Βάσω Σινοπούλου: ZUMA


Βά­σω Σι­νο­πού­λου


ZUMA


ΙΓΟ ΚΑΙΡΟ με­τὰ ποὺ πέ­θα­νε ὁ ἄν­τρας της τὸν ζή­τη­σαν στὸ τη­λέ­φω­νο γιὰ τὸ πρό­γραμ­μα ποὺ εἶ­χε πα­ραγ­γεί­λει, εἶ­παν. Τοὺς ἐ­ξή­γη­σε, τὴν συλ­λη­πή­θη­καν ἀλ­λὰ τὸ πρό­γραμ­μα δὲν μπο­ροῦ­σε νὰ ἀ­κυ­ρω­θεῖ ἔ­πρε­πε νὰ τὸ πα­ρα­δώ­σουν. Ὁ νε­α­ρὸς ποὺ τὸ ἔ­φε­ρε τὸ ἄλ­λο πρω­ὶ τὸ ἐγ­κα­τέ­στη­σε ἐ­ξη­γών­τας δι­ά­φο­ρα ποὺ ἐ­κεί­νη δὲν κα­τα­λά­βαι­νε οὔ­τε ἐν­δι­α­φε­ρό­ταν νὰ κα­τα­λά­βει καὶ στὸ τέ­λος τῆς ἔ­δει­ξε ἕ­να παι­χνί­δι δῶ­ρο μα­ζὶ μὲ τὸ πρό­γραμ­μα. Αὐ­τὸ τῆς ἄ­ρε­σε. Ἦ­ταν μιὰ σει­ρὰ χρω­μα­τι­στὲς μπα­λί­τσες ποὺ ἔ­πρε­πε νὰ τῆς ση­μα­δεύ­ει μὲ τὸ πον­τί­κι καὶ νὰ τὶς δι­α­λύ­σει πρὶν ἐ­ξα­φα­νι­στοῦν στὸ ἀ­νοι­χτὸ στό­μα τοῦ δρά­κου ποὺ πε­ρί­με­νε στὸ τέ­λος τῆς δι­α­δρο­μῆς. Φαι­νό­ταν ἁ­πλὸ καὶ εὔ­κο­λο καὶ εἶ­χε βα­ρε­θεῖ τὶς πα­σι­έν­τζες ποὺ ἔ­παι­ζε τὰ βρά­δυ­α ποὺ δὲν μπο­ροῦ­σε νὰ κοι­μη­θεῖ, κά­θε βρά­δυ δη­λα­δή. Τὸ πρῶ­το ἐ­πί­πε­δό τὸ ἔ­φτα­σε γρή­γο­ρα καὶ τό­τε ἡ ὀ­θό­νη γέ­μι­σε ἀ­στρά­κια πυ­ρο­τε­χνή­μα­τα καὶ συγ­χα­ρη­τή­ρια. Ἔ­σβη­σαν καὶ στὴν ὀ­θό­νη φά­νη­κε μιὰ πλα­τεί­α. Κοί­τα­ξε κα­λύ­τε­ρα. Ἦ­ταν ἡ πλα­τεί­α στὸ χω­ριὸ τῆς μά­νας της ποὺ περ­νοῦ­σε τὰ κα­λο­καί­ρια. Κυ­ρια­κὴ πρω­ῒ με­τὰ τὴν λει­τουρ­γί­α ­ὅ­λοι μὲ τὰ κα­λά τους ροῦ­χα με­ρι­κοὶ κρα­τοῦ­σαν τὸ ἀν­τί­δω­ρο τυ­λιγ­μέ­νο σὲ ἄ­σπρο μαν­τή­λι. Εἶ­δε τὰ ξα­δέρ­φια της, τὴν θεί­α της, ἀν­θρώ­πους ποὺ εἶ­χε χρό­νια νὰ δεῖ καὶ νὰ θυ­μη­θεῖ, οἱ πε­ρισ­σό­τε­ροι πε­θα­μέ­νοι. Ἡ εἰ­κό­να ἔ­σβη­σε καὶ στὴν ὀ­θό­νη ἄρ­χι­σε τὸ δεύ­τε­ρο ἐ­πίπε­δο τοῦ παι­χνι­διοῦ. Τὸ στα­μά­τη­σε. Προ­σπά­θη­σε νὰ τὸ γυ­ρί­σει πί­σω νὰ ξα­να­δεῖ τὴν εἰ­κό­να. Δὲν ἤ­ξε­ρε. Ἀ­να­ρω­τή­θη­κε τί ἦ­ταν αὐ­τό. Πα­λιὲς φω­το­γρα­φί­ες ποὺ εἶ­χε βγά­λει ὁ ἄν­τρας της ἀλ­λὰ πό­τε καὶ για­τί. Μπερ­δεύ­τη­κε νύ­στα­ξε πῆ­γε νὰ κοι­μη­θεῖ.

        Συ­νέ­χι­σε τὴν ἄλ­λη ἡ­μέ­ρα στὸ δεύ­τε­ρο ἐ­πί­πε­δο καὶ ὅ­ταν τὸ συμ­πλή­ρω­σε, ἡ ὀ­θό­νη γέ­μι­σε πά­λι ἀ­στε­ρά­κια καὶ πυ­ρο­τε­χνή­μα­τα καὶ με­τὰ φά­νη­κε πά­λι μιὰ πλα­τεί­α. Ἡ πλα­τεί­α κά­τω ἀ­πὸ τὸ σπί­τι της ὅ­πως ἦ­ταν πρὶν πολ­λὰ χρό­νια. Ἡ ΕΒΓΑ, τὸ ψι­λι­κα­τζήδι­κο, τὸ μα­νά­βι­κο μὲ τὰ κα­φά­σια ἁ­πλω­μέ­να στὸ πε­ζο­δρό­μιο, ἡ ἀ­φε­τη­ρί­α τῶν πα­λι­ῶν λε­ω­φο­ρεί­ων. Δὲν κα­τα­λά­βαι­νε τί­πο­τε. Προ­σπά­θη­σε νὰ θυ­μη­θεῖ τί ἀ­κρι­βῶς τῆς εἶ­χε πεῖ ὁ νε­α­ρὸς ποὺ εἶ­χε φέ­ρει τὸ πρό­γραμ­μα. Βρῆ­κε τὴν ἑ­ται­ρεί­α στὰ χαρ­τιὰ ποὺ τῆς εἶ­χε ἀ­φή­σει καὶ πῆ­ρε τη­λέ­φω­νο. Μα­γνη­το­φω­νη­μέ­νη ἀ­πάν­τη­ση, μου­σι­κὴ, ἂν θέ­λε­τε αὐ­τὸ, ἐ­κεῖ­νο, τὸ ἄλ­λο, πα­τῆ­στε 1, 2, 3, 4. Δὲν πά­τη­σε τί­πο­τε καὶ πε­ρί­με­νε. Κά­ποι­ος τῆς μί­λη­σε κα­νο­νι­κά. Εἶ­πε ὄ­νο­μα, δι­εύ­θυν­ση, τη­λέ­φω­νο καὶ ζή­τη­σε νὰ μι­λή­σει μὲ αὐ­τὸν ποὺ τῆς εἶ­χε φέ­ρει τὸ πρό­γραμ­μα. Πε­ρί­με­νε. Ἔ­κα­νε λά­θος δὲν τῆς εἶ­χαν στεί­λει πο­τὲ τί­πο­τε. Τοῦ ἐ­ξή­γη­σε τί συ­νέ­βαι­νε μὲ τὸ παι­χνί­δι. Τὴν ἄ­κου­σε χω­ρὶς νὰ τὴν δι­α­κό­ψει καὶ με­τὰ τὴν ρώ­τη­σε ἂν ἦ­ταν κα­νεὶς ἄλ­λος στὸ σπί­τι νὰ μι­λή­σει μα­ζί του. Ἔ­βα­λε τὸ ἀ­κου­στι­κὸ στὴ θέ­ση του καὶ πῆ­γε στὴν κου­ζί­να. Τὸ ψυ­γεῖ­ο ἦ­ταν ἄ­δει­ο θά ΄πρε­πε νὰ πά­ει γιὰ ψώ­νια ἀλ­λὰ κά­θη­σε μπρο­στὰ στὸν ὑ­πο­λο­γι­στή.

        Τὰ ἐ­πί­πε­δα δυ­σκό­λευ­αν τὸ ἕ­να με­τὰ τὸ ἄλ­λο καὶ κά­θε φο­ρὰ μιὰ και­νούρ­για πλα­τεί­α στὴν ὀ­θό­νη της. Ἡ μι­κρὴ πλα­τεί­α στὴν Σέ­ρι­φο ἕ­να κα­λο­καί­ρι, πλα­τεῖ­ες σὲ ἐ­παρ­χια­κὲς πό­λεις καὶ πό­λεις στὸ ἐ­ξω­τε­ρι­κὸ καὶ τὸ παι­χνί­δι δυ­σκό­λευ­ε ἀλ­λὰ ἐ­κεί­νη ἐ­πέ­με­νε νὰ τὸ τε­λειώ­σει καὶ νὰ βρεῖ μιὰ ἐ­ξή­γη­ση σὲ ὅ­λο αὐ­τό. Ἔ­φτα­σε στὸ τε­λευ­ταῖ­ο ἐ­πί­πε­δο. Ἡ πλα­τεί­α ἦ­ταν ἔ­ξω ἀ­πὸ τὸ νε­κρο­τα­φεῖ­ο ποὺ εἶ­χε κη­δέ­ψει τὸν ἄν­τρα της. Ἡ πομ­πὴ ποὺ ἀ­κο­λου­θοῦ­σε τὸ φέ­ρε­τρο ἦ­ταν ἡ ἴ­δια. Τὸ φέ­ρε­τρο ἦ­ταν κλει­στὸ ἀλ­λὰ τὰ ἀγ­γελ­τή­ρια ἔ­γρα­φαν τὸ δι­κό της ὄ­νο­μα. Ἀ­κο­λου­θοῦ­σε τὴν πομ­πὴ μα­ζὶ μὲ τοὺς ἄλ­λους καὶ ἐ­κεῖ ποὺ τέ­λει­ω­νε τὸ μο­νο­πά­τι στὸν μι­κρὸ ἀ­νή­φο­ρο εἶ­δε τὸν ἄν­τρα της. Τῆς ἔ­γνε­ψε χα­μο­γε­λών­τας νὰ πά­ει κον­τά του. Σή­κω­σε καὶ τὰ δυ­ό της χέ­ρια γιὰ νὰ τοῦ πεῖ ὅ­τι τὸν εἶ­δε καὶ ἔ­τρε­ξε νὰ τὸν συ­ναν­τή­σει. Αἰ­σθάν­θη­κε ὅ­τι δὲν ἀ­κουμ­ποῦ­σε στὴ γῆ.

        Τὴν βρῆ­καν πε­σμέ­νη ἐ­πά­νω στὸ πλη­κτρο­λό­γιο μπρο­στὰ στὴν ὀ­θό­νη ποὺ ἀ­να­βό­σβη­νε ἐ­πα­να­λαμ­βά­νον­τας «τὸ παι­χνί­δι τε­λεί­ω­σε».



Πη­γή: Πρώτη δημοσίευση.

Βά­σω Σι­νο­πού­λου (Ἀ­θή­να). Ἔ­χει δη­μο­σι­εύ­σει δι­η­γή­μα­τα καὶ πα­ρα­μύ­θια σὲ ἐ­φη­με­ρί­δες καὶ πε­ρι­ο­δι­κά.


Διαφημίσεις

Stavroula Tsouprou: In its place


Stavroula Tsouprou

In its place


N HEIGTH and length, this flimsy piece of furniture, made from dozens of drawers, could have covered the entire wall of a large oblong drawing room. Its drawers, however, were not all the same. Some were small and others were large, some were locked and others unlocked, and in some the space inside gaped vacantly, yet ready to to be filled, like the scabbard that awaits the sword for peacetime. Some drawers among them were painted in vivid colours – to be precise, they had been painted, because now most of them had lost that old knack of capturing the bright light of the external source: the truth is that after a certain time this precious property disappeared and the drawers returned to their ordinary, indeterminate insipid colour, sometimes verging on grey, sometimes on beige and sometimes on leaden dullness. So, their outward differences were focused now on size or volume, and on the keyholes, and, of course, on whether or not they had managed to keep their shape after being placed in position; this last was fundamental.

        The larger drawers were at the base of the piece of furniture; but no one ever knew whether they were the heavier or the lighter ones (needless to say, the piece of furniture was not subject to the laws of nature and was therefore not in danger of toppling over), the richer ones or the most boring – their content was inaccessible, locked away for ever, kept safely away from prying eyes, but from well-intentioned ones too. The key of these drawers was nowhere to be found and their intellectual property rights were held by the Unknown, fragmented into pieces over the centuries. The higher the rows of drawers, the smaller they were; the composition of their contents varied, which is what differentiated them. This diversity was an internal difference, not visible to the outside observer, as was the case with their weight as well: only whoever opened them, one by one, could pass comment on these hidden contrasts or even hidden similarities, variations or fluctuations, and, then go on to judge (if he was interested in doing so) how much the composition of the content was expressed in the whole, in the behaviour of the piece of furniture during its movement in the space. Not even the key-holder himself must necessarily be involved with this laborious task, not least because he frequently left the keys hanging from their string outside the drawers, sometimes forgetting even to lock them, when their content was trivial or presented nothing reprehensible.

        So, the great external particularity was the state of the shape of the drawers, which, we forgot to say, were made of pliable material during the first phases of their life, which meant that the drawer could be compressed if it was bigger than its intended place, until it was finally wedged in there, before time rendered it rigid. However, these badly-formed drawers ruined the harmony of the whole (someone else might say, perhaps, that they simply enlivened its uniformity).

        The reason why some drawers lost their original shape, making them unsuitable for their predetermined place, was their essential dissonance with the animated heart of this particular macro-structure, which functioned from the outset on the basis of genetically-determined specifications. Foreseen, of course, in these specifications, was the possibility also of deviations, in much the same way as a statistical study takes into account the margin of error. But when the moment came for these deviations to go into the corresponding drawer, and for this in its turn to be put tidily in its place, the shape of the micro-structure, altered as it was, had to adapt as best it could. The wound – because deviations of this kind are wounds – suppurated, of course, but this happened inside the drawer and the unpleasant odours were trapped in its confined space, at least for as long as it stayed closed. What remained obvious was the clumsily neatened shape, indication that the flimsy piece of furniture was, once again, an unfinished and therefore tortured creation. In those cases in which the creation became aware of its suffering, the piece of furniture was often shaken by secret storms – but there were also the happy cases of obliviousness or of stoic forbearance; in these the shakings were rare and the piece of furniture continued its flimsy course, not harmonious, not perfect, but quite satisfied.

        In a final effort, the misshapen drawer was pushed into its place. The one next to it had already begun to fill up.

Translated by Alexandra Doumas

 

Source: And Tomorrow is Now (εκδ. Ρώμη, 2016)

Stavroula Tsouprou (Athens) holds a doctorate in Greek Literature from the National and Capodistrian University of Athens, as well as language diplomas in English, French, Italian, German and Spanish. Systematically involved with Literature Theory, she has published studies on earlier and contemporary prose-writers and poets. She is a regular contributor to the daily and periodical press. Three volumes of her essays have been published: Tasos Athanasiadis:”With the eyes of our generation”The “childis” stories of Cosmas Politis and Trial Readings. Her first fictional work is the collection of short stories They’re looking at you (Grigoris Editions 2013)