MONDAY OF LENT
(Or Pure Monday, Shrove Monday, Clean Monday or Green Monday corresponds to Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday)
Christos
Christovasilis
Adapted
by Vassilis C. Militsis
As a child, not older than eight, I was tutored by
Father Andrias.
After a quiet slumber I woke up and I was overwhelmed
by that sad feeling: the terrible Monday of Lent had dawned, the first Monday
before Lent. Besides having to go school, I had also to spend fifty entire days
with strict fasting on beans, chickpeas, lentils, broad beans and vegetables.
We had also to abstain from olive oil on Wednesdays and Fridays!
As to eggs, milk, cheese, butter, fish and meat, in
particular, we were not even supposed to mention them, for such a thing was
considered a sin. And the mere mention of milk, butter, cheese, fish or – God
forbid – meat should be accompanied with the expression far from Lent and us: for instance “we have weighed cheese – far
from us and Lent – and turned out to be ten okas” (2.8 kilos)
On that day my child’s heart was gripped by such great
sadness that I could not budge out of my bed sheets, and yet I harbored false
hopes that it might not be that unwanted Monday and that an unpleasant dream might
have engendered its idea.
But I gradually came to myself. I was convinced that I
was not deceived and it was true that those silver-gold beams of light shining
through the chinks of the closed window shutters of my room belonged to the
Monday of Lent. I sorrowfully remembered that the week before we had celebrated
the ‘cheesy’ Sunday following the Carnival Sunday a week before. I remembered
that we had eaten beestings, fried eggs, cheese, nicely baked egg-cum-cheese
pie, fish and eels, and after that – if I am not mistaken – we had sung and
danced…
All these recollections crossed my fantasy in
succession as light-bathed, cheery and beautiful images full of delight and
gaiety, like waves breaking on the shore one after the other. But this first
Lent Monday appeared before me like a tall crone, solemn, dressed in white and
spotlessly clean, sullen, with a stern face, her hair bound in a snow-white
kerchief, and erased from my mind all those beautiful and delightful pictures;
she also bullied me holding a long stick in her hands – she was the self-same
figure my mother had portrayed to me in previous years when I yearned to eat
some pie or other on that day.
- I’m hungry, mom! I said while she was busy in the kitchen.
- Open the bread locker and get a piece of bread, she answered.
- Isn’t there something more to go with it? I asked with misty eyes.
-
Today you’re not
supposed to have something extra; she said apologetically wondering why I asked
more than a piece of bread. No more on such a day!
-
But today will
we eat nothing else but plain bread? I asked again in despair.
-
Nothing else!
She was adamant.
-
Could I possibly
have some figs or raisins with my bread?
-
Figs and
raisins? What are you talking about, my dearest? Definitely not! Today is the
third day after “Cheesy Week,” when we are allowed to eat nothing – not even
bread, let alone figs and raisins! Only on Wednesday – two days from now we can
eat figs or raisins. But, you are children and God forgives you, so you can
only have plain bread and water; nothing else!
-
But I can’t do
without some side food! I pleaded. I want something more. What about some
olives?
-
Out of the
question! She exclaimed. Spit out the word quickly or you’ll defile your mouth.
Isn’t olive oil made from olives? And at the mention of the words “oil” and
“olives” she spat to keep her mouth clean.
-
But I can’t
stand without some side food.
And in order to get rid of me she pretended she
remembered something and said:
-
If you insist on
side food, you’d better go up the hill and look for partridge nests and bring
the eggs.
Again at the mention of “eggs” she spat again.
-
But can we eat
partridge eggs, mom? I asked in disbelief.
-
Yes, we can, she
said. Bring over as many as partridge eggs (she spat again) you can find so
that I can poach them for you.
-
I don’t like
them poached; I prefer them fried.
-
You only ought
to have them poached; to fry them, I need butter, which breaks the fasting.
Ptooey! You’ve tempted me today, my son!
-
Let them be
fried, then… I condescended in a Christian way. But are partridge eggs as tasty
as hen eggs?
-
Even better!
-
Why haven’t you
said it before and let me suffer?
And saying thus, I rushed out of the courtyard like a
stag. At first I decided to go uphill by myself, but I hated to be alone; I
needed companionship. I wanted to go with my best friend Yannis. I drew close to his courtyard and hollered:
-
Yannis! Yannis!
-
Here I am! He
appeared with a hunk of bread in his hand.
-
Come quick! I
demanded.
Yannis walked
out into the street biting reluctantly on his plain bread as if it had been
kneaded with thorns.
-
What do you want
me for? He asked again when he joined me in the street.
-
Get rid of that
bread, I told him in earnest, and let’s go uphill to gather partridge eggs.
-
Partridge eggs?
What for? He asked.
-
What for? I
repeated; for eating them!
-
And can we eat
eggs in Lent? He asked again tentatively.
-
It’s only hen’s
eggs we can’t eat, I told him. My mom said it!
My mom was the
polymath not only of our village but also of the neighboring ones though she
did not even know her ABC’s. But she knew all else better than any other woman,
even than most old men. She knew about feast days – which were significant or
not – and when donkeys should be off their toil. She knew about the portentous
days of each month, when one has to abstain from all activities. She also knew
how to use weights. She knew when the moon is on the wax and when on the wane.
She knew when February counted twenty-nine days in each leap year. She knew
when we should observe strict or easy fasts. She could figure out when Easter
is due according to the last full moon. She knew the days of each month. In
general, she knew a lot more. When my friend, Yannis, heard that my mother had
approved of eating partridge eggs on a Clean Monday, he recalled that his
mother had also approved of it, but he had not believed it; he thought she had
only been jesting. Whereupon, he forthwith threw his hunk of bread to the
chickens, which were grazing around and hurried with me in search of partridge
eggs.
We headed
straight uphill, leading the way alternately. We searched for partridge eggs
here and there, left and right, up and down amidst rocks and bluffs, in holes
and caves, in crags and watercourses – in all places, familiar to us. We chased
hares and foxes out of their lairs, we scared off hawks and wildfowl from their
nests, but nowhere did we find partridge eggs!
We searched all
day long and found nothing! Could we have been hoodwinked by our mothers? My
mother never lies and her frequent counsels were as follows:
“Thou shalt not
steal, thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not bear false witness…”
Engrossed in our
search all day, by sunset we found ourselves in a low hollow, wherefrom we had
to climb up a steep upgrade to reach the village. Our legs were weak and shaky
from weariness and hunger. And what hunger! We felt it swallowed up our
viscera. And what would we have given for a piece of bread – not only wheat
bread but also willingly corn, maize or even millet. And side food – cheese,
eggs, milk, fish or meat – never crossed our minds. We only craved for plain
bread, whatever it was made from. We wondered how we could find the strength to
scale the dreadful acclivity and reach the village as soon as possible in order
to satisfy our famishment. That was the big question! We started plodding up
the sharp incline but our feeble legs dragged us downwards. Thus, willy-nilly,
we decided to stay in the hollow a quarter of an hour away from the village. We
were left to our own devices. Had we hollered, it would have been in vain; none
could have heard us from the village because it lay to windward; the shepherds
that might have been in the vicinity had in all likelihood gone to the village
on time. We were not only concerned about our misery and the risk of sleeping
outdoors in the month of February but we also dreaded our teacher, the terrible
and awe-inspiring Father Andrias, who would devastate us with his whipping
stick, in case he happened to come to the village and did not find us there in
the evening. He would consider it great mischief. Not being able to do
something, we huddled in a sheltered niche and prepared for the night. Had we
had matches or flint stones, tinder and fuse, we could have built a fire, but
we were not that lucky. We began to feel cold. I tried my pockets in search of
a match. A single match could save our lives in that evening. I went on searching…
Halleluiah! I found three matches.
I cried out and
we succeeded, in no time, though laboriously, in gathering some dry leaves and
branches and building a fire. Thank the Almighty who had showed pity on us. Now
we would get warm and all kinds of ghosts and demons would not dare come near
us. If we had also had some grains of frankincense or salt, we would have been
better off in staving off demons, fairies and goblins. The fire seemed to be a
good companion. We summoned up courage and began to forget our hunger and as we
warmed ourselves, hungry and numb with weariness, we heard people call our
names from the top of the bluff; however, we did not have the strength to
respond and let them know where we were so that they could come and get us.
While we lay there desperate and saw the night getting darker and more fearsome, we suddenly heard at a short distance – as a sort of response to those who were calling us – a loud donkey’s braying. Brrrayyy!
We immediately
recognized who the beast belonged to from its braying.
No more joyful tidings could have been in those desperate moments. That braying sounded far sweeter than the melody of a nightingale. It was a braying full of hope and joy for us, who were exhausted and starving. We went to great lengths to approach the animal. We found it unsaddled and unbridled, but little did we care. We used our belts for a bridle, mounted it – I in front and Yannis my pillion – and set out for the village. We kept at a slow trudge and in an hour we reached the outskirts of the village.
The village had been thrown into complete disarray on account of our being missing. Everybody was asking one another whether we had been seen someplace. Our mothers and families were weeping and running around asking about us. Our next door woman was very concerned about her lost donkey lest it was killed by a wolf. However, on entering the village, the donkey started braying merrily; a girl that recognized us in the dark hurried to our homes to bring the good news and get her gratuity. No sooner had we reached the village green than the entire village welcomed us with burning torches and all were curious to know the way we had been lost. The majority of the people believed we had been kidnapped by goblins and fairies as we were still little kids. Amidst all that flurry I felt being hugged in such a way that I had been swept off the donkey I was riding. It was my mother, who was kissing me all over and asking:
-
Where have you
been all day, my precious?
-
Yannis and I
have been looking for partridge eggs.
-
Oh, my bad luck,
my little one. What have I, the shrew, done to you?
We had entered
our courtyard.
-
Bread, some
bread, I stammered weakly
-
Hey you, bread
quickly! Shouted my mother to my sister. My little one is starving.
We had hardly
gone into the house when my sister handed me a big hunk of bread.
I started to gulp it right away. It seemed to me it was made from honey – it was so sweet.
When I opened my
eyes, shut from hunger, I asked my mother:
-
Mom… have you
baked the bread with honey today?
-
No, my little
one.
-
Then, how come
is it so sweet?
-
The bread of
Clean Monday is sweet for those who fast all day, my precious…
Nevertheless, I
was left with the belief that my mother had baked that bread with honey in
order to compensate for the joke she had played on me about the partridge eggs that
morning.
For the original Greek see:
"Η
ΚΑΘΑΡΗ ΔΕΥΤΕΡΑ": ΔΙΗΓΗΜΑ ΤΟΥ ΧΡΗΣΤΟΥ ...
By the same:
·
.
