Gone the Tides of Earth

Alci tells me of a dream he had in the cottage as we walk languidly through a twisted wood, without any deciduous trees, in the overdrawn heat of the humid spring.

‘Driving along the mountainside, the road was split and though it did not move, somehow my car was inched closer and closer to the edge of the pavement, each passing instant, which dropped a mile into a gorge. Another car is oncoming from the other side and going steady in its own lane, moving well, it passes without obstruction, but the back right tire of mine knicks the cliffside and the car is sent ricocheting over the mountain.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That was it. What does it mean?’

‘How should I know.’

‘I hoped you might like to analyze.’

‘Well, subconscious-this and conscious-that. Try to get out of your head.’

‘Alci is like you now - he cannot stop thinking.’

‘God-willing you will be cured of this affliction.’

‘The masters would tell you one may turn lead into platinum,’ chimes in Jacqueline, ‘if they’d learn they can only find the answers from inside, where it’s appropriate to seek.’

By early afternoon we stand at a summit in the cliffs and see plumes of dark vapour trailing into the air from the valley below. Thereafter we are upon a village that has been shelled, much of the infrastructure built of old from stone and bricks blown to pieces and lying scattered throughout cobbled streets. Only a few intact buildings seem maintained, people presently seen in their windows, and portended there at afar by the billowing smoke.

At the edge of this sorry town is a little field, grasses mostly burnt to a crisp and the remnants of olive groves depicted in trees standing alone, still fruiting, their kin reduced to stumps and voids. Several persons emerge from there, venturing into the olden streets, disappearing in alleys, into houses and shops beneath their hanging signage.

‘Let’s go see,’ says Jac.

‘I agree - there’s no bad feeling.’

We wander past the trees and deeper into the plain, bordered by scraggly fauna and wood, and discover a renewed residential setting. The buildings are mainly composed of wood, some with plaster or finer, miscellaneous ingredients, and built-up without adhering to any traditional blueprint. Much of the structures seem to be domestic dwellings, though a larger, perhaps original timber-frame is erected by the edge of the wood where a path meets the upper forest and weaves back unto the olden village across these elysian fields.

An imposing sign dangling from its edifice reads Taverna & Inn. Jacqueline, reconciled to this course, starts for it promptly in the lead of us. Our presence is not tended to by conspicuous glances, nor anyone working outside or heading off into town.

A musty warmth greets us in the door, a broad service desk fixtured to the vestibule. Beyond it is the old, mahogany-textured scenery of a western-style pub choked with mild flavours of cigarette, reeking liquor, and hoppy ale. Several round tables litter the space, with an aproned barman behind the bar drying sudsy drinking glasses with a cloth.

‘Welcome,’ he says amicably, in Greek. ‘Take a seat.’

Alci and I lead on to a small, square table located severely by the fireplace. On the mantle are military medals displayed in plaques and photographs of the old unblasted town. Its denizens look to us, merely briefly, apparently unsuspicious, prior to writing us off.

‘Good thing we were able to change our clothes,’ says Alci, ‘they might not have liked us so very much otherwise.’

‘Let’s use our money and get a real meal. Enough canned goods.’

‘Take it out from the bag, then.’

‘What are you doing?’ I ask Jacqueline, whose cross necklace she has wound in a hand, its pendant spooling over the knuckles and o’er the table’s surface.

‘Quit making yourself look so curious,’ adds Alci.

‘Some recognize it as a welcome symbol.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Come with me,’ comes the command of a bald, thickset man with a severe expression, abruptly positioned to loom over the table. ‘Right away, please.’

‘Christ’s sake,’ whispers Alcibiades under his breath.

We are led behind the tables, around a corner and onto a wide platform where above a long, narrow stair leads upstairs. Plenty sets of eyes follow us as we go, quiet and still.

‘Why the hell do you want to take us up there?’

‘Just trust me,’ he says.

‘Just trust him,’ affirms Jacqueline.

In the corridor off the stair the hallway is chestnut, polished and wainscotting spans the walls waist-high. It is clearly an aged inn once sunken with the wealth of deep pockets.

The hefty man with an accent opens and holds ajar a door, looking up and down the hallway, ushering us within. It is a simple room with a bed on a classical metal frame, white linens, baby-blue curtains, and a worn leather armchair in the corner beneath a dresser.

‘Where are you from?’ he asks, shutting the door, sweat beading his brow.

‘My father is Algerian. He was raised in Algiers.’

‘Tunis. I thought I noticed spice to your voice.’

‘Why are we in a bedroom above the tavern?’ I ask.

‘What are you doing showing out dangerous tokens here?’

‘It depends,’ interrupts Jac. ‘Can you help? If not, we’ll leave immediately.’

‘We maybe can help,’ he answers, glancing behind as if expecting somebody to be eavesdropping in. ‘There aren’t snoops or snitches among us, but we do get travellers.’

‘We understand.’

‘I will alert some others and instruct them to gather here later tonight. Until then, stay here, you can use the room to rest now and to sleep this evening. Sorry, it’s the only one available.’

‘It’s perfect, thank you.’

‘Just be patient. I will return when we know it is safe. Trust me.’

‘We believe you.’

‘What are your names?’

‘I am Jacqueline; this is Alcibiades and that is Henry.’

‘Mine is Mohamed. You may call me Mom. Just wait.’

‘Why the crucifix?’ I ask as Mohamed leaves.

‘Because The Christ was no fascist. And rosaries and chains are all we have left.’

It is dark and the wind shrill and rattling the windowpane as he collects us. Carrying an iron chamberstick with a lit taper, Mom directs the procession along the hall and down the stair back into the tavern, dissipated sunlight replaced by a hearty blaze in the hearth. Only the barman remains in the vicinity, behind the bar shining glasses, same as before.

‘Sit down,’ says Mom, seating us at a more comfortable table across from the zinc. ‘We have prepared some food for the billing of your other half,’ he says to Jacqueline.

The two men and a chef bring forth from the kitchen French onion soups, garlic-butter escargot, and a loaf of sourdough. Then they sit in chairs around the fireplace, adjacent to the dining table, hauling back cigarettes gracefully, easefully.

‘We will help you,’ informs Mohamed. ‘We have spoken to some others and given them declaration that nothing seems off with you three. We are your friends if you need us.’

‘Thank you,’ replies Jac.

‘Are either of you deserters?’ he asks Alci and I.

‘Both of us,’ I answer, knowing this question was due to be fielded eventually. ‘But never by vocation, only design. Nor did we ever fight. But chose security over insanity.’

‘Aye, I see.’ His demeanour is neither approving nor unimpressed. ‘You are not the first of your kind to arrive. We have seen others. We’ll help the two of you just as well.’

‘Thanks, we appreciate it,’ pipes Alci.

After this exchange it seems we no longer exist, speaking no more as they go about smoking, drinking their tumblers of whiskey, not paying any heed to us three famished and devouring the gourmet dinner set before us. The barman brings us water and beer halfway through the courses, clasping a shoulder of mine and of Alci’s simultaneously. Jacqueline glows like a Parisian coquette at La Closerie des Lilas. Till commodification of good food is restored, hunger alone feeds the hungry. It is something realized time again on the road.