23e - The Old Neighborhood: The Microcosm of our Apartment Block (Leonidakos)

For the L_’s living next door to Mrs. Evangelia, I always held the impression of a family in consonance with their fixed daily routines, their jobs and a quiet and peaceful life; the latter, at least, in contrast to our family –given Father's frequent outbursts in a thunderous voice, which often pierced the walls of the building and reached the street outside. I rarely met with the L_s within the building we shared: the couple was busy getting on with their jobs and chores, being, as they say, an honourable hardworking couple. The husband was a painter and decorator; I saw him on occasions in his stained with paint overalls on his motorbike loaded with brushes and buckets heading to work, whilst the wife took on temporary jobs caring for the elderly. They had a son, Leonidas, better known in the neighbourhood by the dimininutive but rather unfitting Leonidakos (little Leonidas). He was bigger and stronger than Brother although of the same age, both seven years younger than me. As such, they were rarely allowed to join me and friends in our street play. (Besides, they were growing up at a time when playing outdoors on the streets was dwindling, due to an incessant construction in the area, increased number of cars on the roads, and the side-effects of television. Detours from the short and well-trodden path from school to the house had its dangers and required the permission from parents and the accompanying by an adult. At their age, must be said, I enjoyed more luck and freedom with my outside ventures, but children’s lives were changing fast.)

One autumn afternoon, shortly after the end of the school day, Leonidakos, with whom I had barely talked in person till then, rang our doorbell. I opened the door and he asked straight for Mother to whom she announced, panting, with a face flushed from worry and a trembling voice that Brother had been ‘run over by a car’ -at the intersection of Xenofon and Gambetta Street, roads that the boys crossed every day from school on their way back home. He unwittingly sowed panic with his naïve and brutal phrasing of the incident. For Mother and me listening beside her, ‘run over by a car’ meant that a car not just knocked Brother out but also drove over him, leaving him seriously wounded and even dead on the tarmac. Leonidakos’ message without elaboration caused shock and distress, bordering hysteria, to Mother. I had not seen her that distraught until then and would not have ever since. It was, nonetheless, a natural and instinctive reaction for a Greek mother. For my part, I felt an agitation which triggered palpitations and my heart to bleed -so to speak. I was instantly moved by the news and tears filled my eyes; I might have taken away by a few sobs. The image of tiny Brother, lying somewhere pale and dead, flashed in my mind. I felt an unprecedented tumult, despite the age gap of seven years between us, our rivalries and the animosity that the daily friction between siblings inevitably causes, as they must share the attention and devotion of parents and a largely unexciting everyday life in a small apartment. Like the pain from the sudden and heavy blows of what we call fate (something not predetermined, but random, and often with inordinate consequences) can unexpectedly cause to off-guard human beings. Then again, vis-à-vis the emotional impact of Brother’s accident, as Greeks say, ‘family blood does not turn into water’.

Mother, overwhelmed herself as she was, paid no heed to my reaction to the news and my emotional state. She threw away her kitchen apron, took off her robe underneath, pulled and put on a random skirt from the bedroom closet, walked fast downstairs with her hands trying to zip up and straighten the skirt; she ran after Leonidakos, the big boy well beyond his years, lead her by two or three steps to the road intersection of Xenophon and Gambetta streets, where the accident occurred.  I followed them at a fair distance, inundated by the fleeting thoughts and premonition of a tragic and macabre spectacle that would traumatise deeply an unspoiled from misfortunes soul. A tragedy, indeed, was what was insinuated by Leonidakos’ restless demeanour and his laconically brutal and brusque account of what he witnessed.

Brother was fine! He was overcoming the shock of the hit by the car bumper that threw him a few meters down the road and over to the pavement. He was sitting on a chair at one of the tables, in the diary and sweet shop, with a glass of orange juice in front of him -courtesy of the shopkeeper, dried tears under the eyes and a skin pale from the shock, rather than pain or serious injury. There had been no further drama following up the incident. A lesson was learned and, in the future, Brother was told by all present and promised that he should be careful when crossing streets, no matter how narrow, no matter what time of the day. For me, the event was a first fleeting encounter with the spectre of death and his sickle by an insignificant road. Admittedly, shocking and unforgettable, yet of many more to come.