Mercy (26 page)

electricity in the mountains but the dark is luminous and you

can see perfectly in it as if God is holding a candle above your

head. In the city people use bunsen burners too. When

Pappous makes a feast he takes some eggs from his chickens

and some olive oil and some potatoes bought from the market

for a few drachma and he makes an omelet over a bunsen

burner. It takes a long time, first for the oil to get really hot,

then to fry the potatoes, and the eggs cook slow ly; he invites

me and it is an afternoon’s feast. If people are rich they have

kitchens but the kitchens have nothing in them except running

cold water in a stone sink. The sink is a basin cut out o f a

counter made o f stone, as i f a piece o f hard rock was hauled in

from the mountains. It’s solid stone from top to bottom.

There are no w ood cabinets or shelves, just solid stone. I f there

is running hot water you are in the house o f a millionaire. I f

you are ju st in a rich house, the people heat the water up in a

kettle or pot. In the same w ay, there m ay be a bathtub

somewhere but the woman has to heat up kettle after kettle to

fill it. She will wash clothes and sheets and towels by hand in

the bathtub with the water she has cooked the same w ay the

peasant woman will wash clothes against rocks. There is no

refrigerator ever anywhere and no General Electric but there

m ay be two bunsen burners instead o f one. Y ou get food every

day at open markets in the streets and that is the only time

women get to go out; only married women. The Am erikans

never go anywhere without refrigerators and frozen food and

packaged food; I don’t know how they can stay in Vietnam.

The Am erikan doctor said he was writing a novel about the

Vietnam War like Norman M ailer’s
The Naked and the Dead.

He had a crew cut. He had a Deep South accent. He was blond

and very tanned. He had square shoulders and a square jaw .

Military, not civilian. White socks, slacks, a casual shirt. N ot

young. N ot a boy. O ver thirty. Beefy. He is married and has

three children but his wife and children are away he says. He

sought me out and tried to talk to me about the War and

politics and writing; he began by invoking Mailer. It would

have been different if he had said Hem ingway. He was a

Hem ingway kind o f guy. But Mailer was busy being hip and

against the Vietnam War and taking drugs so it didn’t make

much sense to me; I know Hem ingway had leftist politics in

the Spanish Civil War but, really, Mailer was being very loud

against Vietnam and I couldn’t see someone who was happily

military appreciating it much, no matter how good
The Naked

and the Dead
was, if it was, which I m yself didn’t see. It was my

least favorite o f his books. I said I missed Amerikan coffee so

he took me to his ranch-type house for some. I meant

percolated coffee but he made Nescafe. The Greeks make

Nescafe too but they just use tap water; he boiled the water.

He made me a martini. I have never had one. It sits on the

Formica. It’s pretty but it looks like oily ethyl alcohol to me. I

never sit down. I ask him about his novel but he doesn’t have

anything to say except that it is against the War. I ask to read it

but it isn’t in the house. He asks me all these questions about

how I feel and what I think. I’m perplexed and I’m trying to

figure it out, standing right there; he’s talking and my brain is

pulling in circles, questions; I’m asking m yself if he wants to

fuck or what and what’s wrong with this picture? Is it being in

a ranch-type house on an island o f peasants? Is it Formica on an

ancient island o f stone and sand? Is it the missing wife and

children and how ill at ease he is in this house where he says he

lives and w hy aren’t there any photographs o f the wife and

children? Why is it so empty, so not lived in, with everything

in place and no mess, no piles, no letters or notes or pens or old-

mail? Is it how old he is— he’s a real adult, straight and narrow,

from the
1950
s unchanged until now. Is it that it is hard to

believe he is a doctor? When he started talking to me on the

street he said he was near where I live taking care o f a Cretan

child who was sick— with nothing no less, just a sore throat.

He said it was good public relations for the military to help, for

a doctor to help. Is it that he doesn’t know anything about

writing or about novels or about his own novel or even about

The Naked and the Dead
or even about Norm an Mailer? Is it

that he is in the military, must be career military, he certainly

w asn’t drafted, and keeps saying he is against the War but he

doesn’t seem to know what’s wrong with it? Is it that he is an

officer and w hy would such a person want to talk with me? O r

is it that no man, ever, asks a woman what she thinks in detail,

with insistence, systematically, concentrating on her answers,

a checklist o f political questions about the War and writing and

what I am doing here on Crete now. Never. N ot ever. Then I

grasp that he is a cop. I was an Amerikan abroad in troubled

times in a country the C . I. A. wanted to run and I’d been in jail

against the War. I talked to soldiers and told them not to go to

Vietnam. I told them it was wrong. I had written letters to the

government telling them to stop. The F . B . I. had bothered me

when they could find me, followed me, harassed me, interfered with me, and that’s the honest truth; they’d threatened me. N o w a tall man with a square face and a red neck and a

crew cut and square shoulders, a quarterback with a Deep

South accent, wants to know what I think. A girl could live

her whole life and never have a man want to know so much. I

love m y country for giving me this unique experience. I try to

leave it but it follows me. I try to disaffiliate but it affiliates.

But I had learned to be quiet, a discipline o f survival. I never

volunteered anything or had any small talk. It was a w ay o f

life. I was never in danger o f accidentally talking too much.

Living outside o f language is freedom and chattering is stupid

and I never talked to Amerikans except to tell them not to go

to Vietnam; from m y heart, I had nothing else to say to them. I

would have liked to talk with a writer, or listen actually; that

was the hook; I would have asked questions and listened and

tried to understand what he was writing and how he was

doing it and w hy and what it made him feel. I was trying to

write m yself and it would have been different from regular

talk to talk with a writer who was trying to do something and

maybe I could learn. But he wasn’t a writer and I hadn’t

gibbered on about anything; perhaps he was surprised. N o w I

was alone with him in a ranch-type house and I couldn’t get

home without his help and I needed him to let me go; not keep

me; not hurt me; not arrest me; not fuck me; and I felt some

fear about how I would get away because it is always best to

sleep with men before they force you; and I was confused,

because it wasn’t sex, it was answers to questions. And I

thought about it, and I looked around the ranch-type house,

and considered how strong he was and it was best not to make

him angry; but I felt honor bound to tell my government not

just about the War but about how they were fucking up the

country, the U . S . A ., and I couldn’t act like I didn’t know or

didn’t care or retreat. M y name is Andrea I told him. It means

manhood or courage. It is a European name but in Europe