Ghost of the Sun

By Harry Mark Petrakis

When last seen in Petrakis's earlier novel, "A Dream of Kings," Leonidas Matsoukas was the vigorous proponent of wildly creative get-rich-quick schemes; a passionately loving husband, father, and sometime philanderer; an incorrigible gambler; a mighty fighter; and purveyor of advice and counseling on matters of life and of the soul. Now, eight years later, he returns from Greece to the Greek- American Chicago neighborhood where he had lived with his family. But all has changed: his young son has died in Greece; Matsoukas himself has just been released from a long period of imprisonment and torture; his daughters are grown and his wife Caliope has remarried to a prominent businessman.

Battered in body but not in spirit, Matsoukas slowly begins to recover his place. He befriends and helps a young, lonely single mother, Debbie, and her infant son, Peter. Then he contacts Caliope, and finds an unexpected patron in her generous husband Sophocles. Soon Matsoukas is nearly himself again, but for two dilemmas: his love for Caliope, now another man's wife, and the presence of the man who tortured him in Greece — a man who found respectable anonymity in Chicago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Mark Petrakis
• Release date: May 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466146839

Harry Mark Petrakis

Harry Mark Petrakis is the author of twenty-three books, short-stories, and essays, and has been nominated twice for the National Book Award. His books include the 'A Dream of Kings' (1966), set in Chicago, which was a New York Times bestseller. It was published in twelve foreign editions and was made into a motion picture (1969) starring Anthony Quinn. He has won the O. Henry Award, and received awards from Friends of American Writers, Friends of Literature, and the Society of Midland Authors. He was the Nikos Kazantzakis Chair in Modern Greek Studies at San Francisco State University and the McGuffy Visiting Lecturer at Ohio University. In 2004, the American College of Greece in Athens presented him with an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters Degree.

Book preview

GHOST OF THE SUN

A Novel

by

HARRY MARK PETRAKIS

A Sequel to Petrakis's 1966 novel, A Dream of Kings

Copyright 1990 by Harry Mark Petrakis

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Originally published by

St. Martin's Press

DEDICATION:

For my brother-in-law,

John Thoman, who opened

for me the world of books.

And, for my sister, Irene Fox,

who shared with me our

early dreams.

"I write about these things and make them ambiguous.

Since I am not sure how things are, why should the reader be?"

—Isaac Bashevis Singer

Praise for Harry Mark Petrakis...

In his tales, violence is measured by brotherhood, passionate hate by passionate love. And in the end it is man who, despite his weaknesses and his blindness, has the right to victory.

- Elie Weisel

I've often thought what a wonderful basketball team could be formed from Petrakis characters. Everyone of them is at least fourteen feet tall.

- Kurt Vonnegut

Harry Mark Petrakis is good news in American literature.

- Issac Bashevis Singer

I've always thought Harry Mark Petrakis to be a leading American novelist.

- John Cheever

Joy. A strange word when you think of contemporary fiction... or contemporary poetry, or contemporary anything. I am tempted to say that Petrakis is unique in our time because in his stories he can produce it, and he does regularly. It is as if some wonderful secret had been lost, then rediscovered by him.

- Mark Van Doren

Petrakis has something more important than skill; a deep and rich humanity.

- Rex Warner

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BIO/HMP

CHAPTER ONE

Autumn of the year 1974. An Olympic Airways flight from Greece to America.

Matsoukas passed the hours reading, while he twisted fitfully in the window seat that was too cramped for his big body. He rose at least once every hour to squeeze past the taciturn man and nervous old woman who occupied the center and aisle seats in his row. He exercised his throbbing feet by limping up and down the aisle. When he pressed back into his seat, he apologized to his row mates. The man grunted and the old woman sighed.

Midway across the ocean the attendants served dinner, and he drank a split of wine. Later he drifted into a sleep dismembered by dreams of great silver wings plummeting to the earth. He woke gratefully as the pilot's voice announced their impending arrival in Chicago.

The plane began its descent and shattered the dense, swirling clouds. For a buoyant moment he felt their cabin floating on a cushion of foam. When they cleared the clouds, his view encompassed the city he hadn't seen in eight years.

With his forehead nudged against the window, he tracked the jagged shoreline of the lake that ran south and east to the Gary steel mills where he'd once labored. He traced the shoreline back to Chicago, castellated along the lake with skyscrapers he couldn't remember. Beyond the downtown city loop were the residential neighborhoods and the parks. He'd picnicked in similar parks in summer when his children were young. He was shaken by a homesickness the memory evoked in his heart.

The wheels of the plane struck the ground with a jolt and then bumped along the runway. When the thrust of the jets was reversed and noise roared through the cabin, the old woman beside him fervently crossed herself. He patted her arm in reassurance as their plane taxied toward the terminal.

Matsoukas remained seated until the aisles were clear before he rose to pull down his hat and coat. The hours of confinement had aggravated his limp, and he lurched stiffly from the plane.

He avoided the passengers who surged toward the baggage claim area and sat down in a deserted boarding location. He stared out the long glass windows and watched planes arrive and depart. The tumult of loudspeakers faded, and he slipped back to a garlanded dawn eight years earlier when he'd carried his seven-year-old son, Stavros, aboard a plane for Greece.

The doctors in Chicago had told him his son was dying, but Matsoukas scorned their dark prognosis. He believed the resurrective fire of the Aegean sun would heal his child of the sickness and dreadful seizures that had plagued him from his first year of life.

When they arrived in Greece, for a few weeks it seemed his faith would prevail. Each day they sat for hours under that glowing sun, within a landscape of mountains and the sea. He felt his son become a little stronger. Then, on a night when they slept side by side, the child's strangled shriek woke Matsoukas. He embraced Stavros and felt his small body hot with fever. Matsoukas held the child's heaving, thrashing limbs for only a few moments before he felt the frail arms and legs go limp. When he realized his son was dead, he heard himself scream so piercing and spirit-wrenching a cry it was unlike any sound he'd heard on earth before.

The villagers gathered outside his house, knocking on the doors and windows. He warned them away. He sat with his son through the night, kissing and caressing the boy's face and fingers, while he waited for breath and heartbeat to return. The hours fled with his hope.

At daybreak he left the room to make arrangements to have his son's body cremated. A day after that had been done, he chartered a boat and at dawn he sailed beyond the harbor as the ascending, grieving sun turned the surface of the sea into flame. Matsoukas whispered a final prayer as he scattered his son's ashes across the water. He was consoled because he knew the wind and tides would carry the boy's soul in eternal journeys around the earth he'd never traveled in life.

Matsoukas retrieved his single suitcase from the baggage claim and cleared through customs. He rode an airport bus to the Palmer House and from there took a taxi to Halsted Street. When he arrived in the neighborhood where he'd lived so many years, he was shocked because everything was changed. The Tegea grocery, owned by the dyspeptic Akragas from whom he'd rented his second-floor counseling office, had been replaced by a souvenir shop selling brass and plaster replicas of the gods and heroes of Greece. The Delphian coffeehouse had been transformed into a garish restaurant whose windows held blown-up photographs of belly dancers with fleshy, alabaster thighs. The bakery from which the Widow Anthoula had once sweetened the bitter hungers of the world was now a travel agency, with cerulean posters of Aegean seaports beckoning from the window. Matsoukas stood before the glass and nodded at the dour young woman who sat at a desk inside the shop.

"I've been there,'' Matsoukas said. In the glass his reflection shrugged.

He rented a room by the week in the Royal Arms Hotel on Jackson Boulevard. He remembered that shabby hostelry because his dear friend, the gambling house poker dealer, Cicero, had resided there for a while. As Matsoukas emerged from the elevator onto the fifth floor, he inhaled the familiar odors of garlic and wine. That primal aroma hadn't changed, nor had the sound of a phonograph with a singer who wailed a Greek ballad. In another room a man and woman argued vehemently, and even those contentious voices Matsoukas recalled having heard before. He walked to the end of the corridor and, as he unlocked the door of his room, from the next room a baby cried, its voice echoing plaintively through the thin walls. That was an unfamiliar disturbing sound in the hotel.

His room was musty as a tomb, and he quickly raised the single window for air. He turned from the glass and sprawled wearily across the bed, inhaling the odors of futility and spent desire that rose from the lumpy mattress. He stared at the ceiling with an eerie feeling he was still suspended in the sky between Greece and America.

You're on the ground, Matsoukas, he muttered. The earth and your battered carcass have once more been joined.

For a while then he slept and was quickly betrayed by a dream that brought him a horde from his past, as if furious they'd missed him at the airport. There was his former wife, Caliope (her dark beauty loomed above the rest), his daughters, Faith and Hope, the Widow Anthoula, Fatsas, Harilaos the guitarist, Falconis, Youssouf the Turk, others whose faces he remembered but whose names he'd forgotten. They swarmed about his bed, clamoring for the reasons why he'd returned. He was grateful when the baby's cries from the adjoining room woke him.

His room had grown dark except for tracings of multicolored light from the window. He rose from the bed and through the railings of the fire escape peered down at Halsted Street. The neon signs of the restaurants flashed scarlet and yellow streamers into the sky.

He stripped and soaked his body in the old bathtub. Then he dressed in clean underwear and a fresh shirt. When he left the room, he heard the baby still crying, its voice grown hoarse. For an uneasy moment he listened outside the door and wondered if the infant was alone. He was reassured when he heard a lulling voice between the baby's cries.

Matsoukas ate macaroni and salad in one of the Greek restaurants. A granite-visaged old man at an adjoining table had finished his dinner and read a Greek newspaper. From time to time he stared over the paper at Matsoukas.

Matsoukas raised his glass of wine in a greeting.

To your good health, grandfather.

Drink to your own health, the old man answered gruffly. I saw you limp in.

You're right, my friend. Matsoukas smiled. In a Delphian footrace you'd lap me twice. Let me buy you a drink then so we can toast my health.

The old man ordered an ouzo and folded his paper.

I've just returned to this city after a long absence, Matsoukas said. What's happening here now?

The politicians remain corrupt and the inhabitants violent, the old man said.

That's the same, Matsoukas said. Anything else?

Nothing that concerns me as long as I can eat, drink, and shit.

Matsoukas admired that lucid summary of life.

Tell me, grandfather, have you lived in this neighborhood for long?

Long enough.

Do you recall a bakery owned by a blooming widow named Anthoula?

The old man shook his head.

What about a grocery owned by a wretch named Akragas?

The old man stared at him in silence.

You must remember a horse-betting parlor run by a nervous Macedonian named Falconis. Matsoukas had grown desperate. A music store in front concealed the gambling in the back room.

The old man finished his ouzo. He rose and jammed his folded newspaper under his arm.

Never heard of any of them, he said. How long have you been gone?

Eight years, Matsoukas said.

If nothing you remember is still here, why did you bother coming back?

Why had Matsoukas come back? The answer wasn't clear but many-faceted and ambiguous. He ordered another cognac and coffee, reluctant to leave the warmth and light of the restaurant. Many of the patrons were young people dressed casually in jackets and sweaters. He noticed a pretty blond girl near the age of his daughters, Faith and Hope. He'd be seeing them for the first time as young women. How would they respond to the reappearance of a father they thought had abandoned them and who they might have come to believe was dead?

After the death of his son, he had lingered in Greece. In the letters Caliope wrote to him, she enclosed snapshots of their daughters to strengthen her pleas for his return. In less than a year he hardly recognized the children he'd left behind. He yearned to see them, but senselessly he kept postponing the journey to America. He mourned his son, and the vistas of mountains, sky, and sea were somehow consoling.

In the darkest moments of his grief, the sight of a tiny bird still alive while his son was dead made him weep. He contrived an obdurate fantasy that his son was with Caliope and his daughters in America. They'd all be reunited when Matsoukas returned home. To maintain that illusion, he avoided going home. He wandered across Greece, working for a series of farmers in their orchards and fields. At the end of a day of hard labor he was grateful for his exhausted body that allowed him to sleep soundly.

When he had been in Greece a little more than two years, a cabal of army colonels overthrew the government and took power. All these fulminations occurred in Athens, a world away from the village near Kalavryta where he dwelt. In that hamlet little seemed changed except for the appearance of a number of oversized banners that proclaimed: god — nation — family. The policemen in the village walked with swagger and additional bravado, as if they'd just inherited the earth.

He felt prepared, suddenly, to return to America. He started to write those tidings to Caliope and then decided he would surprise her and his daughters. Before he departed for Athens and America, he made a final visit to the rugged mountains of Epirus where he had fought with the partisans against the Nazis during their occupation of Greece. He placed wildflowers at the site of battles where he'd lost comrades, brave men borne to heaven in the volcano's breath of the struggle for freedom.

On his way back to Athens he stayed a night in the old city of loannina. In the hotel he met a zestful Bulgarian named Rashgora who persuaded Matsoukas to join him in a game of poker with several sheiks from Saudi Arabia. The sheiks were canny players, but Matsoukas was more skillful. As he began to win, his passion for gambling returned. For several days, cloistered in a suite of the hotel, he abandoned desire for food or sleep in the whirlwind of wagering larger and larger stakes. Rashgora had been winning, as well, and when the game finally broke up on the fourth day, Matsoukas and Rashgora had each won almost $20,000.

Matsoukas was delighted at being able to return to his family with new wealth. The money seemed to justify his delay in Greece. Rashgora had a friend who was an officer with the National Bank of Greece. The banker helped Matsoukas deposit his winnings in dollars in an American bank. Finally, after a heartfelt binge with Rashgora, Matsoukas flew to Athens.

On his last evening in Greece Matsoukas celebrated by buying rounds of drinks for the patrons of a taverna in Piraeus. The festivities were disrupted when several oversized louts began abusing a young farmer who refused to give them his table. A fight erupted. Matsoukas went genially to the young farmer's aid and briskly kicked the louts into the street. The owner of the taverna warned Matsoukas that the hoodlums worked for the local police and would probably return with them. The young farmer fled, but some perverse pugnacity made Matsoukas remain, basking in the dipsomanic admiration of the taverna patrons who praised his courage.

A short while later the louts returned with a squad of policemen who hauled Matsoukas off to the station. When they checked his fingerprints and military record and discovered he'd fought with the partisans, they questioned him zealously about his Communist affiliations and how often he'd visited the Soviet Union. He scorned and defied them until they beat and kicked him unconscious. When he wakened, bleeding and sore, he was being transported in a truck with a group of silent, wretched prisoners. One of them whispered to Matsoukas they were being transferred to the dreaded Asphalia prison on Bouboulinas Street.

Matsoukas remained in that prison for five years. In the beginning of that interminable, nightmarish span of time, he raged against his captors. He demanded they bring him to trial or else release him. When he asked for a lawyer or a representative from the American Embassy, they mocked him. He came to understand the prison was filled with political prisoners who had no hope of a trial or a chance for freedom.

All during his imprisonment, he wasn't permitted to write a letter to his family to let them know where he was. His rage turned to despair. He spent hours thinking of Caliope and his daughters, and recalled every holiday and picnic they'd shared. All this time he exercised his arms and legs by doing push-ups and deep knee bends.

To avoid going mad, he recited poetry and plays he knew by heart. Sometime during his second year of imprisonment, he salvaged the fragment of a broken cup and used it to scratch the outline of a chessboard on the stone floor of his cell. He inhabited the squares with imaginary pawns, bishops, knights, and queens. In the beginning he could not remember the positions of all the pieces, but as he disciplined his concentration, he was able to control them. For days and nights he played ghostly games against illusory opponents.

All this time he continued to be interrogated by policemen asking identical questions about ways he'd conspired to overthrow the government. When he denied that charge, they beat him for lying. If he remained silent, they beat him for obstinacy. On those days they let him rest, when he heard the blows and screams from other cells, he knew the brutes remained busy.

Some policemen beat him routinely and some beat him zealously. Around the beginning of his fourth year in prison, a new interrogator appeared, a monster sergeant of police named Farmakis.

The first time Farmakis entered his cell to question Matsoukas, he greeted him as warmly as if they were old friends. He praised Matsoukas for his obdurateness and resolve.

You're a remarkable man, he said with a droll wink. All my associates admit they haven't been able to extract a shred of a confession from you about your obvious guilt. We're all Greeks, God be praised, and can admire courage even in our enemies and in the enemies of our beloved nation. Don't you agree?

I'm certainly not your enemy or the enemy of our beloved nation. Matsoukas tried to match the man's jauntiness of voice. Candidly, I feel I've had enough of your hospitality, God be praised, and would like to be set free.

''You have wit as well as courage! Farmakis laughed. You know, I must also tell you you bear an uncanny resemblance to the actor Anthony Quinn. Same size physique, same magnificent head. Did you see him in Zorba! Without waiting for Matsoukas to respond, Farmakis continued. I enjoyed his splendid performance in that film, but his philosophy was grossly in error. The Alpha and Omega of life must be discipline and obedience to authority."

You have forgotten freedom, Matsoukas said.

Wonderful! Farmakis cried. You even think like Zorba! But believe me, my friend, we'll change that. Providence has brought us together for your reformation. Up to now you've been interrogated by peasants in shiny buttons. But you will find me an artist of chastisement, a Picasso of persuasion! My area of incomparable skill is the Falanga!

That first day he demonstrated his craftsmanship to Matsoukas the way a master might display his technique to an apprentice. Matsoukas was strapped to a bench on his back and his shoes and stockings removed. Using sticks of varying thickness and a narrow iron bar, Farmakis briskly beat the soles of his bare feet. After about a score of blows the pain became so piercing Matsoukas believed he was being battered on the crown of his head.

That's the beauty of the Falanga, Farmakis told him proudly at the end of their first session. The feet shoot impulses of pain through every nerve and muscle until you feel your eyeballs will explode! The secret, you understand, is to alternate light and hard blows, spacing them enough to keep the subject conscious. I tell you with unqualified admiration, I couldn't believe how many blows you took before passing out! I suspect Zorba too would have shown such endurance. Most of these cowardly pisspots pass out after a few blows.

In the sessions that followed, two or three times a week, Farmakis beat Matsoukas with unflagging dedication. Between beatings, Farmakis allowed him to sit up, offered him a cigarette and a cup of coffee, while he spoke to him passionately about his craft.

The Falanga, I admit, was creatively initiated among the followers of General Franco in Spain. But in the beloved motherland of our revered leader, Colonel Papadopoulos, I am the unquestioned master! I could show you letters from the Ministry of Police Administration commending me for the hundreds of confessions I've obtained from stubborn prisoners!

The recital of his accomplishments so moved Farmakis that, for the