...And Dreams Are Dreams

The narrator, this person who is outside our story, outside the cruise, but thanks to whom we are informed about what was going on on the yacht and in the mind of the captain, was reading page fifty-seven of The Political History of Modern Greece by Spyros Markezinis. “Since they [the government] were unable to deal with this difficult situation by soliciting loans from abroad — because, after the failure of the revolutionary loans, without a guarantee, neither could a compromise be reached concerning the previous loans, nor a new loan procured — and because naturally there was never any question of a national loan, there were only two other ancient solutions left: economizing (austerity) and an increase in state revenue (taxation). The former would have to be achieved without restricting military expenses, even after the battle of Navarino, because the danger of an attack by Ottoman troops was not out of the question, and also because immediate demobilization would create social problems (unemployment). The demobilized troops would become legends.”

He shut his book and went out. He wanted to go to a certain address he had been given where he could get his dose from a dealer called Elpiniki. Number 11

Maison Street. On the way be wondered, still influenced by the book he had been reading, who this Maison was. A man, a woman, or a house? The name sounded vaguely familiar from high school. But he had forgotten practically everything he had learned in high school. As for the taxi driver, not only did he also not know who Maison was (a man, a woman, or a house), he had no idea where the street was.

“It’s parallel to Fabvier Street,” the narrator enlightened him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

It didn’t mean a thing to the cab driver, because he came from a village and had not learned the streets of Athens. He was in the middle of dreaming about the fish his brother-in-law was going to bring him.

“Well, at least let’s get to Canning Square, and then we can ask.”

But even Canning Square was unknown to the driver. The narrator was indignant.

“But don’t you know the history of the place where you were born?”

“History knows me,” replied the driver cockily, in that way neo-Hellenes have of turning their ignorance into a virtue and throwing the ball back at you. “I make history in bed.”

The narrator, who was going into withdrawal and could hardly wait to get to Elpiniki’s house, began to lose his temper. Meanwhile, the cab driver continued his monologue.

“All these people in power are in it to amass wealth. Nobody’s in it for the masses, for the people.

That’s why I say: all these ministers can go stuff themselves.”

Finally, they asked another cab driver, an obliging old man, who solved their problem: they would take Eynard Street, behind the statue of Kolokotronis, go down Miaoulis Street, across Canning Square to Kassomoulis Street, and that’s where they’d find Maison Street.

And suddenly, inside the passenger/narrator’s mind, which was clouded from withdrawal, there was light. Kassomoulis! Of course! He mentions Marshall Maison, General Maison, Commander in Chief Maison, liberator of Greece. He cleaned up the Peloponnese of Ibrahim’s Turko-Egyptians, the ones who brought the plague. With a regular army of fourteen thousand, he brought the border of Greece up to the Isthmus of Corinth.

Yes, that was Maison, the great warrior. Maison of Maison Street.

At last they found it.

“What number did you say?”

“Number 11.”

The driver stopped at number 9.

“Never mind, I’ll get out here,” said the narrator and paid.

They were watering the plants on the balconies and the streets were soaking. Or maybe it was raining.

You could never tell in this city.

— 4-

The Captain, Suite: The Reception

“And so what happened to Kontostavlos,

Grandfather?”