Christos Ikonomou - Something Will Happen, You'll See

There were so many things she would have to touch in farewell if one day she were forced to leave this place. Even if she isn’t an Indian and there aren’t soldiers to watch her and laugh even if there isn’t anyone to tell her story on television.

And now she’s standing at the bedroom door looking at Aris and that orange patch on the wall and remembering all the things she heard last night on TV. The truth of a story lies not in its adherence to the facts but in its moral character. She’s not sure exactly what that means but she likes the idea that there might be true things that have never happened. She likes the idea that there are things that are both true and not true. Things that may never have happened but are still truer than the truth. Then again she isn’t sure. If only she could understand better. If only they had money and she didn’t have to work. If only she could read more and travel and go to the theater and concerts. If only she could sleep until eleven and not have to wait before dawn at the bus stop and be ashamed of her job. More than anything she would like not to feel a shock of fear every time the phone rings or she sees a plain white envelope in the mailbox.

She lies down beside Aris and the bed squeaks.

Come on out, she says to him. I want to tell you something. It happened at work yesterday. You’ve never heard anything like it.

No reaction. Niki turns onto her back and closes her eyes. She brings the images to mind, tries to put them in order and make the lump in her throat go away. She lets her heart grow cold. The story she wants to tell is a love story and she knows that kind of story can’t be told with a warm heart.

• • •

Around eleven I take a cigarette break and Rita comes whirling into the room and says listen to this you’re not going to believe what happened you’re going to flip. What happened, I say. Did one of the doctors ask you out? You know how Rita’s been dying to hook a doctor or an army officer ever since she was a girl. Shut up and listen, she says, this is for real. Earlier this morning they brought in this couple from the Korydallos prison in an ambulance. The girl was one of ours and the guy was a foreigner. Bulgarian or Romanian I don’t know. A young couple. He got locked up and she went to see him during visiting hours. In a few days they were going to send him back to his country, to deport him, you know. So during visiting hours this girl takes a tube of glue out from somewhere some kind of superglue and smears it all over her hand and they stick their hands together just like that. See? So they could be together forever and she could always stick by her man. Can you believe it? They stuck their hands together with superglue so that no one could tear them apart. Unbelievable. Just imagine, the things that happen in this world. Isn’t it crazy? And now they brought them here for the doctors to get their hands apart. They took them up to the second floor. You know, to that room where they put prisoners. They’ve even got a guard up there keeping watch. It happened just now. Can you imagine, gluing their hands together. I’ll bet they’re some kind of addicts. Good riddance, I say, we don’t need their kind around here.

That’s what Rita says and then she takes a few drags of my cigarette and goes back to work all annoyed because a guy on her floor keeps throwing up — goddamned old man she says, he’s been running me ragged since morning.

Niki rolls onto her side and looks at Aris. Wrapped in the sheet, arms at his sides, his breath barely audible, like a whisper.

Did you get what happened? she asks him. They stuck their hands together with glue so that no one could tear them apart. What do you think of that?

She looks at the sheet which has taken on the shape of his face. Then she lifts her head and looks at the orange spot on the wall which is shrinking smaller and smaller as the sunlight fades. She reaches out a hand and touches it before it vanishes altogether. She takes a breath and closes her eyes again.

• • •

I take my bucket and mop and go up to the second floor. I don’t know what came over me. I wanted to see them. I wanted to see how it was, I wanted to see them. That room for the prisoners is at the very end of the hallway by the bathrooms. There’s a young policeman sitting in front of the door smoking and playing with his cell phone. He sees me coming with my gear and I figure he won’t let me in — he looks me over from head to toe. He makes me wait for a while then waves me in as if shooing a fly.

The room has an iron door with a padlock and a single bed and a window with bars and screens. Just like a cell. We don’t clean it much. I’ve probably only been in there two or three times. The young man is lying on the bed. Naked from the waist up with his eyes closed and his right hand on his chest. His left hand is joined to the right hand of the girl who’s sitting next to him on the edge of the bed and staring out the window. I can’t see their hands because they’re wrapped in gauze. Rita was right they’re just kids. Twenty, twenty-two at most. But they don’t look like addicts — at least not the girl. When I go into the room the guy opens his eyes and looks at me vacantly then sighs and shuts his eyes again. But the girl smiles and stands up. Her skirt has crept up over her knees and she smooths it down with her free hand. Her cheeks are bright red.

Sorry to bother you, I say. I won’t be long.

I start cleaning taking my time in no hurry at all. Of course what is there to clean in there really. I keep on glancing over to see what they’re up to trying to think of something to say. I think about asking if she’s okay what the doctors said how long they’re going to keep them in the hospital if they’re going to operate stuff like that. I want to ask if it was her idea for them to stick their hands together what kind of glue she used what the guards and prison officials did when they found out. Like if they hit her or yelled at her. There are so many things I want to ask. But I’m afraid the guard might hear us talking and kick me out. Besides I figure they might not be in the mood to talk. She’s having a pretty rough time as it is the last thing she needs is some cleaning lady she doesn’t even know peppering her with questions.

As I’m mopping I hear the young man murmur something. The girl bends down and strokes his forehead and hair. Then she turns and asks in a whisper if I have any cigarettes. Of course, I whisper back, and pull out my pack. She takes one and lights it and puts it in the kid’s mouth. I gesture to her to keep the whole pack. Take it, I say, I’ve got another downstairs. I ask her if they need anything else. If she wants me to call a nurse or bring them some water or something from the canteen. I tell her I’ve brought stuffed tomatoes from home and feta and bread but I don’t know if the guard will let me give it to them.

We’re fine, she says with a smile and blushes even more. Thank you so much. We’re fine. Thank you.

And then a strange thing happens. There we are talking in whispers and gestures and she suddenly holds out her hand to me. I don’t know why I hesitate. I don’t know why but I hesitate to take her hand. It’s true. I stand there like an idiot holding my mop and staring at the hand she’s stretched out in my direction. It’s a tiny hand, like a drop of water. White and thin.

The girl smiles but in a kind of crooked way. Like when you get an injection at the dentist’s office that makes your mouth all numb and swollen. Then she leans towards me and –

Don’t worry, she whispers. There’s no glue on this one.

• • •

The sunlight has faded even more now. Through the balcony door Niki sees the streetlights coming on with a cautious flutter. The cars passing by in the street have their lights on now. The room grows darker, filling with a strange darkness that seems almost alive.