The only journey of his life (part 4)
(Original translation of a novella by Georgios Vizyinos, written in 1884. This is part four. Read part one, part two, and part three at the links. Check back soon for the following parts.)
I don’t know if it was the tone of his voice, the seriousness of his look, or the contents of his words that most contributed to my agitation. I only remember that, long after Thymios had gone quiet, I was still standing still and aghast at the spot I found myself at the moment he spoke his first words, and I remember that under their influence, successive shudders ran down my spine and shook me to the core.
My grandfather is wrestling with the angel! This, of course, was no good business. But my grandfather is looking for me! That meant my grandfather couldn’t overcome the angel on his own and is calling me to help him!
This childish thought came from the fact that I used to wrestle with my grandfather, climbed onto his back and tall shoulders, especially when I found him sitting by the fireplace. During those noisy fights, my grandfather was always proclaimed the loser and always recognized me as the more powerful one, introducing me to anyone who happened to be present as his pechlivani, meaning his pro wrestler, like the ones that the pashas raise, ready to wrestle anyone who dares to boast that he is the strongest man of the land in order to overcome him or to cede his professional post to the winner. Since then, in such matters I used to carry that title, it seemed to me very natural that my grandfather, not knowing how to vanquish the angle on his own, would call me, his pro wrestler, to help him thrash his opponent and to take on perhaps myself that terrible fight of light and death!…
And how will I accomplish that? And where will I wrestle with the angel? By my grandfather’s fireplace or on the marble threshing floor?
No, no, no! I’m afraid! I can’t do it!
And my knees would knock together out of fear, and I would make as if to turn back to sit in my seat. But then I suddenly thought that this was the only favorable occasion, not only for ridding myself from the hands of my boss but also for asking my grandfather, while there was still time, where in the world he met the princesses about whom he speaks as if he ate and drank and spoke with them.
But my boss? We’ll see what my boss says! Will he let me go? I mean, an hour ago he was assuring us that all his students are his inalienable property, and he would let me get away? Oh, disaster! I should have thought of that first of all!
Since the moment Thymios came up into our room, my boss put his scissors down with a thump on his workbench, and raising his big glasses from his eyes to his wrinkled forehead, he put his hands on his sides and kept shooting menacing glances towards the man who dared to enter in that way in his tyrannic kingdom, without prior explanation. My classmates were all excited but none of them dared to move or raise his head. All these were bad signs: Of course he wouldn’t let me leave.
“His grandfather is wrestling with the angel!” Thymios said now to him, hanging his already sulky face even lower. “His grandfather is bidding us farewell, and he wants to see the boy. It’s his last wish, you know.”
My boss, whose anger seemed to have reached its peak, was already opening his lips spasmodically to curse, as always did during his violent eruptions of anger. But Thymios’ last phrase, spoken with some mysterious reverence and a changed tone of voice, acted like a spell on that harsh, inhumane old man. His flushed face calmed down right away, his menacing stance fell away at once, and, with kindness, a thing I had for the first time seen in him, he extended his hand towards me so I could kiss it. That was my leave to go.
My confusion and inexperience made me believe at that moment that Thymios, just as he knew how to tame the unruly bulls of my grandfather with his stentorian voice, likewise possessed the mysterious power to calm from afar, taming the ferocity of the fiercest of bosses. From what I can tell today, however, what caused that unexpected change was the mere religious reverence due to those about to die.
It is truly remarkable, the willingness and reverence with which even the most difficult of men obeyed the last wish of the moribund. I don’t know if it is thought that those who do not contribute to the fulfillment of this wish cause the wrath of the heavens upon them. Maybe — according to the very philosophical morality of the masses — each person avoids doing what he does not wish to happen to him. The sure thing is that while the departing soul still has some unfulfilled wish, it cannot be separated from the now foreign body and leave but walks around groaning and complaining. And it is considered irreverence if friends and family do not rush to do all in their power to prepare a quiet and content departure of the soul from a world in which it no longer belongs but with which it is still connected through its last wish. In fact, according to the expression that the dead person’s face takes on once it exhales its last breath, it’s possible to say without error, whether the wish has been fulfilled or not.
It’s on account of this that emotional scenes, heartbreaking even, take place by the bedside of the dying. Here, the prodigal son or the inconsiderate daughter whose shallow behavior angered the strict father and excluded them from the household are committed by their withered mother to the mercy of their father who, wailing, opens again his affectionate embrace, amidst the blurry tears of those present. Here, always, the-hated-by-the-Greeks stepmother, entrusted by the dying father to the care of his child from his previous wife, receives from that stepchild the warmest and most dedicated care. Here, long family discords are settled; insidious feuds among siblings are obliterated; hatreds are destroyed, even the deadliest of those among friends and family. Here, at last, the members of the family, even of the remotest ones, gather from the ends of the country to this place, not out of maliciousness, nor from any irreverent expectation of material inheritance, but because their souls, by nature closely connected to the departing being, are innately attracted to meet that person for one last time, while they are still close, in the earthly world, in order to mysteriously exchange their last spiritual debt. Because — who cannot see it? — the soul, the one flying amidst their well-wishes and blessings, goes to that place where the departed members of the family are. This partial farewell, therefore, is a general meeting with those souls — it’s an indirect communication of the living with the dead. The departing soul will soon find itself among all these dear friends in the land of the great beyond and will be surrounded by them asking if it had seen and how it had seen their loved ones on earth. Anyone who isn’t cursed, therefore, must not be absent from the bed of a dying familiar person and from the last piety and affection towards the dead. If one of those familiar with the dying person cannot attend that last meeting, either due to heavy illness or because he’s far abroad, those present diligently avoid mentioning his name lest, at the sound of it, the dying person wishes to see him. Because then, if the desired person doesn’t arrive on time, the eyes of the dead person will remain half-closed awaiting his arrival, even long after the life in them is extinguished.
That’s mainly what Thymios means when he tells me that if I don’t make it on time, my grandfather will die and his eyes will remain open.
(Will the tailor boy make it in time to see his grandfather alive? And will he be able to help him wrestle the angel? Check back soon for the next installment to fine out.)
