said I had m y period but when the bleeding didn’t stop I didn’t
tell her because a peace boy said I had a disease from sex and I
was bleeding because o f that and he didn’t want me around
because I was dirty and sick and I thought she’d throw me
aw ay too so I said I had called m y parents. I f you tell people in
apartments that you called your parents they think you are fine
then. M y mother said I should be locked up like an animal for
being a disgrace because o f jail and she would lock me up like
the animal I was. I ran aw ay for good from all this place—
home, Amerika, I can’t think o f no good name for it. I went far
away to where they don’t talk English and I never had to talk
or listen or understand. N o one talked so I had to answer. N o
one knew m y name. It was a cocoon surrounded by
cacophony. I liked not knowing anything. I was quiet outside,
never trying. There was no talking anyw ay that could say I
was raped more now and was broke for good. If it ain’t broke
don’t fix it and if it is broke just leave it alone and someday it’ll
die. Here, Andreus is a m an’s name. Andrea doesn’t exist at
all, m y m om m a’s name, not at all, not one bit. It is monstrous
to betray your child, bitch.
F IV E
In June 1966
(Age 19)
M y name is Andrea but here in nightclubs they say
ma chere.
M y dear but more romantic. Sometimes they say it in a sullen
way, sometimes they are dismissive, sometimes it has a rough
edge or a cool indifference to it, a sexual callousness; sometimes they say it like they are talking to a pet dog, except that the Greeks don’t keep pets. Here on Crete they shoot cats.
They hate them. The men take rifIes and shoot them o ff the
roofs and in the alleys. The cats are skeletal, starving; the
Cretans act as if the cats are cruel predators and slimy crawling
things at the same time. N o one would dare befriend one here.
E very time I see a cat skulking across a roof, its bony, meager
body twisted for camouflage, I think I am seeing the Jew s in
the ghettos o f Eastern Europe sliding out o f hiding to find
food. M y
chere.
Doesn’t it mean expensive? I don’t know
French except for the few words I have had to pick up in the
bars. The high-class Greek men speak French, the peasants
only Greek, and it is very low -brow to speak English, vulgar.
N o one asks m y name or remembers it if I say it. In Europe
only boys are named it. It means manhood or courage. If they
hear m y name they laugh; you’re not a boy, they say. I don’t
need a name, it’s a burden o f memory, a useless burden for a
woman. It doesn’t seem to mean anything to anyone. There is
an Andreus here, a hero who was the captain o f a ship that was
part o f the resistance when the Nazis occupied the island. He
brought in guns and food and supplies and got people o ff the
island who needed to escape and brought people to Crete who
needed to hide. He killed Nazis when he could; he killed some,
for certain. N o occupier has ever conquered the mountains
here, rock made out o f African desert and dust. Andreus is old
and cunning and rich. He owns olive fields and is the official
consul for the country o f N orw ay; I don’t know what that
means but he has stationery and a seal and an office. He owns
land. He is dirty and sweaty and fat. He drinks and says dirty
things to women but one overlooks them. He says dirty
words in English and makes up dirty limericks in broken
English. He likes me because I am in love; he admires love. I
am in love in a language I don’t know. He likes this love
because it is a rare kind to see. It has the fascination o f fire; you
can’t stop looking. We’re so much joined in the flesh that
strangers feel the pain if we stop touching. Andreus is a failed
old sensualist now but he is excited by passion, the life-and-
death kind, the passion you have to have to wage a guerrilla
war from the sea on an island occupied by Nazis; being near
us, you feel the sea. I’m the sea for him now and he’s waiting to
see if his friend will drown. M venerates him for his role in the
resistance. Andreus is maybe sixty, an old sixty, gritty, oiled,
lined. M is thirty, old to me, an older man if I force m yself to
think o f it but I never think, no category means anything, I
can’t think exactly or the thought gets cut short by the
immense excitement o f his presence or a m emory o f anything
about him, any second o f remembering him and I’m flushed
and fevered; in delirium there’s no thought. At night the bars
are cool after the heat o f the African sun; the men are young
and hungry, lithe, they dance together frenetically, their arms
stretched across each other’s bodies as they make virile chorus
lines or drunken circles. M is the bartender. I sit in a dark
corner, a cool and pampered observer, drinking vermouth on
ice, red vermouth, and watching; watching M , watching the
men dance. Then sometimes he dances and they all leave the
floor to watch because he is the great dancer o f Crete, the
magnificent dancer, a legend o f grace and balance and speed.
Usually the young men sing in Greek along with the records
and dance showing off; before I was in love they sent over
drinks but now no one would dare. A great tension falls over
the room when sometimes one o f them tries. There have been
fist fights but I haven’t understood until after what they were
about. There was a tall blond boy, younger than M. M is short
and dark. I couldn’t keep my eyes o ff him and he took my
breath away. I feel what I feel and I do what I want and
everything shows in the heat coming o ff m y skin. There are no
lies in me; no language to be accountable in and also no lies. I
am always in action being alive even if I am sitting quietly in a
dark corner watching men dance. This room is not where I
live but it is my home at night. We usually leave a few hours
before dawn. The nightclub is a dark, square room. There is a
bar, some tables, records; almost never any women, occasional
tourists only. It is called The Dionysus. It is o ff a
small, square-like park in the center o f the city. The park is
overwhelm ingly green in the parched city and the vegetation
casts shadows even in the night so that if I come here alone it is
very dark and once a boy came up behind me and put his hand
between m y legs so fast that I barely understood what he had
done. Then he ran. M and the owner o f the club, N ikko, and
some other man ran out when they saw me standing there, not
coming in. I was so confused. They ran after him but didn’t
find him. I was relieved for him because they would have hit