Epaminondas was proud of his name. "It was the name of a famous Theban
general," he told me. "There's a life of him, by Plutarch."
I was overnighting in Stoupa, a tiny seaside resort on the west coast of the
middle peninsular of the Pelopennese - The Mani. It was early in the year
and there were only two or three families on the beach, and two Greek
dowagers who had walked straight into the water, up to their necks, huge
straw hats jammed on their heads, talking loudly. Epaminondas, Nondas for
short, was my waiter.
Young, dark-haired and dark-eyed, he sat with me at my table and watched me
eat my salad.
"You ought to go up into the Taygetos mountains," he went on. "Up to my
village, it's so peaceful, there's a Byzantine chapel. Come tomorrow, I'll
be there."
I parked the car at the entrance to the village. There wasn't much to see: a
bus stop, a broken-down lorry and an abandoned building with an old man
sitting on some steps. I took out the piece of paper that Nondas had given
me with his name and address on it. "Prepitsa," I said. The man nodded, and
jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the street of stone that rose, like a
ladder, behind him.
I began to climb, stone walls head high on either side, with scarred wooden
doors here and there leading to secret gardens. From time to time I passed a
house, sometimes inhabited, sometimes ruined, the stones slipping. Olive
trees grew like weeds, the trunks and branches black, centuries old. Vines
gave shade and bougainvillea gave colour, and the silence was exquisite,
something to be touched. Once I heard a cough from an open window; somewhere
a donkey brayed; that was all.
The village dwindled. In an open space between two houses I found a goatherd,
a woman in black. "Prepitsa," I said again and she pointed to the ground
meaning that I had got there. "Nondas Nikolis?" I continued, but she shook
her head, and then called out in a voice that was harsh and loud enough to
scare the goats three valleys away. Another woman appeared, then another;
soon there were five of them looking after me.
Suddenly one of them disappeared and returned a second later with an old man
in pyjamas. He was tall and gaunt and 84 years old, with a face that did not
look its age. His week-old stubble glittered silver, but he was effervescent
with energy and eager to talk.
"I am Nondas Petruleas," he said in an accent that had been perfected by half
a lifetime spent in Chicago. "We'll have breakfast."
In the tiny courtyard of Nondas's house the tea was already made and the bread
cut. The walls were painted in grey and covered with writing in black and
red.
"I write poetry," he said, "and these are the names of the men from this
village who were killed in the war and the civil war."
As we ate young Nondas arrived - the word had flown around the village - and
old Nondas beamed, hardly taking breath to interrupt the flow of his words,
so pleased was he to have company.
