1983
“The train is the safest way to go,” my grandpa used to say. Maybe that’s why he chose to die inside one. It was an enormous shock for everybody, including the passengers. My grief-stricken grandma swore to never take another train in her life and to this day she calls them “evil, mischievous machines” as if to be blamed for my grandfather’s heart attack.
At the time, my family was living in Kalamata, my father’s hometown. I was roughly one and a half years old and very happy. Being the youngest of a large series of cousins I received a lot of attention. Everyone wanted to play with me or take me for strolls in my dark blue pram. My parents worked long hours as school teachers in a nearby village so I grew up in the many different households of my father’s five siblings.
Since I was already speaking fluently I had become a sort of local celebrity. Many people would gather around my pram to see the talking baby. I was picking up commercials from the radio and reciting them on the spot to entertain my lively audience. I enjoyed the attention and the perks that came with it. Soon an enormous basket full of all kinds of toys and trinkets from relatives and strangers was placed near my cot. Some of the surviving toys can be found on the bookshelves of my tiny uninhabited apartment in Athens, gathering dust.
Amongst the special privileges was spending time with Clara the cow, a black and white creature in the style of milk commercials. I can’t describe her otherwise because all I can vaguely recall is her colossal size and dark abysmal eyes. I felt a mix of fear and adoration for Clara. Compared to my tiny body she seemed like a giant monument of ancient wisdom and kindness.
Unfortunately, the farmers decided to slaughter Clara. My aunt and I went to visit her. I vividly remember the cow lying on her side. I was happy because I thought the majestic creature was napping. But when we got closer my aunt froze. Her hand clasped mine tightly and she took me to the neighbor’s house. All I wanted was to go back to the cow so I started crying in vain. To make me feel better the old woman gave me Turkish delights, one rose and one green “to take the pain away.” With my mouth full of rose and bergamot I half swallowed my tears.
But the memory still comes to me in dreams. I sense the smell of blood as my steps descend into a dark hole. All I see is the black-and-white body of a headless cow lying flat. From her neck the blood still flows, forming a dark pool around my legs. I am trying to walk away but the ground is too sticky. In some versions of the dream, the cow is still standing, only without a head. She is singing from her neckbone, “Without a head, there is no headache.” In others, Clara is floating in space looking for her head among the stars. In this version, I too am headless, yet unafraid. I am looking among the galaxy and somehow know that my head is floating somewhere there as well.
