Seven short stories .A raw look into the tender and terrible deeds of men in relation to other men. By the author of "The Iliad - Twenty Centuries of Translation" and "The Iliad: The Male Totem".

Previous editions of this book are in top libraries such as Harvard, Oxford, Princeton, Columbia,

One night in late summer we sat in the
square long past midnight drinking wine [...]

We are going to hell. Immigrants, the
pestilence of this place. They pick Greek
names, Thanasis, Pavlos, Nikos, hell they
are communists, they have no names, no
papers, no God. We Greek are a dying
race. There is a solution, what the Italians
do.

What do the Italians do? I interrupted.

He jumped up in the zeibekiko stance,
arms stretched out. He danced around me,
over me, like a bird that is about to attack,
yelling
Where the hell do you come from
professor,
you don't know what the Italians do!
They fucking drown them out in the ocean.
You don't know, professor?
and you say you are my friend!
You say you love me! Bullshit!
They drown the bastards. They drown them!
They have no caffeneio in their country,
no tavernas, they have no bread,
they come here and boss us around!
We are sheep, the lamb of God, he
whispered.
They drown the bastards! he yelled at the
top of his voice, a manly voice, the
helpless whimper of a child that is
punished.
He stuck his nose on my face. Now he was
calm, his voice course, trembling. His large
black eyes wet, pleading
You do not know, palikari.
You sa you love me, ha.
Your a liar, you know nothing.
Exhausted, he kept dancing and chanting,
staggering in the empty square until he
drifted out of sight in the narrow dark
streets of the village.
I sat in the square for a long time.
Witness to a crucifixion. I went back home
shattered, whispering
I know Cuckoo my good friend, I know, I
know.
(The Poutanaki)

Antar on his knees, now lifting his arms up
to his ears, now kissing the wet earth, an
apparition that the river had spewed, face
red with mud, his huge hands fumbling
the sky, lips, moving incessantly... la ilaha
illallahu, la ilaha illallahu! The thundering
voice of last night, now, humbled, grateful,
a whimper. He moved slowly, exhausted,
yet his face radiating in the tender milky
light, peace. He had found Him.
I knelt besides him, my shoulder touching
his shoulder, instantly shrouded into Antar'
s prayer. I stayed there next to him for a
long time.
The sun slowly chased the mist,
crossed the river, saw two men on their
knees facing the caves on the side of
Ahmetaga, singing..
(Antar of Ahmetaga)

Now he held up a photo of a boy around
five wearing a cap with bunny ears. I
looked at him nodding, waiting for a
comment, which never came. He was silent
looking at the picture of the boy and then
looking at me. His eyes got wet and tears
run down his cheeks. I remained silent too.
Now his body sank into the chair, as if paralyzed.
We drank some more wine but he
remained motionless looking down on the
floor of the yard.
Tell me about the children in the attic, he said.
I did not reply.
And a while later:
And the puppies? he asked. His lips were
drooping and his eyes were round, frozen.
We drank more wine in silence.
(Fotis)

He turned aside again, his whole face
contracted, his lips quivering, the snout of
an animal trying to smell the dark; always
did this when he came to the mill. Those
moments the pain on his face was gone,
this was an act of lovemaking...(Antar of Ahmetag)