This Translation Tuesday, a twisted, rambling screed offers a window into the dark mind of a low-level bank clerk. Obsessed with money, plagued by seedy, morbid memories, buffeted by obscure resentments, he comes across a letter that confirms his paranoid delusions, and begins to plan his ‘perfect crime’. This is a powerful study of madness from the Greek writer Tasos Leivaditis, rendered into a genuinely disturbing English by N. N. Trakakis.
It continued raining, and so I too continued sitting under the porch of a cheap, commonplace hotel in a small cul-de-sac. How I got there is an entire saga, but I would often absent-mindedly find myself in the most unlikely parts of the city, and by ‘absent-mindedly’ I mean absorbed in thoughts that troubled me of late. I was always of course a procrastinator, but this delay had lasted for years and the resolution that had been ordained, from whatever angle you examined it, was not at all in my favour. When I left my boss’ house, in my haste I forgot my one and only coat, but I thought that, rather than trying to clear up such a messy situation, I’d be better off hanging myself. And I may well have done so if this letter hadn’t arrived. “The landlady must have left it on the table,” I thought. A letter that, the more I think about it, the more convinced I become that I had been waiting for it for a long while, it contained moreover so many details regarding my personal life that there couldn’t be any doubt that it was destined for me – despite the fact that people’s morals have slackened so much in our time that they might even call into question the authenticity of a letter, the contents of which would admittedly crush them.
The rain abated, I was ready to leave, then I remembered why I had come, it was the same hotel, many years ago, I might not have even been eighteen, I would often think “my God, if I could at least see one woman naked, then I can die!” but I was also afraid lest I did in fact die, one night it seemed I was hypnotised, a woman approached and brought me here to this hotel, I had no idea how.
“C’mon, get undressed and get in bed,” she told me.
It was winter, I was wearing a khaki scarf which belonged to my grandfather, I remember that it was this very scarf, hanging close at hand on a rack, that we used to bind his jaw as soon as he had died, as was the custom. I took off my jacket and lay down, the woman undressed completely, and I, of course, may as well have been dead, for whether from fear or bad timing nothing was happening. The woman got up.
“If you can’t do it, why hire a hooker?” she said, washing her hands in the basin.
“My apologies, some other time…,” I stammered.
She perhaps thought that I was trying to avoid paying, for she immediately replied:
“The body fell on the bed, it must be paid.”
That expression made an impression on me, in particular its tone: she spoke about her body as though she was referring to someone else, as though she was saying, for example, “the old lady is unwell, it doesn’t look like she’ll make it through the night,” an old lady, in fact, who’s lived her life and made your life miserable with her old-age grumbling – in exactly that way. Then, I don’t know how, I felt a kind of distress, as though they had stuffed my mouth with lots of cotton wool, I then observed the wall next to me: it seemed to tremble at first, then it began to tilt and tilt, until it was about to collapse on me, I rushed to the door and ran down the stairs.
At the exact moment when my boss was angrily showing me the door, I again noticed the wall shaking, “it’s weird how people live in houses like this,” I thought, when I got back home, past midnight, everything was shut, they were asleep, I began forcefully ringing the bell, eventually a window up high opened and that familiar, longish face appeared.
“You again! I’m calling the police.”
“Open up! We have to talk, ever since this afternoon everything’s changed, I hold a letter of great value in my hands, I’m not a total stranger. In any case I didn’t come for that, I want to speak to you about the wall, you’re in danger of being killed…”
The window was again shut. I then spotted my coat on the pavement, they had thrown it there as I was leaving, but I hadn’t noticed it and in the meantime I had become drenched, like a dead dog. “They’ll get up tomorrow,” I reflected with malice, “they’ll have their breakfast nice and well, and they will have already forgotten me. But I’ll leave my coat there, and as soon as they open the door their good mood will vanish for the entire day.”
I returned to my room, I had to think things through without fail, the situation was taking another turn with that letter. It was past three. I was also consumed with the worry that, after all this sleeplessness, I’d be a mess during the day. I liked to look good before heading to the Bank each morning, I took great care of myself. It was a habit I had since childhood, I wanted people to look at me with admiration, with jealousy even, and I always told myself that the worst thing that can befall you in life is no one paying you any attention. Yet people paid me more than enough attention, the men, as soon as I entered a room, would whisper something between themselves, as though they had become frightened, at times indeed they’d smile ironically or throw out some remarks, “a good sign,” I’d think to myself, for irony is always a weapon of the weak. No matter how you looked at it, however, I was more courteous and dignified than anyone else in the department where we worked, and on the whole I had an air of superiority about me which made the others fly into a spiteful rage and concoct one contemptible plan of action after another against me. Indeed, I often happened to feel strange and I’d ask myself how did I get here? who are all these people? as though I were seeing them for the first time, “honestly, how did I get here?” I’d wonder, while I was somewhere else, in any event, somewhere else. In short I deserved better luck, but circumstances were against me, my father went bankrupt, and all that remained from the good old days were my refined manners, a little French I knew, and that accursed drinking habit. Besides, mother herself had said, “you were born for great things.” And a saintly woman like my mother would not have been capable of ever telling even the smallest lie.
“Honourable Sir,” the letter began, and I thought that, truly, the end of the world had not yet come because there are still people who are so sincere that they not only hold you in high regard but also unequivocally assure you of it – after such an introduction, you naturally continue reading in even better spirits. “Honourable Sir, I ask your forgiveness, if you’ll excuse the expression, for the great emotional upheaval I will be causing you, and for obliging you to undertake a series of possibly ruthless actions, so that you may prove your claims to be justified, though it is evident to me that they are. And I condemn this wretched predicament where you are at peace before God but excessively anxious before people, whom, I’m afraid, you will have to confront. I know very well, and let’s leave in the dark how I learned this, I know that you are an upright man, and I have the same opinion as you, that they have wronged you. Your perceptiveness, of course, picked up on this a while ago, albeit somewhat vaguely, but your oversensitivity prevented you from admitting it, an opinion of that sort would have wounded you, possibly even killed you. You pretended therefore to be unaware of this unacceptable injustice, and in many instances you persistently withstood their revolting villainies, displaying a benevolence even greater than the Christian kind. And you were prepared to bear all the blame for every unpleasant occurrence in your life, rather than launching into a strenuous struggle, which the demonstration of their hypocrisy would have demanded of you. That softness was also the cause of your unhappiness. Of course, you, I mean to say your reluctance to believe in their wickedness, was a means for them to escape, but until when? See, the moment of truth and justice has come, when the darkness is dispelled and only clear consciences shine. An innocent person is always kindhearted and calm, by contrast, when you decided a few hours ago to bring that longstanding delay to an end and to visit your boss, he was infuriated, exactly as all guilty people have behaved from the beginning of time, and instead of cordially offering you a seat, he left you standing, while he drank his coffee with small, womanly sips. Do you want to know, then, why he kicked you out? Because that fool thought that you are so devious that you’d use the pretext of the wedding to request a portion of the assets that belong to you, even though you tried a thousand times to assure him that nothing of the sort was the case, and you even said these very words to him: “I make no demands, your daughter is for me the whole of my life.” And you spoke with such sincerity despite the fact that you weren’t even aware of the feelings of that other person, whom you had greeted on the street just three or four times, and indeed in a greatly flustered state. That’s what you said, but he, with the foresight of the cunning, was afraid that you had perhaps fathomed the great secret, which I finally reveal to you: dear sir, they are withholding a great asset from you, an asset that belongs to you, as much as your hands and eyes belong to you, and in order to hide it from you they employed every means, from threats to wearing you down, inserting in you, drip by drip, the most unfailing poison: to instil in you the notion that you in fact owe them, rather than they you. An age-old method, as old as injustice itself. I realise that the battle you must fight will be tough, but every person is faced at some point with the great time of trial, from which they don’t know how they will emerge, the victor or the vanquished. Most of all avoid rash actions, composure and prudence are needed if demands are to be made for an asset that has been withheld for so long a period of time. Remember only that incident which happened to you some years ago, at your first job, to say nothing of a genuine asset, as is the case now. Your friend for life.”
I was astounded, now everything was clear at last, that letter shed light on all the dark places of my life, and of course, as the author of the letter said, I had noticed something, long ago, since childhood perhaps, as far back as I can remember I always sensed that they were taking something from me, that’s how it must be in this case too, how is one to remember? how can one be on guard at every moment against their insidious rapacity? In short, no special ability was required to recognise that the letter writer was right through and through.
Besides, don’t you see, he even knew about that, an incident from way back, I was still a child, father had just gone bankrupt, I found a job in a large stationery shop, every evening I’d watch the store owner counting the banknotes, how jealous I was, in our family we carried only small coins on us, until one day I decided that I too would become rich, a momentous undertaking, I stole a large quantity of paper, I cut the sheets into big squares and on each one I drew a very nice 1000-drachma note, I made many, I always had them on me, and I felt such a degree of assurance that, my God, it was as though they were real, often at night I’d even hide them behind the icons, in the hope that they’d become real, but to my misfortune once more, there was, it seems, no God. One day my jacket fell down from the hook on which it was hanging, scattering the banknotes, the store owner yelled, “you’re stealing paper to make this rubbish!” I pounced on him, “my money! my money!” I shouted, as though an entire fortune was being stolen from me, he gave me a powerful shove and I found myself outside the store, I began running, when I reached a vacant lot I knelt down and started crying, I don’t know what impelled me, but I knelt down. “Why don’t they let a poor child play at being rich? Why does it bother them?” I grumbled. “No, you can’t have that either,” you’re told.
Now too, naturally, they would do anything they could to prove the opposite, possibly even reaching the depraved level of doubting the authenticity of such a sincere letter, but by this time I no longer held my own self in contempt, for it wasn’t to blame for accomplishing so little, the others had every reason to obstruct my likely advancement, a man who has arrived is a force, he can demand importunately that which belongs to him, and so they’d find ways to brush me aside, to prevent me from distinguishing myself, I always thought that if I were the Devil I’d have discovered the worst torment of Hell: to make those being punished feel that they are worth nothing, but look, this already happens here on earth. Tomorrow morning without delay I would find a good lawyer, maybe even two if need be, I was ready for everything, I’d move heaven and earth, “why hadn’t that letter arrived earlier?” I grumbled, my life is now virtually over, but no, even if I only have one day to live I’ll live it in order to prove their lack of integrity, there’d be a trial that will go down in history, “I also have to get some new clothes made,” I thought, “I don’t want to be taken for a nobody.” I could already see them frightened, as I pass through a horde of people with my head held high, unjustly treated but victorious, women throng to catch a glimpse of me, the police hold back the crowd, its clamour reaches all the way to the courtroom inside, I stand before the judges, “I swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth,” and the Hour of Judgement [cf. Revelation 14:7] begins, my accusation would pin them against the wall, it’s not as if I wasn’t aware of this, I understand everything, that’s why I never lock my room, what can they steal from me? everything of value is here, inside my brain, and so I understood, I mean about the wall, whenever I’d visit someone’s house they would go a bit before me and sap the wall, in this way they’d be done with me once and for all, no trials, no nothing, all sorted out, “accident”. How did I not think of it, right away, when I rented this room? I wanted another room, on the opposite side, but the landlady insisted, “there’s more light, it’s more comfortable,” the old hag said over and over, having been bribed no doubt, I have to watch out, how can you make something of your life – my God! – when at every moment you must keep your eyes peeled so as to defend yourself in time, you become in the end exhausted, that’s what the wretches count on.
I, of course, divined their intentions, and so whenever I’d see someone approaching me, I’d brace myself for every eventuality. One night it was drizzling, I was sitting on a doorstep in some unfamiliar street, pondering, what’s to become of me? I heard footsteps and turned around, a man was walking towards me, he was holding something but appeared to be concealing it, he was drawing nearer, on the same footpath as me, in a flash I realised that he was holding an axe, an actual axe, “he’s coming for me!” I thought, but I had been drinking a little, I was also feeling very dejected, and so I bowed my head and waited, the steps were moving closer, I closed my eyes, I felt at peace as though I had submitted at last to fate and all else had become irrelevant, “what would that moment be like?” I wondered, meaning the final moment of one’s life, the man in the meantime had passed by and turned the corner. “Next time,” I thought, “this time they sent him only to frighten me.”
But what bothered me had to do with my boss, “and so he too?” I’d wonder, I loved him like a father, he of course wasn’t aware of it, I didn’t dare tell him, he was in any case always so hurried and busy, you can’t after all stop a man in the middle of a corridor and say to him, “you are like a father to me,” and in fact he might not even know your name, that’s why I was guarded. But each time he passed by me I greeted him with genuine respect. And now look, I was forced to admit, but with sadness, that I was wide of the mark as far as that scoundrel was concerned, and is he the only one? It’s not out of the question that this entire accursed establishment is mixed up in it, a Bank is always suspect, even when it has an idiot like him for a director. “I have to prove my innocence,” I thought, but I immediately smiled, “even now my innocence,” I said, “yet they are the guilty ones.” I always deceived myself into supposing that I could live honourably and independently, the one who first discovered this word – ‘independence’ – bestowed upon the human race an ill-fated illusion, for when the others come to an understanding and decide to see you, not as a human being, but as a door, you will soon even come to hear the sounds of its hinges inside you. But since they insist, yes, I will prove my innocence – that I, in other words, have nothing to hide from others, neither do I engage in fraud and deceit, and moreover I have no need to play the part of a door, I am who I am: a man deserving better luck. I was even about to find out the opening words of the historic indictment when a question chilled me to the bone: “Who would the accused be?” Because the more I entered into the dark recesses of this conspiracy, the more I could see, with a clarity that terrified me, that many were mixed up in this dirty business, how could you track them all down? Besides, that’s why I had gone a short time ago to that hotel, I was soaked from the rain, the doorman was sleeping on a couch, eventually he swore at me for waking him to ask, he says, who the proprietor was, for the last twenty years no less, as for the man with the axe, how could you track him down? In any case you immediately come to understand that all these people are mere instruments, others put them up to it, as for that antichrist… I was still very young, one afternoon three men came to our house, one of them, a grim-looking character, presented some document, and then the two others began taking the furniture out, a truck was waiting by the door. Passersby were loitering about, the rooms were gradually being emptied, in the end nothing was left except the bed on which my paralyzed grandfather would lie, the grim man said something, father appeared to be pleading with him, the other made no reply, I understood, they wanted to take the bed, “and where will grandad sleep?” I wondered, the poor old man was staring at this scene, my God, with such sadness. The floor was damaged in many places, creating a draught, and so they went to the laundry room and took out a wooden washtub, may God be my witness, a wooden washtub, they placed a few pillows inside and there they laid him, a gaunt little man, pint-sized, depleted over time, I would have given my life to prevent this from happening, yet I was choking that grim man with my hands. All night I could hear grandad quietly crying over our sorry state, and in the morning he died.
Only the miserable landlady remained, I will grab the bitch by the neck and not let go until she tells me their names, all of their names, “and the lawyer,” I worriedly thought, “what lawyer would take on such a muddled case if these people have been bribed?” A satanic organisation like this cannot but have its people in all places, I’d run from door to door, showing them this honourable letter, and they would laugh and might even kick me out, they’d also pay the newspapers to write about some “madman”, this indeed may well be part of their plan to have me locked up in an asylum, then they’ll never be troubled by me again. And the man who wrote me the letter, maybe, maybe he too, they would’ve threatened him, no doubt, but he should have secretly informed me afterwards, and so he too, that “friend for life”, was also a fraud?
“My God,” I thought, “what do I have left to hold on to?” Everyone had deceived me, I felt like banging my head against the wall out of rage, yes, even my mother, even she had robbed me of that little nothingness I had been before birth. Who had demanded it from her? Why didn’t she leave me there? She lifted up her skirt like a typical whore and hurled me here, among their vices, or their sniggers at any rate. “How far some people go to justify themselves, even blaspheming against their mother’s name,” I thought once I had simmered down a bit, indeed a mother who… I’ve had a fear of death ever since I was a child, it wasn’t simply fear, I couldn’t understand it, and when you don’t understand something that’s when terror and panic set in, I couldn’t understand how it is that I, this person that I am, will one day be no more, apart from a few repulsive yellowed bones, “impossible,” I’d say, “that couldn’t happen to me, anything else but not that,” my mother knew about it because she often heard me crying at night, and so three years after she had died we went to exhume her body, everyone was speechless, scared stiff, my mother was just like the day we buried her, there was a commotion, some people drew back, the cemetery guard mumbled: “it’s the soil, it’s happened before,” I let them talk as I looked at my mother stretched out on the grass, peaceful, despite the freezing cold. And then I understood: my mother had mustered all her strength, even in opposition to the will of God, and remained like that, intact, so as to drive out of me the fear that was devouring me. Only her dress had frayed a little from the dampness, but how many get about in even shabbier clothing? And her eyes were shut, but what did it matter? The most beautiful moments of my life were ones I lived with eyes shut.
Recalling this truly calmed me down. “What’s the point of having all the possessions in the world,” I thought, “when you are destined for a death like your mother’s, clean and intact, just as your entire life has turned out to be.”
* * *
This manuscript was discovered in the room of a low-ranking bank official. The official himself was found dead, his head smashed. “Suicide,” the coroner concluded, but no powerful enough instrument was found that could explain those dreadful cracks in the skull. “He smashed his head against the wall,” he added, for there was in fact a great deal of blood on the wall, and the case was closed.
It’s weird, how could someone bang their head against the wall until they died? Moreover the manuscript was amply suggestive, it is abundantly clear that it wasn’t finished, something forced that man to suddenly stop writing: put simply, the wall, which they had secretly sapped, began to tilt, and he, not knowing what else to do to protect himself, rushed to prop it up with his body. But the entire wall collapsed on top of him and killed him. Afterwards the landlady, with some others who had been paid off, hurriedly rebuilt the wall. How was anyone to realise that this was the perfect crime?
translated from the Greek by N. N. Trakakis
Tasos Leivaditis (1922–88) was born and raised in Athens, and took an interest in both literature and politics from a young age. He joined the communist-led resistance in World War II, but with the escalation of the Greek Civil War in 1948 he was arrested and detained without trial on island prison camps in the Aegean, including the barbarous Makronisos. He was released late in 1951, and soon after made his acclaimed debut with a triptych of poetry volumes that gave vivid expression to the horrors of war and the yearning for justice and peace. He went on to work as a literary critic for a left-leaning newspaper while also producing a rich poetic oeuvre that continues to be widely read and admired, especially among the young.
N. N. Trakakis is senior lecturer in philosophy at the Australian Catholic University, and also writes and translates poetry. His previous translations of Tasos Leivaditis’ work include The Blind Man with the Lamp [Ο τυφλός με τον λύχνο] (Denise Harvey Publications, 2014), Violets for a Season [Βιολέτες για μια εποχή] (Red Dragonfly Press, 2017), Autumn Manuscripts [Τα χειρόγραφα του φθινοπώρου] (Smokestack Books, 2020, joint winner of the New South Wales Premier’s Translation Prize 2021), and Night Visitor [Νυχτερινός επισκέπτης] (Human Side Press, 2023).
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