The Buses and Other Short Stories by Dora Drivas-Avramis Page A
Authors: Dora Drivas-Avramis
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it sank deep into the bowels of the agitated ocean. Bubbles rippled upward continuously.
âSS13 where are you?â Over and over again the voice from the radio asked anxiously.
âCalling SS13, are you there?â But the questions remained unanswered and the angry sea displayed indifference for any human suffering. Attempts at communications between the administrative staff on land and the terrified crew continued persistently but unsuccessfully.
Did the SS13 resurface, or did it vanish and rest on the oceanâs bottom? George would never know; he missed the ending. Perhaps the combination of the theatreâs warmth, his hunger and fatigue had weakened George, for he dozed off for the duration of the movie. The shuffling of the other theatre goers as they prepared to leave, and the theatreâs lights, awakened him. George stretched his arms, and watched the movieâs credits roll up in their gold lettering. When the oversized red curtains came together and hid the white screen, he headed towards the exit himself.
The rain had stopped outside and the sunâs rays were struggling to pierce the large clouds. Despite the increased traffic in both directions along Danforth Avenue, the air was refreshing. The sidewalk was bustling with people, and George walked east with an unusual confidence in his steps. Just a few hours ago he had felt tired from his guilt and the gloom over Greeceâs recent events. An anxiety had gripped him, which felt as if he had found himself disarmed before an enemy. But now, for some reason, his earlier tenseness had abated. An inexplicable calmness permeated his mind and he sensed an unfolding of his soul. It was comforting, as if he had returned to his house after a very long journey, removed his tight shoes and wore his comfy slippers. At times, George stared downward to avoid any glances of the passersby along Danforth Avenue and he searched for answers that would explain this new and indefinable feeling, this living thing which had stirred inside him.
The more George delved inward, he realized that he empathized with what had happened to his
patrida
two days ago, but for some strange reason its rawness had dissipated somewhat. The mixture of concern and longing he experienced initially was fading. It almost felt like the thread which bound him to the old country had been cut. Of course the disorderly developments in Greece saddened him, but he had reached an understanding that perhaps he couldnât change them after all. And he no longer struggled with his conscience.
Yes, George remembered the
patridaâs
physical beauty and the good times he experienced as a youngster. He enjoyed talking about them with his friends and clients but they were the past. Greece seemed distant and so far away now. This new present was so different from the yesterday, like a gigantic meteor between two worlds. Was that country a piece of land or a dream, a vision? Now, George was no longer conflicted, his sense of separation had changed. It gave him a new feeling of loss, but a new sense of belonging too. Canada had been so kind and inviting.
As George waited at the corner of Danforth and Pape Avenue for the traffic light to change so that he could walk towards Papeâs subway station, he remembered his parents and their enthusiasm for the old country. In a strange way, he perceived that the significance of
patrida
was taking on new forms, as many forms as the mouths who pronounced the word. To Georgeâs parents this Greek word for homeland came alive from their entire being. It could be found in their manner of dress, their olive skin, deeply furrowed foreheads and calloused hands, and in their passion for Greeceâs history and culture. It spread around them like the light and the heat from the sun. Incessantly, Georgeâs dad talked about Greeceâs history and heroes, her brilliant sun and its clear blue skies, its open horizons and the vastness of its olive
âSS13 where are you?â Over and over again the voice from the radio asked anxiously.
âCalling SS13, are you there?â But the questions remained unanswered and the angry sea displayed indifference for any human suffering. Attempts at communications between the administrative staff on land and the terrified crew continued persistently but unsuccessfully.
Did the SS13 resurface, or did it vanish and rest on the oceanâs bottom? George would never know; he missed the ending. Perhaps the combination of the theatreâs warmth, his hunger and fatigue had weakened George, for he dozed off for the duration of the movie. The shuffling of the other theatre goers as they prepared to leave, and the theatreâs lights, awakened him. George stretched his arms, and watched the movieâs credits roll up in their gold lettering. When the oversized red curtains came together and hid the white screen, he headed towards the exit himself.
The rain had stopped outside and the sunâs rays were struggling to pierce the large clouds. Despite the increased traffic in both directions along Danforth Avenue, the air was refreshing. The sidewalk was bustling with people, and George walked east with an unusual confidence in his steps. Just a few hours ago he had felt tired from his guilt and the gloom over Greeceâs recent events. An anxiety had gripped him, which felt as if he had found himself disarmed before an enemy. But now, for some reason, his earlier tenseness had abated. An inexplicable calmness permeated his mind and he sensed an unfolding of his soul. It was comforting, as if he had returned to his house after a very long journey, removed his tight shoes and wore his comfy slippers. At times, George stared downward to avoid any glances of the passersby along Danforth Avenue and he searched for answers that would explain this new and indefinable feeling, this living thing which had stirred inside him.
The more George delved inward, he realized that he empathized with what had happened to his
patrida
two days ago, but for some strange reason its rawness had dissipated somewhat. The mixture of concern and longing he experienced initially was fading. It almost felt like the thread which bound him to the old country had been cut. Of course the disorderly developments in Greece saddened him, but he had reached an understanding that perhaps he couldnât change them after all. And he no longer struggled with his conscience.
Yes, George remembered the
patridaâs
physical beauty and the good times he experienced as a youngster. He enjoyed talking about them with his friends and clients but they were the past. Greece seemed distant and so far away now. This new present was so different from the yesterday, like a gigantic meteor between two worlds. Was that country a piece of land or a dream, a vision? Now, George was no longer conflicted, his sense of separation had changed. It gave him a new feeling of loss, but a new sense of belonging too. Canada had been so kind and inviting.
As George waited at the corner of Danforth and Pape Avenue for the traffic light to change so that he could walk towards Papeâs subway station, he remembered his parents and their enthusiasm for the old country. In a strange way, he perceived that the significance of
patrida
was taking on new forms, as many forms as the mouths who pronounced the word. To Georgeâs parents this Greek word for homeland came alive from their entire being. It could be found in their manner of dress, their olive skin, deeply furrowed foreheads and calloused hands, and in their passion for Greeceâs history and culture. It spread around them like the light and the heat from the sun. Incessantly, Georgeâs dad talked about Greeceâs history and heroes, her brilliant sun and its clear blue skies, its open horizons and the vastness of its olive
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