Christos Ikonomou - Something Will Happen, You'll See

The meaning of life is that it ends.

And at the end of the month he’ll get four hundred euros for his trouble.

Though he isn’t actually so sure about that.

• • •

And then there’s the dog.

Look after Leben like you would your own eyes, Alamanos said the last time he had him come to the house. Like your eyes. You hear?

They were sitting by the pool drinking whiskey on ice. The dog stood between his owner’s legs and stared at him the whole time. Black eyes jet black blacker than you would believe. And whenever he reached out a hand to pick up his glass or light a cigarette, the dog threw its ears back and growled as if it were a toy — as if it were a mechanical dog and some gear inside it had broken.

The wife will write it all down for you, Alamanos said. About his food and walks and shit and everything. And the vet’s phone number in case something happens, knock wood that it doesn’t. So don’t drop the ball on this one. You hear? I don’t have two kids and a dog, I have three kids. Got it? Like your eyes. If anything happens to him. Got it? That’s all I have to say. Like your eyes.

He stared at the dog, which was staring at him. He could hear Alamanos talking but his mind was somewhere else.

At some point the conversation came around to money and he thinks he said something to Alamanos about money. He thinks Alamanos said he would pay him but he isn’t sure. Three or four hundred euros. He thinks that’s what he said it but he isn’t sure. He can’t remember very well. He was still reeling from all the talk and the dog’s growling and the booze and the evening heat and the lights reflecting off the water of the pool that gave the water a peculiar color, an exotic color that made him feel even more a stranger in that house, that life. He may have said it but he isn’t sure. But if he didn’t say it then, he’s sure to at the end of the month. Alamanos is sure to give him something. For sure. Four hundred euros. Maybe not that much but something.

But he didn’t tell Effie any of that.

• • •

It’s almost eight when he gets to the house. He parks and turns off the engine and looks at the view from up there. Korydallos Neapoli Maniatika. You can see as far as the port and the sea and the islands. He looks at the view and thinks of Effie — of the nights he’ll spend with Effie. August. Another whole month. The meaning of August is that it ends.

Then he brings his hands close to one another and stretches out his thumbs. He holds his breath then lets it out slowly and lets his fingers relax and watches as they approach one another slowly and hesitantly and –

And then he hears the barking.

The dog has wedged its head between the bars of the front gate and is tossing its head and barking like mad.

Leben! Leben!

He gets out of the car and walks across the street and over to the gate, terrified.

Leben, hey guy. It’s me, Leben. It’s fine, it’s just me. Lebenako. Down. Down, calm down.

The dog backs up a few steps and stands there stock still. It stands there and stares at him with its head cocked to one side. Black eyes, shiny white teeth. A tongue red as blood. Its fur blacker than ever. It does a circle around itself, then another, and then it stands there without moving at all. Then suddenly it lunges forward and crashes into the gate again. It’s shaking all over, biting the bars of the gate, barking loud enough for three dogs.

Shut up. Fuck you and your Belgium too. Shut up.

He licks his lips then bites them and scans the area with his eyes. There isn’t a soul in the street and no one seems to be at home in any of the houses. He takes the keys out of his pocket and tries to find the right one. His hands are shaking. And his legs. He’s shaking all over. He takes a step forward with the key in his hand. The dog goes nuts. It growls, throws itself against the gate, bites the air.

Leben. It’s me. Calm down. It’s me, man. Did you forget me already?

• • •

He backs away from the gate and starts walking alongside the wall. As he walks he keeps his eyes raised, scanning the pieces of sharp glass glinting on top of the wall, looking for who knows what. He turns the corner and keeps walking. It’s just not fair. Alamanos told him the dog would be chained up. He’s sure about that — he remembers it clearly. But now the dog is loose and is barking and throwing itself against the gate and biting the bars like it wants to break them in half. How the hell is he going to get in there? It’s unfair. Unfair.

If only he had something to drink. Something to drink, to get his courage up.

He pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolds it and reads what it says. His hands are still shaking. They’re sweaty, too. If the temperature stays under 38 degrees he can water every other day. If it goes above 38 then he needs to water every day. If the alarm goes off he presses this button — the bitch wrote a huge list of this shit. Temperatures codes telephone numbers. But not a word about what to do if the fucking dog goes nuts.

Around the other side of the wall he finds a green metal door. He doesn’t remember Alamanos showing him that. He checks to see if it’s open but it’s locked. He looks again at the sheet of paper and then folds it up and stuffs it in his pocket. He tries one of the keys in the door. Then another. Before he can try a third he hears the barking getting louder. It’s close, right on the other side of the door. Then the dog stops barking and there’s another sound behind the door, a terrible sound, a sound like he’s never heard before.

He shudders.

He looks up and down the street. Not a soul. A thousand things are passing through his head. It’s unfair. It’s just unfair.

And then he kicks the door as hard as he can.

The pain shoots up his leg to his stomach and chest and throat. He hops on one leg and his eyes tear up with pain. Incredible pain. He thinks he hears something from behind the door, something like panting, but he isn’t sure.

Years ago he used to get it on with a girl from Nikaia. Olga. From a good family, she was a student at the nuns’ school in Piraeus. Her mother didn’t like him and made her break it off. And when they went on vacation — it was summer, August, same as now — he broke into her house one night. He’d been drinking all afternoon and at night he broke into the house with a bottle of cheap whiskey and sat on the sofa and imagined all kinds of things. He was drunk, blind drunk. He imagined that he had a pocketknife and slit open all the cushions on the sofa and then all the mattresses and pillows in the house. He spray painted the walls and the mirrors, clipped all the wires, slashed clothes and tore up books, broke trays plates knick-knacks. He imagined shoving a rag deep in the toilet and another in the bathroom sink. All night he drank and imagined. But in the end he didn’t do anything.

Except before he left he went into the bathroom and turned on the tap in the sink. That was all.

And now he’d like to do the same thing if he could. Go into the house and drink and then break things and tear things and leave the place filthy. He would piss in the fridge and cupboards and on all the beds. And the dog — he’d leave it for last. If only. If only he could do all those things and then run off to someplace far away. Forget the apartment the car his job and disappear like one of those black tornadoes you see on television that come out of nowhere, destroy everything, and vanish again. Only he doesn’t want to lose Effie. He wants for them to stand naked at night in that enormous house and pretend it’s theirs, pretend that they’re people who aren’t afraid or worried about money and work. People who have shaken themselves free from the meaning of life and from the creeping passion for things, things they don’t have and will never have. And peaceful and fearless they’ll let their bodies lean on one another and peaceful and fearless they’ll feel the dizziness that’s born of the union of bodies. That’s what he wants. The union of bodies.