The House on Paradise Street Read Online Free PDF Page B

smoke, half-eaten pizzas and the faint echoes of feminine perfumes.
    From a young age, Tig became a mascot to Orestes and his school friends, charming them with her quirky, precocious questions. Later, Orestes’ girlfriends sensed they must make Tig their ally if they were to hold on to their privileged position, though irrespective of their success in this, they never lasted long. Orestes was usually surrounded by girls, but the relationships invariably petered out as something more interesting appeared on the horizon. He stayed on good terms though, and there were countless pretty girls whom I had seen progress from bewildered tears at my kitchen table (“I don’t understand what happened, Kyria Moody,” they would sob) to becoming part of his loyal coterie.
    That night, Tig slept with me, curling up on her father’s side of the bed.
    “The pillow smells of Babas ,” she said. “It’s like he’s still here.” She cried at first but then fell asleep almost immediately from exhaustion. I lay next to her, breathing in warm hair that smelled of a fruity shampoo, like apples stored in hay. And beyond that, Nikitas. It was like an impossible riddle: how could he be dead, his body already turning into something else – a piece of meat in a metal drawer – when his cells were here, emitting his familiar, living scent? His physical self entered my nostrils – a vaporous spirit that would now fade away atom by atom. I wondered how I would bear this dreadful process.
    * * *
     
    The following morning, Alexandra took me to Mr Katsaridis, the funeral director, in the next street. We walked slowly and she was curious to know whether I had called Nikitas’ mother.
    “Be careful,” she warned, when she heard we had spoken. “My sister is one of those dangerous people who believe they are saving the world when they are really destroying it. If you speak with her again, don’t take what she says too literally. I always say, beware of grand schemes and people who don’t mind breaking eggs to make omelettes. Don’t forget she found her home with Stalin.” Alexandra already had one arm through mine, and she patted my sleeve with her other hand, as though she was closing the matter. “You are a strong woman, Mondy. And you must stay strong for your daughter. Leave my sister alone, where she has chosen to make her life.”
    I had often passed Katsaridis’ “Rituals’ Office” but had never really noticed it. Living so close to Athens’ most prominent cemetery, I had become accustomed to walking among death’s trades: the ranks of florists, marble-carvers and confectioners of mourning sweets, with their mocked-up memorial cakes decorated with names. “Out of here!” people would often exclaim if the subject of death or cemeteries cropped up, but not in our neighbourhood. Greeks don’t like cypresses in their gardens, for their association with graves, though their tall, almost human silhouettes grace the landscape. In our neighbourhood, however, it was normal to live below cypress trees, just as it was routine to see a black-clad woman wiping her cheek as she walked down the hill, couples going to tend a grave, or small groups of people waiting for memorials by the flower stalls. Quite often there were smiles as well as tears; it was a truism that funerals provoked both. I had previously held the mistaken belief that all this practicality removed some of death’s mystique, as though you could outwit it merely by observing it long enough.
    Kyrios Katsaridis was younger and kinder than I had expected, and supported me when I rejected Alexandra’s suggestion of bringing Nikitas home for the night. I didn’t want a wake. I couldn’t bear the prospect of sitting up all night in a crowded room looking at Nikitas’ dead body.
    “These days most Athenians choose not to bring the deceased home,” said Kyrios Katsaridis. His face was smooth, almost boyish, but he spoke with a deep and soothing voice. I wondered about