As I walked up the stairs to the front door, I noticed its rusty iron seams with flaky bits of white paint covered in spider webs studded with dead flies. This was a portal that had not been opened to outsiders for a long period of time.
The master of the house called: “Come back.” “I’m in the garage.”
She wandered around the side of the house noting half of the barrels that once held seedlings of fruit trees and a wide variety of orchids. Now they had grown yellow grass, sick and stunted, as if they could not decide whether they wanted to live or die. A pile of rotting firewood stood crumbling in one corner. And inside the small side door that leads to the garage, I was able to discern a single light bulb hanging by a wire. There, sitting at a table covered with an oilcloth that had been in the kitchen when I was a boy, he sat reading News Cosmos. The paper was wrinkled as if folded and folded several times, and on the opposite page I saw a row of pictures. His index finger is placed on one of them, and he pronounces the name of the person in the picture, a real chain of dead.
“You have to excuse my appearance,” the homeowner apologized, as he cleaned bits of napkins, breadcrumbs, and dandruff from his stained blue tracksuit. “I rarely go up home anymore. It is very difficult to go up the stairs and since my wife passed away, there are so many painful memories.” There is a picture of him and his wife hanging above the sink. This sink was also in the kitchen prior to the ’90s renovation. At the time, it was moved to the garage, where it continued to be used, leaving the fine sink upstairs as a display sink for visitors who never increasingly came. The image is faded, but of flashy fashions and bouffant hairstyles, it can be traced back to the 1980s. The master of the house is elegant, elegant and charming. His wife is racy and lively in a way that only women who know their beauty can be universally appreciated. They both smile, as if elated to know that they are at the peak of their physical and mental strength. The blot in the lower left corner of the frame turned out to be a millipede, bleached white in death, hanging from a thread ending in a spider’s web.
“We had just gone to dinner with the Minister of Education of Grand Bretagne in Athens,” the master of the house recalls wistfully. “As I recall, he gave me a book. Kazantzakis Christ crucified, I thought it was. Let me take a look.” He rose slowly from his chair and limped onto the tarpaulin covering a string of objects on the other side of the wall. He carefully lifted it to reveal row after row of boxes full of books.
“These are the important things,” he stated. “The people you would have seen upstairs when I was a boy in school are long gone. My eyes are not what they used to be and I can no longer absorb information easily. My daughter doesn’t care about philosophy, history or theology, so she throws them away. We asked a number Little schools, but they didn’t seem to care. It’s surprising how many people don’t read anymore. But these tell a story. This is the written consensus that Patriarch Athenagoras himself gave me. See, for yourself, it is inscribed. I was a student at the time. And this Here, this is my pride and my happiness. It was signed by the great Yiannis Psycharis himself. No, of course I didn’t know him But when I was a boy in Athens my teacher got down on my knees… Oh, there he is. I tell a lie. It’s not. Christ crucified. that it the brothers. Look at the dedication here: “With great respect…” Yes, you were a figure to be reckoned with back in the day, let me tell you. I remember once while on a trip to Greece, Yiannis Ritsos told me…wait…here he is. Take a look at this. This is a pebble signed by the poet himself. There is a drawing done. And here it is lyanotragoda, I signed it. I haven’t opened this in years.”
I search the chests, and scream with ecstasy as I find embedded in the pages of books, memoirs, and memorabilia that testify to a connection with important Greek literary and political figures of the modern age, as the master of the house makes me coffee, and a rhythmic groan emanates every time he reaches for drunkenness.
He moves toward me, stretches out a cup of coffee with a trembling hand, and pours coffee in all directions.
“It’s good luck,” he laughed as he stared at me with a pained expression. “This is the last cup of coffee I will make for someone,” he whispers. I will be admitted to the nursing home in two days.”
I put my hand on his hand. It’s liver-stained but surprisingly soft compared to the hands of my contemporaries I’ve carried in this country. This is a hand that never knew the factory. The nails on his fingers betray the identity of the person who has lived his whole life and the pen in his hand indicates time through the rustle of pages.
“That’s why I asked you to come here,” the home master continued calmly. “In ways I cannot describe, our acquaintance has made an impression in my life. I want you to have something to remember me by.”
He reached across the table, and retrieved the Woolworths reusable bag. From the inside, a somewhat tattered image of Fustanzoglo appeared lexicon counterIt is the subject of my cravings when I was a child.
“This is the first edition. I seem to remember you asking to borrow this when you were younger.” I already did, and my order was rejected out of fear that I might damage it somehow.
“It’s a pattern. Take a look.” There were two inscriptions on the first page. One with his signature and date of purchase in 1967 and the other with the following dedication: “To Costas Kalymnios. In memory of friendship. Don’t forget me.”
“I hope you are a resource,” said the master of the house. “Though I dare say these days, you can probably find all this information on that pervasive internet. However, there are plenty of nights, when sleep is far away from me, that I sat meditating on this book. This was my αγρυπνία. Do the thing Same. You can sleep when you die.” I smiled, trying to use my cheek muscles to crush the tear that was flowing above them, threatening to block below.
“The house will now be emptied,” the master of the house told me. “They should be let out. I hope they will let me take these books with me. All those who gave them to me are long gone, but I hope I can sit the rest of my days in their company. As long as I can read anyway.”
At this point he started laughing, a rough, annoying laughter violently erupting in his body. I got up from my chair and brought him a glass of water. He swallowed greedily, then quietly fell back into his chair.
“do not worry. I’m totally fine. I remember that you told me, at the time when we were in Sydney, how your wife, as a modern husband, complained about the amount of books you had been collecting and asked what would happen to her after your death.
“And I said…”
And you said, ‘Bury me in a wide pit with all my books open around me and my coffin so that I can reach them and turn the pages.’
“Then use the empty spaces in the bookcases to display designer shoes.”
“This is correct!” Laughter. “Farewell, son. Don’t let me hold you. Remember me.”
When I got home late that evening, I went up to the office and sat for a while, staring at books given to me by people who had made an excessive impact on my life. I toyed with the idea of putting sticky notes on the most impactful ones, explaining who gave them to me and why they were important. Then I sighed, pulled out a folder I expected to give to a friend the next day, and replaced the empty space with lexicon counter Trust me the master of the house. After I had ideas, I headed to the bookcase, and retrieved a file dictionary And I took him downstairs to the bedroom. Just as I began the all-night vigil, I muttered a prayer for all the lost and slumbering books, and dreamed of their masters, especially my anti-lexicographical book, which can be found in its entirety on the Internet, in a wonderful pdf.