Aftershock Read Online Free PDF Page B

picture of fierce-looking cattle and put the Gibson in its place. Hanging there, the instrument seemed to please her. Now Makis took it down, and like his father he first stroked the chip on its body, before holding the mandolin to his chest in the position for playing. And, there, at that moment, he felt himself swelling, growing – with a sharp pang in his stomach, as if his father had just walked into the room with his eyes twinkling and his mouth making that
Oh, yes!
pout he’d always made when he was proud.
    Makis’s fingers went to the headstock, bringing the mandolin up to his ear and turning the A string tuning key. As he plucked and tried to imagine an A in his ear, he took the mandolin as far as he could from the kitchen because he didn’t want his mother to know what he was doing just yet. He opened the basement window to the street and sat close to it, hoping that the sound of his tuning would escape like a trapped fly. He tightened the A string up to something near pitch – or his memory of it – and when he was happy with it, he put his finger on the seventh fret and sounded the E, the way his father had taught him. Now he could tune the top string.
    But he hadn’t got the E up to where he wanted it before a quiet tap came at the basement door.
    Who was that? No one ever tapped at their door: Mrs Papadimas only ever rapped, knuckle-hard. His mother hadn’t heard, so he went to the door and opened it.
    Mr Laliotis was standing there stroking his grey beard, wearing his black cap and a velvet jacket; and hanging from his shoulder was an instrument case on a leather strap, about the size of a violin.
    â€˜Hello. I hope you will excuse me.’ He spoke in Greek.
    â€˜Yes?’ Makis didn’t know if he should ask Mr Laliotis into the living-room; but with his mother on her knees washing the kitchen floor, he decided not to. In Kefalonia she would have wanted to put on a clean dress for anyone coming into their home.
    â€˜Just now, as I was coming in, I heard – I thought I heard – mandolin. It’s got a sound all of its own, mandolin.’ Mr Laliotis was smiling.
    Makis said nothing, but nodded politely.
    â€˜I haven’t heard it in this house before. You’ve been in London for some weeks, but I haven’t heard such a sound up till now.’ He patted his instrument case. ‘You see, I am a musician.’
    Makis nodded again.
    â€˜And it was not just plucking. It was tuning. I’m sure it was proper tuning I heard.’
    Makis felt shy. He knew Mr Laliotis played in an orchestra on the radio. His violin was heard all over England; perhaps all over the world. An important man was saying this to him!
    â€˜It’s a Gibson,’ Makis said, quietly. ‘It used to belong to my father.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Mr Laliotis nodded. He shuffled his feet as if he was about to go. ‘You must come upstairs some time. You and your mother. We can make some music together.’ He leant forward for a final word. ‘I don’t just play violin. I have a balalaika too.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir.’
    Mr Laliotis went back up the narrow stairs protecting his violin case from banging against the wall. Makis quietly closed the door, and looked towards the kitchen – where his mother was standing in the doorway holding the top of her overall across her neck as if she was only half-dressed.
    â€˜Saint Gerasimos!’ Makis said.
    â€˜We can’t go, Makis. Not upstairs to them. We are country people, and they are very cultured…’
    And at that moment, for the first time ever in his life, Makis felt ashamed of his mother. Wouldn’t his father have gone upstairs to Mr and Mrs Laliotis to make music? Of course he would. Hadn’t Spiros Magriotis sat at the top table of musicians in the Mandolino restaurant on Saturday nights, singing and playing for some of the most important people in Kefalonia?
    Makis went over to