. I press my hand to my heart. There is no priest in at the moment with his golden robes, but there are women, old women, who are perhaps lighting candles in the church out of comfort rather than the strict belief that Christ saves. They don't know that I half believe. At the least I don't reject belief. Rejection is strong. I believe enough to feel that God is enough and that these paintings of saints, examples of once mortals now semi-divine, are divine enough to watch over us, that they can cover over our immaterial wounds. I used to believe I had a guardian angel hovering over me invisibly, more present than the saints or God. It had enormous,
brown feathery wings with insets of blue, like the one in the icon I had been given at a baptism. My mother markered "Kostas Markarios" in all blue caps on the back. But I've stopped believing in guardian angels. You were like one, one to complement, not to protect, to be there when you weren't there by text and e-mail. You inspired and distracted. Now you too are gone, silent. It's just me surrounded by my past lived alone, as if I or my memory have removed you from the scenes we shared. I renarrate them to myself. I renarrate them to a silent you. Perhaps I really lit the candle because we merely light them in remembrance, an acknowledgement of those who have passed. I'm coming to Athens in another few days. I'm writing to you now, because I think the distance has done us good, and that it's time, finally, to be friends. At least, I'd like that very much. Tell me when you're free and we can “do” coffee as we did in university. Yours, Kostas = Subject: Coming to Athens, five days and counting Mar 14 Hey, Taso. How are you? I know, I've been out of contact since Christmas, blah blah blah. I'm coming to Athens, so you can save your complaints until I get there. I'll be with my folks for the weekend, but if you're around, there's room for a late night out.
Write and we'll make plans. -Kostas = Subject: In Thessaloniki Mar 16 Dear Eleni, I went to Hatzís first thing after checking into my hotel early this morning – you know, for the usual treat of baklava with clotted cream, purely Constantinopolitan, as if I didn't get enough of it in Istanbul. But what one notices first about Thessaloniki on the return, on the practical side of it all, is that the bus ticket prices have gone up and the tickets can now only be used once. I really don't blame everyone for the “I don't pay” campaign that's been running since last year. How can you squeeze people for something that isn't there? I'd do the same if I was living here. I'd be completely involved with the movement and more, as I'm sure you are. Hell, if I know you, you're near its center. What more to report on my third hour in the city? The place is familiar but strange. The weight of our dirty history puts an edge to everything, the current situation feels more tragic than it did last year when I was with some of our friends in Halkidiki, where the atmosphere seemed to suggest that nothing had changed. But then perhaps in Halkidiki one forgets everything. Even then, the partying was unabated. I lit another candle this morning, this time in Aghia Sophia. I'm not sure why. I'm writing in the church courtyard, watching two pale grey doves toddle past, bobbing their heads, as I hope that I won't