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The Sun Light

Just before my grandfather’s death, I bought a specialty reading lamp. I found it through an advertisement, small, elegant with a black and white photograph, in the back of a magazine. The advertisement claimed the lamp, four feet tall, a blackened metal stand and brass pull chain, cast light just like the sun’s. The elegant photograph implied not a scorching yellow, but a clean, easy light.

I looked around my basement apartment. The sprung-cushioned reading chair, the mildewed beige carpeting, the paint-stripped ceilings, the water-stained photos torn from National Geographic taped to the walls. An orange-eyed lemur among green boughs, flowering hibiscus, purple-veiled women carrying Kalashnikovs.

I thought, I need that lamp. Please, I thought.

*

The lamp arrived in the dark of night. A soft knock on my door, the door opened to the lamp, unwrapped, cord carefully coiled around its base, alone on my welcome mat. An engraved note, like a gentleman’s calling card, hung by a blue thread from the shade. The street was empty, except for a trace of eucalyptus in the sweaty air. I closed the door softly. Then plugged the lamp in, turning it on with a comfortable, solid thwick.

It was as good as advertised. The room was suffused with a white Aegean glow. I sat in the chair, felt myself become tall, dark, handsome. The veiled women unslung their guns, seated themselves, barelegged and gracious. A small basket of cloth-covered bread was put out beside an indigo blue plate with fresh calamari, sliced lemon, cucumbers. Tea with ice was poured into tall green glasses.

The lemur, orange-eyes closed, slept on my shoulder, the women released the veils, shook their hair loose, slipped hibiscus behind their ears. The walls were bathed with eucalyptus-tinged light.

*

The next night the phone rang. Nikos, said my father, your grandfather passed away today. His voice so quiet, unwavering, sad. We were leaving the next morning, early, the first flight. Was my suit in decent shape? Did I have shoes?

After I hung up, I went to the mildewed closet, took the shoes out. I didn’t have any polish. I took a permanent black marker, began to color in the scuffs. As I colored under the sun light, I thought, I am no longer me, I am my grandfather, listen a moment, before I go. The lemur, cradled in my arms, opened his orange-eyes; the women stacked the indigo plates silently, moved closer.

*

I am my grandfather. I am with my friends. We are the Jews of Salonika, we are few. The Germans are gone, replaced by tourists, foreigners with foreign currencies bulging in their money belts. My friends and I set our easels in the street, charge pounds instead of pennies for our paintings and charcoal drawings. Collars open, we gabble around the café table, laugh in Greek, spit in Turkic, weep in Hebrew. We wave when we spy Minerva the mending woman coming up from the harbor-side market, through the terrace with her heavy basket of clothes. Who among us hasn’t been to Minerva’s door on a dark night, torn buttons, what food we could find parceled, hidden, in the ripped shirt? She would remove whatever else we were wearing, repair that as well, sewing naked and cool by the window as we lay naked and cool on her always-clean sheets.

The landlady of our house scents the wind, begins to accept two drawings, signed, as payment for our staying. What do we care, as long as we have enough for a bottle at the café every night? Sol with his guitar ever-ready for a strolling tourist, singing the only English word he knows as the girls pass, Lollipop, lollipop…

The landlady turns the first floor of the boarding house into a gallery. She becomes wealthy in a manner, there is almost always enough to eat, tells her five daughters to stay upstairs, away from the artists, away from the tourists with foreign currencies bulging beneath their belts. Eventually, my friends and I marry each of the daughters, as a dowry receive back one of our paintings, framed but never the best. Minerva leaves baskets of clean sheets by the door, embroidered with red flowers, as wedding presents for each.

Then the civil war. Within a year, my friends and I, the Jews of Salonika, so few, leave for Israel or America. Our drawings no longer pay for lodging.

It would be many years before we set our easels in the street again. By then, it was mostly just to feel the sun warm our old, sore hands, to wave at the memory of Minerva passing through the terrace with her basket, Sol singing lollipop, lollipop…

*

The shoes needed a second coat. Reaching for another marker, I brushed against the card. Opening it for the first time, I saw it was another advertisement, this time handwritten. It was for a small, wrought metal fan, again with a brass pull chain, perfect for a desk or table top.

I smelled the salt, the wind across the waves, the empty seas stretching before my grandfather, leading away. Slowly, carefully, I held the marker and filled the order out. I’ll be back soon, I told the barelegged, gracious women. They covered the bread for my return. The lemur closed his orange-eyes, to wait along the light-stained wall. On the way out, I pinned the card to the door. In permanent marker, a hibiscus blossom drawn as payment.

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