Firing offence

FIFTEEN

Lee asked, “Where are we going?”

After a slow morning of breakfast and the Sunday Post at my place, we were heading south on Thirteenth Street, passing large detached homes with expansive porches. Ahead stood three-story rowhouses crowned with incongruously grand turrets.

“We’re going to visit someone,” I said. “A friend of my grandfather’s.”

I turned right on Randolph and parked halfway down the block of boxy brick houses. There was little color in the trimwork or shutters here. Dogs barked angrily from alleys. Even on bright and sunny days, this street seemed to remain dark.

“This is my Uncle Costa’s place,” I said. “He worked for my grandfather when he was a young man. When he wanted to start his own business, my grandfather helped him out.”

“Let’s go in.”

“I just wanted to explain to you first, before you meet him. Let’s just say that some of these guys didn’t really assimilate themselves too well into the American culture.”

“You’re not ashamed of him, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Fine,” she said, tugging at my arm. “Let’s just go in.”

As we walked up the steps, I waved to a man coming out of the next house who I knew to be a reverend. Behind us two gangly but tough-looking kids walked down the sidewalk, one wearing a Fila sweatsuit, the other with an Eddie Murphy “Golden Child” leather cap on his head.

A rusted metal rocker with moldy cushions sat on the concrete porch. Black iron bars filled the windows. I knocked on the door and waited, counting three locks being undone. Costa opened the door, looked at me, and smiled.

“Niko,” he said.

“Theo Costa.” I gripped his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

He was shosolesnt sizert and solid, with thick wavy black hair that was gray at the temples and slicked back, and a thin black mustache below his bumpy nose. Though it was Sunday, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt with two pens clipped in the breast pocket.

“Come on,” he said, waving us in with both hands. As Lee passed him, he looked back at me and said in Greek, “Your girl? Very nice.”

“A friend,” I answered, but he winked anyway.

I introduced her and they shook hands. A couple of cats ran by us and into the kitchen. The curtains were drawn throughout the house. Costa switched on lights as we followed him through the living room and into the dining room. The air was dry and very still.

We sat at a large table in ornate chairs with yellowed cushions. On one wall was a mirror covered with a blanket; on the other hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man and woman that had been taken in the early part of the century. The woman, even shorter than the short man and wearing a long black dress, was unsmiling. The man wore a baggy suit, a very thick mustache, and a watchchain from vest to pocket.

“You want coffee, gleeka’?” Costa asked.

“Thanks, Costa. Nescafe for Lee.”

“One minute,” he said in Greek, jabbing a finger in the air and stepping quickly into the kitchen.

“He’s nice,” Lee said. I nodded and she pointed to the wall. “What’s with the mirrors? I noticed the one in the living room is covered too.”

“His wife died last year,” I said. “He covered the mirrors so he won’t see her reflection.” She raised her eyebrows. “I told you.”

“It’s just that it’s so dark in here, and sad. He must be very depressed.”

“I’m sure he’s a little lonely and misses his wife. But this house was always closed up and dark, even when she was alive. They’re old-timers, that’s all.”

Costa returned with a tray of two Turkish coffees, a cup of instant, and a small platter of sweets, which he set in the center of the table. On the platter were koulourakia, kourabiedes, galactoboureko, and baklava. He pushed the whole thing in front of Lee.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, moving his hands in small circles. “Eat!”

“I like baklava,” she admitted, emphasizing the second syllable as most Americans do, and chose a slice. I took a kourabiede for myself.

We sat and talked for the next half hour, mostly about what we had been doing in the time since I’d seen him last. The tiny cup of coffee had given me quite a jolt. Lee eventually drifted away from the table and began to wander around the house. We heard her steps on the wooden staircase that led down to the basement.

She called upstairs excitedly, “Hey, Nicky, there must be twenty cats down here!”

“Twenty ca"› excitedts, Costa?” I said, and smiled.

“Maybe a dozen,” he said sourly. “Lousy gatas.”

“If you’d quit feeding them… ”

“Aah,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

Now that Lee was gone we spoke in Greek. Though I understood everything he said, I kept my own sentences simple so as not to embarrass myself with my marginal command of the language.

Costa reached behind him and opened the door of an old wall cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Metaxa and two shot glasses.

“Too early for you, Niko?”

“No.” He poured a couple of slugs with efficiency and we knocked glasses. He sipped and watched as I threw mine back in one quick motion, returning the little glass to the table with a hollow thud.

“You drink like a Spartan,” he said.

“Like my papou.”

“Your papou could drink. But he gave it up when your parents sent you to him.”

“I miss him,” I said.

“He would be proud of you,” Costa said. Like most immigrants he equated my white collar with success.

“I’m doing fine,” I said.

“It’s time you found another woman.”

“I’m not against the idea.”

“The girl you’re with. She’s Jewish?”

“Yes. She’s my friend, like I told you.”

“Friends, okay. And the Jews are good people, very smart in business. But it’s not good to mix, you found that out. Marry a Greek girl.”

He finished his drink and poured two more shots. A gray cat with green eyes did a figure eight around my feet then jumped up onto my lap. Costa reached across the table and picked it off me, tossing it to the other side of the room.

“How is it here in the neighborhood now, Theo?”

“Not too bad,” he said, and shrugged. “When Toula was alive, I worried more. They took her purse once, when she was walking home with groceries.” His eyes were a faded brown and watery, more from long afternoons of drinking than from bitterness.

“It’s not the same town it was,” I said.

“You don’t even remember how good it was,” he said, suddenly animated. He pointed a finger at my chest. “When I first came here, your papou and me swam in the Potomac on hot summer afternoons. Now it’s so dirty, I wouldn’t even throw a photograph of myself into that river.”

I laughed as he finished his shot. I turned the bottle around on the table and read the label.

“Five star, Costa?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to Greece?” I asked, wondering why anyone would remain a prisoner in a house like this, in a city where the only common community interest was to get safely through another day.

“No, I plan on dying here. Believe me, Niko,” he said, without a trace of irony, “there is no place in the world like America.”

LATER THAT DAY LEE and I drove down to Southwest and walked along the water, checking out the yachts in the marina. Continuing west, we ended up at the fish market on Maine Avenue.

Most of the good fish had been picked over by that time of day. I bought some squid, at one forty-nine a pound, from a cross-eyed salt who was attempting to stare at Lee. We took it back to my apartment.

After removing the ink sacks and the center bone, I sliced the squid laterally into thin rings, and shook them in a bag with a mixture of bread crumbs, garlic, and oregano. Then I fried them in olive oil in a hot skillet.

We ate these with lemon and a couple of beers as we watched the first half of the Skins game. For the second half we napped together on the couch in roughly the same arrangement as the night before. We woke as the afternoon light was fading. I drove her back to her car at the store and kissed her good-bye.

Back in my apartment I warmed some soup on the stove. From the television in the living room I heard the stopwatch intro to 60 Minutes and felt that familiar rush of anxiety, announcing that my weekend was ticking away.

Two hours later I dialed the international operator and reached Greece. For the next ten minutes I was shuttled around to various women who worked the switchboards. Finally I reached my mother at her home in a village near Sparta. I had last spoken to my parents on the day my grandfather died.

We spoke superficially about our lives. She ended most of her sentences with, “my boy” or “my son.” I tried not to confuse the ethnic inflection in her voice with concern or, especially, love. As our conversation pared down to awkward silences between pleasantries, I began to wonder, as I always did, why I had called.

I turned in early that night but lay in the dark for quite a while before I finally went to sleep. Though I forced myself to wake several times during the night, I was unsuccessful in stopping Jimmy Broda from haunting my dreams.