Lies

Tell The Truth And Shame The Devil

It was a scorcher, as I remember. Those types of a high-noon summer day’s where not a leaf flutters, the Etesian winds that ravage our island had suffocatingly stilled, even the winds were gasping for breath. I always wondered why my people were so robust and hearty, their laughter and speech so exaggeratingly loud. I blamed it on the winds, in order to hear themselves they had to speak above the roar of the winds, flapping their arms for emphasis, a form of sign language the winds couldn’t muffle.

Most were hard of hearing or so I thought, I was always asked to speak up. I later realized my voice was of a solitary unction, it only came out to flit about the flowers, when necessary. When it did make an appearance, its physical integrity landed me trouble.

The cobblestones shimmered, glittered as an oasis, beckoning me to dive into it. Just as quickly as it appeared it would skip away further on down the path, the mirage was seeking the safety of the shade, too. I chased it and it ran off like water to a thirsty soul. “Come back”, I’d whisperingly encourage, as I waved it goodbye.

On one occasion, I don’t remember which day of the week it was, the day’s and night’s folded into each other, the heatwave the reason for the lapse in memory. I do recall it wasn’t Kyriaki (Sunday), Kyriaki sounded too much like my mother’s name, Kyrianna (Lady Anna). I think, I would remember if it was. Mother, was as faithful as Sunday is to the Eucharist.

I lay on my back on the cool stone floor of my grandmother's veranda. I traced words with my fingers on the canvas of the cloudless sky, returning to cross my T’s and dot my I’s, placing the accents above the context of my simulations. I had to erase the sky a few times as I sounded out the syllables in Katharevousa, the placement of the accent differed from our local dialect.

Grandmother, was tinkering in the kitchen, she was cooking the midday meal on the tzaki (hearth). Why she preferred to cook over firewood I still don’t understand, the eternal darkness of the black she wore since grandfather left us absorbing the heat, sometimes I’d hear her whispering his name and I’d squeeze my eyes shut tightly, suffering her purgatory in silence, I didn’t want to disturb her reverence, I feared it, only she could resurrect him, in the way in which I loved him.

I wiped my tears away with the back of my spare hands, I didn’t want grandmother to see my tears, it would only have added pain to her already troubled memories.

Bored senseless I entered the kitchen, seeking something to occupy the time.

“What are you cooking, grandmother”, I asked

“Fish Soup”, she replied, sighing, “it needs a touch of salt and it’ll be ready soon

I nodded my head to her in understanding and began searching the pantry for something, anything. I was bored — I climbed the rustic shelves to the top of the pantry and there sat a bag of course sea- salt, I pulled it down and scampered out of the kitchen.

It is said, “An idle mind, is an evil mind”, I wasn’t evil but I was idle… I don’t know why I did the things I did, perhaps it was curiosity.

I climbed up the roof of grandmothers home and walked over to the chimney, the aroma of fresh fish and vegetables tantalized my nostrils. And there I came to the decision to salt the soup. I turned the bag of sea salt over the chimney and poured it down the shoot. Voila, done!

I peeked down the chimney and the humidity wafting upward settled on my up-turned childish nose. Tickling the perspiration that was running rivulets through my hair and down my face.

I lounged there on the roof, the bright Aegean sun beating down on me without mercy, I giggled with glee as I heard grandmother say, “Christ, this fish-soup tastes like the Thalassa”. Just as it should, I thought.

I climbed down off the roof and spotted a mirage in the distance. I chased it through the cobblestones, losing it somewhere along the way. I think it hid in the fronds of potted basil. I snipped off a piece and chewed it, there, I got you, “You’re it”, I ran and ran, my stick-legs slapping my butt with the force of my urgency not to be caught, as the mirage chased me around every corner of the village, I didn’t want to play anymore. So I raced against the mirage back home…

When I reached my home, I ran the last steps as quickly as I could, the mirage was nipping at my heels, I shut the door behind me with a reverberating force, there be gone with you!

“Riga”, mother called out

Huh ooou?! Riga is the male gender of my name and when mother referred to me in that fashion, I knew I was in trouble, again!

“Your father needs to speak to you”, mother says to me

I head to the kitchen where my father is sitting at the table peeling a pear, lost in thought. He forks a piece of the luscious fruit and extends it to me, my mouth watered but I dared not budge.

I look around me scoping out the situation, ok, no mirages, I think I’m safe.

Father, turns to me pinning me to the spot with his icy blue stare, we could have used fathers stare as a cooling system, hmmm.

I stared back, wary accessing the room for clues as to what I may have done. Mind you, we were taught never to stare down an elder but I wasn’t about to take my eyes off the matter at hand or my lookout for those pesky mirages.

Father, continues to silently stare at me, thoughtfully, I was rooted to the spot, ready to bolt over the mirages I knew where lurking somewhere. I don’t know why I was ready to run, father never once put his hands on me in anger, he would just hand me over to the justice of the peace, my mother.

I looked straight at father, my hazel eyes, camouflaging my anxiety beneath the umbrella of blank gawk, my head swivelled upward nose in the air in a prideful lilt.

We were two opponents (never) sizing each other up carefully.

I knew…

I blinked first, smiling at father sweetly, my feathered lashes batting honey in his direction. Father, tried to tether his laughter but couldn’t, he began laughing, ufff!

Ha, that was my signal, I raced to fathers side (it seems like I was running all day), father lifted me onto his lap. Phew, I thought a moment too soon.

“Why did you pour the sea-salt down the shoot, Rigópoula ?” my father asks

I stalled for time

“Oh, that, well the fish needed salt in their water to swim, and grandmother did say they needed salt” I trailed off as father cut me off.

“Do not shame me, Rigópoula , the truth”, father states

“DO NOT SHAME ME”, Oh, how those words still walk alongside me, too this day. Yes, some days they even hold my hand.

I turned the colour of pickled beets, as I felt my little face infused by the irritating brine. I never wanted to disappoint father, I especially never wanted to shame him or for him to ever feel less than the gracious man he always was — because of me.

I fessed up, “I was bored father, I erased the sky and grandmother was sad so I found something to do, she did say the fish needed salt so technically I’m not lying, I just exaggerated the amount, I’m not deaf, the winds aren’t blowing…”

“You what — never mind, just don’t ever do that again, your grandmother will be having dinner with us, be sure to apologize to her when she comes over”

“I will, father, promise. What are we having for dinner?”

“You’re having the Thalassa, the rest of us are having fish”, father says, smiling as he pats my head, scooting me off his lap.

Ahhh, the bond impenetrable, “HUH?”

Father, handed me over to the wrath of God, Mother, who punished me unfairly with her slipper,

And yet, although I was punished, nothing in the world was worth my fathers approving smile. It was worth it because when my voice did make an appearance, it was believed.

Lies are a burden, a story with no end. Lying being a weak, self-serving act, if self-respect is lacking, people lie. The lie may be forgiven but the liar never quite trusted again. Lies have no care, except for the liar.

People lie for their own reasons, the burden of a lie being of much more weight than the truth. Every lie becomes a blemish on the soul, carried in our hearts. Truth, told with care, faced and dealt with becoming a lesson. Our shoulders are sturdy we can carry the truth.

Why do people lie? Because they can.

Why can’t I respect their choices? Because I can.

So, spare me the echoes of glib locutions — and please pass the salt.

The winds began to pick up, the mirages stayed in hiding. I went back to silent retrospection. I wrote ‘shame’ in the clouds placing the accent on the wind, I erased the sky. I told the truth and shamed the devil instead.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. 2020. All Rights Reserved.

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