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All I know is that one day I woke up not feeling quite right. I just couldn't stay put in my bed, but that used to happen to me sometimes. Then it started to happen regularly, it was like I couldn't get away from my own self. At first I thought I could escape from myself by spending time with other people. Then even that began to bore me. What could other people tell me that I didn't already know? They say that work can help you forget yourself, but it's a lie, it's like being on pills. As soon as their effect wears off, you have to start all over again. You'd have to work twenty-four hours a day or something, but who can stand that? I do write things down here and there. I've told you about that. Right now I haven't written a thing because I've been running around all day. How could I have given away my dog? That dog of mine who only ate chocolate, how could I? That was the end. And then there was my poet, but since I couldn't just give him away, I decided to give him my couch from Skyros and move back to my parents' house. It was such a relief and yet I did so much crying. But then it's always been difficult for me to break up with people I want to leave. My God, it's always so much trouble. I was married to that poet for twenty-two months. Just two months short of two years. He was terribly fussy about the way he dressed, especially about matching colors-socks, sweater, and all the rest. That was his armor for the long march to eternity, as he himself liked to put it. I don't think he was joking. He was a confirmed narcissist, and he meant it.

Days, and nights, so beautiful.

Everything's always so beautiful with me. I can't read any more of this stuff. It's all so hard to read. You see what's going on here. I have to start pulling myself together a little. I think I should shut myself up at home and start putting some order in my mind.

Well, that's it. Anyway, I've moved into a new mode now. Really. Now I'm a woman in a hurry, I'm no longer a dreamer. My Uncle Carolos, when he was seventy-two, used to flush the toilet even before peeing. Isn't that a form of panic? Of course he died at the age of ninety-almost. Don't laugh. And my Uncle Costas, he's going on eighty now. Mama still calls him a kid. He lost his wife two years ago. Beautiful, blond Despina. Blond in her youth, I mean. She died of a heart attack. She was short and full of energy and much younger than he was, about sixty, that is. It was only two years ago and already he goes out every single day. Of goes to his office, as handsome as can be, every single day. His skin has such a healthy-looking shine to it, it makes you feel like kissing him. He hurries along from the square where he lives down to the corner of Stadiou and Omirou. All the way downtown, with his arms clasped behind him, almost running. Every single day, in such a rush, always hurrying to be on time, but for what? And in the evening he usually invites two or three ladies, widows of friends, out to dinner and they go to different restaurants. Eighty years old. That's why I believe I'll die old. All the Moudros die old. That's terrible. I don't want to die old. I really don't, but I can't keep telling you the same things over and over again. I'm not in good shape. Maybe because yesterday I talked too much again. I seem to have to be a little drunk so I can talk. I feel more at ease that way. Otherwise I don't open my mouth. But I can't constantly be a little drunk because I'll end up an alcoholic. I have nothing else to say. My life is no longer of interest. Even so, I sometimes get incredibly angry with myself. It's anger at remembering. All those traps you get yourself caught in, through your own doing. Beautiful eyes, beautiful words, and all that. There are people who help you to deceive yourself. Only you always realize it too late. Remembering is so unpleasant for me. But here I go again, you see. Times were different in Paris. I had to work so I could earn money. We didn't have enough, as usual. I was always drawn to people who were broke. Strange, isn't it, although two of my husbands had quite a lot of money. I worked in a boutique. I don't know why I ever took that job. I guess I was going through a difficult time. Or maybe I just wanted to think I was. Anyway, I had to work. All kinds of ladies would come in to shop for clothes, and because I was used to doing whatever I pleased all my life, I would get insulted. It was awful, they were all so rude. I would stand there thinking that even in their wildest dreams they couldn't imagine what it was like to be brought up the way I had been. Then I would start getting really mad because they were being so ridiculous. I used to feel like throwing their packages right in their faces. I just wasn't cut out for that kind of work. It didn't suit me at all. But none of this is of very much interest when I'm not in good spirits. Only if I have a little drink, then I can face it all with a certain sense of humor. But I shouldn't because at five-thirty Nicole and I are supposed to go down to the airport. We'll be picking up some Dutchman. Nicole is in public relations. She kind of stole the job away from me. From accounting to public relations. I can't understand how all my life I've never saved any money. It bothers me that I won't be able to do whatever I feel like anymore. All my life I've been spending so much money. I never thought that someday I might need it. Or maybe it's because I've never found myself in a position of real need. I always spent whatever I had. There are some very stingy people around, including some who are quite close to me. That's a terrible fault, really. I think people used to be more generous before. They would send you presents, and show you that they cared about you. Now nobody cares, and especially if you're not young anymore. In the end all that matters is your physical appearance. Because if you have smooth skin and bright eyes and all those things, then you've really got it made. That's the way it is. But people are so vain, and especially my present husband. He likes beautiful women, beautiful cars. He once had a prewar Citroën, and he used to drive it all around Kolonaki. One of those cars with a running board and large wings. Of course, I used to think the same way myself when I was young. I thought that being beautiful was everything. Now I don't care anymore. I could live with an ugly person, as long as he was clever and kind. I made a mistake, I shouldn't have married a man like my husband. I get the feeling that I'm living with someone who's only staying with me because we happen to be married. I should probably get a divorce, but then I'd be all alone. And the problem is that tomorrow the same thing will start all over again. I read an article about that on Sunday. In the end neither the woman who has managed to liberate herself through working nor the woman who is a wife, mother, or whatever, is happy. Nobody is happy. I don't think it's any fun to be alone. But you can end up alone by becoming a widow, too. I don't know. It would be nice if you could have a husband who was away somewhere and you could wait for him and think about his coming back. The real problem is whether or not you can live with the truth. I'm so upset, Nicole used to say: I can't understand it, Michalis is coming back. He's coming tomorrow and here I am all upset. And then I'd tell her: It's because for a whole year you were free to go wherever you wanted, and now with Michalis around you'll be going everywhere as a twosome, like a pair of dummies. That must be it, she would say. She would think for a while and then she would say: Well, I just don't see what can be done about your problem. What can we do about it? She meant about me being such a wreck. She used to see me like that so often, it was awful. You have to get yourself a boyfriend, she would say: Get out and have a good time. All the while laughing like crazy. Go hang out. Out where? It's like telling you to let your breasts hang out. It's ridiculous. She would tell me: Nine out of ten women have boyfriends, even at our age. Then I would say: And what's the point of that? And we'd go on and on like that. Nicole, strutting along in those spike-heeled shoes of hers. She's a Sagittarius. They say that's the sign of polygamy. I'm a Capricorn and a very pessimistic one at that. Leo is also a very tiresome star sign. I've had three of them in my life. And all three of them gave me an incredibly hard time. Two men and one woman. Perversions, perversions. I was sure that's what you'd say. No, I never had any leanings toward women. She was just a friend. I liked her but she was sneaky, always chasing after men. They say that Capricorns have a slow, complex pattern of development. I really wish I were a Sagittarius. I actually know someone who can tell immediately what sign a person is, and he never makes a mistake. It's been his hobby since he was very young, and he spends all his time studying the signs. Once there were forty of us, and he would try and guess what sign someone was. Then he would ask them and he'd be right. One person after another, he'd get them all right. All of them. Strange. Of course I don't believe in any of that, all that nonsense they write in magazines. Today this will happen to you. You'll meet so and so, some money will come to you. But maybe there's some truth in it. Our health, for example. They say that Leos suffer from heart trouble, Capricorns are prone to sensitive stomachs, and so on. Maybe some overall patterns do exist, some similarities. I don't know. There are differences, too, of course. Leo, so crazy and unpredictable. When he came back last summer my husband started looking through one magazine after another to find out what was going to happen to him. All those awful magazines. Like a maniac. And he was the one who never paid any attention to the future, never took the slightest notice of it. Maybe it was because of the bad company he'd been keeping. Maybe it was because he'd taken up with some silly woman who read her horoscope every day. When we had our first big quarrel, I said to my sister-in-law: Our first big fight. I told her: Your brother is the only person I've ever met who has no dreams. He's never said "we will." We'll do this, we'll do that, we'll do anything, in fact. The only time he ever said "we will" was before we got married. He said he would take me to Agrapha. That was fifteen years ago. He promised me that one day he would take me to Agrapha as his wife. It was very nice to hear. He never took me there. I guess he saw me as the bride one takes to his village. How is it possible to live with a person and not to know him? I know, of course, that he was in love with someone, and that when she was dying he went to her and stayed there until she died and watched her take her last breath. But when all is said and done, what difference does any of this make? And I'm so tired right now that I'm afraid I'll have to drag myself through the evening again and that I'll be bored with the Dutchman. I won't open my mouth and the dinner will turn out all wrong because I'll be feeling tired. We'll go to L'Abreuvoir, up near Dexameni Square. Not near Dexameni, near that other place, the old Omorpho. I don't see why I should even bother going since it doesn't seem like fun. Actually, I often decide to go anyway and then I have a good time, through my own efforts, because I entertain myself. I talk a lot and I laugh at what I'm saying, and in the end the evening turns out okay. Not that every single evening has to turn out perfect, of course. But why bother about all this, evenings that turn out okay or evenings that don't. I don't know. Maybe it's just because I'm tired. Because I didn't sleep well last night. Or because of a whole lot of other things. Maybe if you made me a coffee I would feel better. For a long time now I just fall apart when I haven't had any sleep. You, of course, wouldn't even think of coming to my house. I guess you're put off by the doorman. I was scared of him, too, in the beginning, until I discovered that it was his eyes. There's something wrong with his eyes, they don't focus together, but you don't realize it at first and you feel like he has something against you. Like he's holding some secret grudge against you. Silly little things like that can ruin your whole day. Especially when you have worries of your own.

I went out this morning to go to the bank and I saw a cat there on the corner. I don't think it was hurt, there was no blood on it anywhere, but it was dying. I thought of getting someone to come and give it an injection, like they do in northern Europe. In England they give them a quick injection and put them out of their misery. It was awful, that process of dying going on and on. Then I went to the bank and I came back, because of course I had the cat on my mind the whole time. It had really got to me. It was strange. It was dying, and it had opened its mouth and kept putting its paws in front of its eyes. Some children had gathered round and were shouting: its eyes are open, its eyes are open. I told them to leave it alone, not to bother the cat. Because they just couldn't understand that it wasn't doing that because it felt like it. Luckily it died after that. I left, and until the afternoon that scene continued to bother me. I wanted to pick it up in my arms right then and there and comfort it, but it was impossible, I didn't have the courage. I was in such a bad state of mind that I couldn't even pick it up. I would have collapsed in the middle of the street and made a fool of myself. I would have started crying over the cat and the whole street would have stopped and they'd start saying I was crazy. And then, the way people are in my neighborhood, how could I explain to them that I am a bit crazy. That's not just being oversensitive, that's neurotic. We live in such an ocean of memories, photographs, etcetera, etcetera, that if any of it is disturbed, it's bad. Maybe it's because of the age we're at. Many years ago my father and I were driving to Sounion and we ran into a jeep. It was a long time ago. The jeep turned over and everyone in it ended up underneath it. There were three young couples, and I ran to see what had happened to all those people. I wasn't the least bit afraid. I was just trying to prevent my father from coming too near because he had a heart condition and I wanted to keep him away. Fortunately they were all fine. They had gotten to their feet and were struggling to turn the jeep back onto its wheels. They hadn't been seriously hurt and they were having a great time, as a matter of fact. When you're young you can allow yourself to do all kinds of things. The bad thing is that I feel very, very young, but other people don't see me that way. You're acting like a small child, they tell me. Well, what's so bad about being a small child? They say it as if it were wrong that I never grew up. Why should that be wrong? I can't understand it. Perhaps I'm immature.

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Excerpted from DEEP BLUE ALMOST BLACK by THANASSIS VALTINOS Copyright © 1985 by Agra Publications and Thanassis Valtinos, Athens
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Deep Blue Almost Black

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