Old House
The summers in the early 2000s in Kassos are connected with the house of the maternal aunt of my mother, thia Marika. Through the kindness of my mother’s aunt, thia Marika, I was allowed the use of her house throughout my stay in Kassos. The house is in need of repair: door handles, hinges and bolts are rusted in the humid air and after long years of neglect, paint is peeling off doors and windows. The putty holding the window panes in place has flaked off, making the windows rattle menacingly at every gust of air.
The only cooking facility is a three-stove table top gas cooker connected to a gas cylinder. When not in use, the neighbour Bebis tells me it is advisable to secure the valve at the top of the cylinder.
Despite the lack of comforts, the house commands a superb view. Perched on a high spot just off the dry river bed of the river Skyllas, it faces west. Its front gate, made of wood and featuring elegant wooden railing is painted in royal blue. This is now flaking in places, revealing its previous history: turquoise, cinnamon brown, pistachio green. Two raised flower beds run along the sides of the small yard, left and right. On the right, an old grapevine, its trunk old, gnarled and peeling has heaved itself up supported by three intersecting metal tubes forming a roughly shaped pergola. Its leaves are moth-eaten and unkempt, revealing some irregular, diseased bunches of grapes. On the left, a two-trunk lemon tree raises its limbs in a gesture of silent despair and rises to meet the vine over the middle of the yard, its skin dark grey, smooth and clear. The old companions’ permanent embrace casts a welcome shade on the faded, Victorian tiles of the yard.
Looking over to the north, one can see Phry, the port and the town, arranged eyebrow shape along the smooth coast. Moving westwards, my eyes greet the cemetery and the white form of Ai-Yiannis church fenced in by a white wall on a gently rising slope that leads on to the village of Ayia Marina. Then I follow the undulating rise like the profile of a sleeping giant, and reaches Profitis Elias, the minute church on top of the mountain.
I have a feeling of well-being, of elation at being here. This house is steeped in family history. My great-great grandmother spent the last years of her life in this house when the Italian commandant requisitioned her own house and the olive grove next to it for his headquarters. She died in the room where I will sleep. Old photos on the wall signal some details of her life. A photograph of her daughter Barbara, who emigrated newly wed to America never to return; a fifties wedding photograph of Barbara’s daughter from America, with six maids of honour; a convent school photo of the 1920s of seven-year old aunt Marika, in pinafore and hair in a short bob parted on the side.
© Sofia A Koutlaki 2020
