Vassilis Vassilikos - ...And Dreams Are Dreams

Having thus trained his prize pupil, he would set out from working-class neighborhoods and march upon suburbs where, the summer before, the culture hounds had flocked in their Mercedeses to converted 7 Greek comedian. Trans. quarries to attend performances by Peter Brook and Peter Stein. These events had been successful beyond expectation. Children gathered round the gypsy and the bear; so did grown-ups, who hadn’t seen such an old-fashioned spectacle in a long time. The gypsy was raking it in. The poor man dreamed of sending his own son to school, so that he might escape the wretchedness to which society would condemn him for being the son of a gypsy. The people laughed at Aliki’s antics, and, with the holidays drawing closer, having spent their Christmas bonuses, they amused themselves by watching the bear make fun of the neo-Hellene who was forced to tighten his belt, when for him, a big gut had always been synonymous with prosperity. This act was not part of Harry Klynn’s tape, which had been recorded before the devaluation of the drachma; the gypsy had added it at the urging of a greengrocer friend of his.

At which point he decided to march up to the more distant suburbs to the east. However, although on the map this journey looked simple, in reality, most roads were closed due to the digging of sewers. Just as it was in Kalamata. However, he made a decent living, thanks be to God, and had nothing to complain about.

Not like when he was a boy and he had to sell flowers in the taverns. He even appeared on a TV show about occupations that were dying out, in which he said that his bear made the most money at the lines formed by the unfortunate Athenians waiting for a bus or a trolley. As he spoke, his gold teeth shone on the TV

screen like a corporeal treasure.

— 3-

Whereupon a Gang of Junkies

Decides to Dope Up the Gypsy’s Bear

They were just sitting around doing nothing. Each one had become the other’s snitch. One would pretend to be friends with the other until he could squeal on him to score a hit. Nothing else counted in their relationships. Although relationships, the way most people perceive them, did not exist among them. Their only reason for living was to score a hit. The area was perfect for it, because of all the retired military officers. There were no cafes, no pool halls like one would find in other neighborhoods. There were no political party youth organizations, not even any kiosks. In other words, there was nothing reminiscent of a traditional suburban neighborhood with its video rental shops and funeral parlors open all night.

Here in Papagos there was nothing. Only wide roads where solitary types walked their dogs, where Philippino housemaids and gardeners pruned the trees at a distance from one another. The kids growing up here had nothing better to do than commit the odd burglary, siphon gas out of cars, and harass the local cops, who gave them the same fossilized bullshit as their parents. The appearance of the gypsy and his bear could only cause their pinball brains to tilt. They convened and decided to drug the bear. The leader of the gang, son of the “commie-eating” General Vorias and a former prison inmate (a fact that rendered his power over the others indisputable), suggested they first daze the animal with their motorbikes, irritating its master, and then, when the gypsy wasn’t looking, slip the bear a spiked pastry.

But the clever bear did not fall for this trap. To begin with, it had not liked this area, because it was full of barking guard dogs. Then, the bear had looked into the eyes of those young people as they surrounded it. It searched for those dreamy eyes that would gaze at the bear in order to escape the misery of their lives, eyes that Aliki had often come across in the center of Athens, on the faces of passersby who held two or three plastic shopping bags; but here it did not find the eyes it was seeking. As a result, the bear showed no interest whatsoever in the pastry it was offered, while its master the gypsy, thinking he had hit on an aristocratic neighborhood, passed the hat around, only to collect stones and dried shit. They even slit one of his truck tires and he had to change it in the freezing cold. He left, cursing and swearing, while the junkies, furious that their devilish scheme had fallen through, followed him, revving wildly and popping wheelies, all the way to the suburb limits on Mesoghion Avenue.

— 4-

At Traffic Police Headquarters

The officer on duty, Lieutenant Livreas, was taking a statement from a lady, Doña Rosita, who had just escaped death in a car crash at the junction of Mesoghion Avenue and Hypoxinou Street, when the traffic policeman came into his drab office to report the arrest of a stray bear. Next to the lieutenant sat a young traffic policewoman, who seemed to find the story amusing: “A bear found unaccompanied in the center of Athens? That’s a good one.” Lieutenant Livreas looked up from the lady’s statement and asked the officer where he had put the bear.

“In the basement, Lieutenant,” he replied. “We’re waiting for its owner to come and claim it.”

“It’ll probably be a gypsy,” said the lieutenant, and turned his attention back to the lady, who was still shaken by her night-time collision. In his head, he was trying to figure out where the hell this Hypoxinou Street was; he had never heard of it. He concluded that it must be a side street, in which case the lady who had been driving along Mesoghion Avenue had had the right-of-way and therefore the person who had crashed into her was solely to blame.

“But there wasn’t just one, Lieutenant,” insisted the woman. “Two cars crashed into me.”

“Two? What do you mean two?” the officer

asked, puzzled.

“I told you: I slowed down, I flashed my

headlights at them to show that I would keep going since I had the right-of-way, and even though I saw they had stopped, suddenly, I don’t know why, they both crashed into me.”

Lieutenant Livreas was hunched over his report, trying to summarize the statement of the beautiful Doña Rosita in the conventional language of police reports, when the lottery ticket salesman walked into the office, his pole covered in tickets like a leafy tree.

Both Livreas and his secretary berated him for their bad luck at the big New Year’s drawing and refused to buy new tickets.

“What are we going to do with the bear?” asked the officer for the last time.

“Bring it here,” said Livreas, sounding official.

“But it won’t fit in the elevator.”

“Then bring it up the back stairs.”

The officer left the room.

“Were you serious, sir?” asked his secretary, as she stood up to welcome some colleagues wearing civilian clothes who had come to announce the glad tiding that they were finally leaving work.

Meanwhile, the officer went down to the

basement, took the bear by its chain and started to lead it up the stairs, but on the first floor he ran into an unusual congregation of young motorcyclists, probably motorcycle messengers who had been forced, because of a new law, to re-register their bikes. The hallway was packed solid outside the registry office, but the appearance of the white bear had a catalytic effect.

Where it had been impossible to get through, panic and terror soon opened a space; the officer and his animal passed through easily and continued up the stairs. Both officers and civilians laughed at the unusual spectacle; the bear, who had never been in a public building before, did not seem perturbed by anyone or anything.

Upon arriving at last at the lieutenant’s office, the bear came face to face with its boss, the gypsy, who threw himself on it sobbing woefully, like a poor man who has lost his sole possession. Unmoved by this display, the bear sat down and proceeded to follow what was being said about it, as if the discussion concerned another: did the bear have a license to circulate? Had the gypsy paid for a bear registration? Had the bear been cleared through customs? Since the bear had been imported, it must go through customs. The gypsy thought he was losing his mind.