Weekend in the Country (Part II)

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Sunday

The men left for church a few minutes before 8:00. I woke up at 8:00 when I heard the matins bells ring. I keep thinking of that song, whenever I hear the matins bells:

Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez vous?
Sonne la matina, sonne la matina,
Ding, ding dong. Ding, ding, dong.

I arrived halfway through matins, having left Mena still sleeping. (The church is only a few hundred meters from the house.)

And what should I hear as I enter? Demetrios’ sweet tenor chanting a hymn. Then the clear baritone of Ioannis the Lawyer (as we call him to distinguish him from our other friend, Ioannis the Theologian.) And then, the rich bass of Kostas. All three of them were up front, at the cantors' station.

I was horrified. I suppose that since I heard the news about his heart valve, what I want to do is wrap Kostas in cotton and gauze and stick him on some shelf somewhere where he will be safe until his surgery! I waited until Demetrios had finished the hymn and one of the others was singing the next, and then I approached from behind and whispered to him. “Should Kostas be singing?”

Demetrios said it would be alright. Fine; he’s the doctor; and he did a stint of cardiology, too, once upon a time. I still wanted to run home, wake Mena, and say, “Your husband is SINGING!” but instead I sat there and tried to pay attention to the prayers. Mena came half an hour later, and I could tell from the darts in her eyes she was as horrified as I was—and, after a few long moments of doubt, as willing to trust Demetrios’ judgment. Kostas always sings; can’t really take that away from him now.

After church we were accosted by another Old Friend. It was another high school buddy of Demetrios’, named Kostas. They had seen each other at the reunion, and now here they were together again. Wondrous, miraculous! “I hadn’t seen Demetrios in fifty years!” said the Old Friend. “Fifty years! And now, here he is, right in my own village!”

Ioannis wanted to take us for bougatsa. We got in his car and drove back to Kallikrateia, to a place he knew. He is Mena’s and Kostas’ koumbaros, having stood up for them at their wedding. They, in turn, are our koumbaroi, having stood up for us at ours. “That,” says Ioannis, “Makes you and me parakoumbaroi!”

“Ah,” he said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “How tired I am! As Talliadoros says, God rest the bones of the man who first invented lying down!” Talliadoros is the last name of his teacher, the great Charilaos Talliadoros. He is the most revered Psaltis (cantor) in all of Macedonia, probably in all of Greece. The Patriarch (of Constantinople) designated him Psaltis of the Patriarchate and gave him a special hat he wears in church. Demetrios says his voice is one of those that, like Pavarotti’s, only comes around every thousand years or so. (Is there an oxymoron in there somewhere?) Demetrios and I go frequently to St. Sophia, where he sings, just because he is there.

Ioannis, his student, loves Byzantine music intensely, and knows it thoroughly. His conversation is always laced with snippets of hymns or verses from Scripture (usually the same thing). Virtually anything you say will remind him of some Scripture.

Arriving at the bougatsa place Ioannis knew, we found no parking spaces, but one car occupying two spaces.

“Animal!” muttered Mena (who as I’ve told you, is on a short fuse just now).

"...animals both small and great,” chanted Ioannis. (Psalm 103:25, Septuagint) It makes Mena so mad!

If you want to make Demetrios laugh and Mena scold, the best way is to do what Ioannis did, like that troublemaker Eris, leaving the golden apple among the goddesses, inscribed, “To the Most Beautiful.”

“Now what would you say?” asked Ioannis. “Who are better drivers, men or women?”

“Women!” said Mena.

“I rather think men are,” replied Ioannis.

“You make a mistake,” retorted Mena, looking to me for support.

“A great mistake,” I added. I don’t really think the question is even valid, much less do I have any opinion as to the answer, but one had to get into the spirit of this game.

The debate raged the whole time, everybody saying the most outrageous things, except Demetrios, who was too choked up with laughter to say anything. You cannot out-argue Ioannis, however; he has too many years’ experience in the courtroom.

We walked back to the car, stopping to buy some fresh vegetables out of the back of farmers’ pick-ups on the way.

A car was parked right in the highway. “What in the world is he thinking?” growled Mena. “Blocking traffic like that. Fool!”

“Bound to be a woman,” said Ioannis, provoking yet another avalanche of words.

When we had arrived back at Kostas’ and Mena’s house, Ioannis looked over at me and said, “Now what do you say? Did you not get driven home in exemplary fashion? Do you know any driver better than I?”

I had to say it: “The best driver in the whole world is Mena.” It’s true, too. She’s the best one I have ever known, hands down, no equal. She can drive through a crowded city street at 40 miles per hour (In Thessaloniki that is nothing short of miraculous), and she does it with enormous alertness and care, honking and/or flashing her lights as she approaches every intersection, maneuvering deftly around obstacles. With her you never feel, as you do with other drivers, that the way to maintain your composure during the ride is to close your eyes and pray.

“Mena!” exclaimed Ioannis. “Mena, the best driver? Ah..well, you will forgive me then for having teased her...” I didn’t have to forgive him; I had understood his strategy from the first: Mena, the whole time, had forgotten all about her knotted-up stomach! She had gobbled her bougatsa.

“But I have information,” said Ioannis, as we hugged goodbye, “that the ‘best driver in the world’ has wrecked three cars! I, by contrast, have wrecked none.” And waving his hand, he got back in his car and drove away, amid more indignant scolding from his koumbara. Such lies!

It wasn’t until we were back in the house Mena smiled and said, “Kalo paidi,” he’s a good kid. In spite of being such a male chauvinist, she meant.

We had Mena’s delicious version of Wiener schnitzel for Sunday dinner, around 3:00, with stuffed peppers and Greek salad. Then we took our naps and were home again by 8:30. Monday was to be a busy day, full of medical appointments for Kostas.