I was sixteen when I saw my first corpse stretched out in Aghia Sophia. The spits the lambs had been roasted on were shiny with fat and myrrh hung heavy in the air -- it was the week after Pascha.
I was sixteen when I took my first lover, on the eve of March twenty-fifth, in Glyfada. Radios were blaring not only music but decade-old recordings of the students at Polytechneio. They celebrated Independence Day then; still remembered the Turks and the fascists and the Colonel.
There were grim-faced men in starched white shirts with somber black ties, as was the custom. There were women there with their hair cropped short, wailing in sorrow. I stood with others like me, half-hidden in the dark behind the pillars and the icons. The blond and blue-eyed boys: not Greek, never Greek, but nothing else either.
There were a dozen of us running around the dives of Glyfada, where the clubs and the discos would mix punk and bouzoukia and it all seemed perfectly natural. I stood there in Jester's, surrounded by those who spoke my language, and the tall dark boy lounging at the bar turned and sneered and raised his glass in salute.
Amid the keening of the women and the chanting of the priests came whispers on the edge of hearing.
Amid the music and the laughter was another tongue almost eclipsed by snatches of English.
"Why are they here? This is not their house of worship."
"The Choir of the Saints has found the Fountain of Life, and the Door of Paradise. May I also find the way through repentance: the sheep that was lost am I; call me up to You, O Savior, and save me."
"Why are you here? This is not your celebration."
"You Who of old did fashion me out of nothingness, and with Your Image divine did honor me; but because of transgression of Your commandments did return me again to the earth where I was taken; lead me back to be refashioned into that ancient beauty of Your Likeness."
"American and English youths with their filthy habits."
"Image am I of Your unutterable glory, though I bear the scars of my stumblings. Have compassion on me, the work of Your hands, O Sovereign Lord, and cleanse me through Your loving kindness; and the homeland of my heart's desire bestow on me by making me a citizen of Paradise."
"Your people were in league with the Ottomans and the Colonel."
"Give rest, O God, unto Your servant, and appoint for him a place in Paradise; where the choirs of the Saints, O Lord, and the just will shine forth like stars; to Your servant that is sleeping now do You give rest, overlooking all his offenses."
"An accident, so they say, but not a scratch on him."
"The Trinal Radiance of One Godhead with reverent song acclaiming let us cry; Holy are You, O Eternal Father, and Son also Eternal, and Spirit Divine; shine with Your light on us who with faith adore You; and from the fire eternal rescue us."
"An army of thieves and plunderers and never a thought for Greece."
"Hail, O Gracious Lady, that in the flesh bears God for salvation of all; and through whom the human race has found salvation: through You may we find Paradise, Theotokos, our Lady pure and blessed."
"Be quiet, they may speak our language."
"I know you can understand my language."
Outside the gilded walls, the city was turning into the cesspit of summer, when only fools and tourists would stay, while the residents fled to the islands.
Outside, the night was chilly with spring, cool winds blowing in across the ocean.
I tore my eyes from Giorgos, unnaturally still in the open casket. Chewing my lip, but otherwise immobile, I tried to melt deeper into the shadows, tried to become the ghost I was: not Greek, never Greek, but nothing else either.
I followed the boy's eyes to the door, nodded in an unmistakable gesture of acquiescence. A matter of moments to disentangle myself from the girl, somebody's sister, mumbling excuses about needing air and stepping outside, trying to become the man I am, not like my father, never like my father, but not entirely unlike him either.
The air was stifling with incense and heavy with grief and I stood transfixed in the shadows as family and friends lined up for the long procession.
In the cool outside I followed the boy down to the beach, half-drunk on wine and cheap lager, half-drunk with youth and the belief I was immortal.
"Gios mou!" Giorgos' mother wailed as they led her to the casket.
"Ela file!" He laughed, waving away my protests, ---den milao ellenika---I don't speak Greek--- with a flick of his wrist and a grin, saying, in Greek, "The words are the same in every language."
She collapsed, folded in upon herself, words no longer distinguishable from her moans, her eyes turning to heaven as the priests continued to pray to the icons and effigies of their church.
He passed me a pipe of Afghan resin while boys on motorcycles raced up and down the street, raising merry hell in the square. Howling engines droning behind us, we watched the March-sun rise over the Aegean, pretending we were the gods of long-lost civilizations.
They held smelling salts to her face when the sobbing ceased, three strong men pulling her to her feet. I hazarded forward then, with the last of the family, past the priests and on to the bier.
We stumbled into the house, across bodies passed out in doorways and hallways, holding each other up in drunken giddiness.
Candles cast shadows across Giorgos' face as I approached, holding on to the coffin for support. A few more steps to the droning of priests, a last look at the man. Fingers clawed into the wood and my knuckles white, just a few more steps without falling.
The sun was rising into impossibly blue skies as he pushed me back on the bed and sprinkled long lines on my bare chest. The straw he had taken from god knows which place traced along my skin, making me sigh at the new sensation. Then his tongue followed the straw and kept going, even after the last of the lines had all but disappeared.
Inches away from the inert mask and lines of death engraved upon the skin, my throat parched, every indrawn breath a chore. One hand released its iron grip upon the box and hazarded to Giorgos' face; a lock of hair brushed from his brow, a finger traced across his cheek.
His tongue flicked across a nipple that had hardened, I don't recall whether from cold or lust, and traveled all the way down my torso again until it came upon cotton. I suppose I must have moaned again as his fingers struggled with buttons. Then hot breath brushed across unblemished skin and I felt soft, hesitant licks to my dick, and I don't think I've ever again felt so alive.
"Looking on me as I lie here prone before you, voiceless and unbreathing, mourn for me, everyone-brethren and friends, kindred, and you who knew me well; for but yesterday with you I was talking, and suddenly there came upon me the fearful hour of death: therefore come, all you that long for me, and kiss me with the last kiss of parting. For no longer shall I walk with you, nor talk with you henceforth: for to the Judge I go, where no person is valued for his earthly station: Yea, slave and master together stand before Him, king and soldier, rich man and poor man, all accounted of equal rank: for each one, according to his own deeds shall be glorified, or shall be put to shame. Therefore I beg you all, and implore you, to offer prayer unceasingly for me to Christ our God, that I be not assigned for my sins to the place of torment; but that He assign me to the place where there is Light of Life."
My lips pressed to the cold and waxy mouth and the circle was complete.
The sun rose high into the sky and I came to church bells tolling, while the priests were blessing lovers lost and freedom gained, and Giorgos and I, with my dick in his mouth, were celebrating independence.
"Both now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen."
Not our fathers, never our fathers, but always men.
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Passages in italics are from the Eulogetaria for the Dead and the Theotokion of the orthodox funeral mass.
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If you like GioGio's writing, check out her mainstream(ish) literary novel, which is available from the publisher or online retailers/bookstores.