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Disrespect

Nicholas E. Efstathiou

    The humid, unpleasant air of August attempted to smother Myrtle Street. The Anesti men sat upon the porch of the apartment building, and Michael played in the street with Eugene. They threw a baseball back and forth, Michael’s father, grandfather, and uncles talking loudly. Bottles of wine were opened and emptied in the summer’s afternoon. The ever present cigarette smoke hung above the men, Uncle Georgios picking lazily at his guitar, Uncle Gus singing softly. Michael’s father looked blankly out at the world, viewing something in the past as he drank and smoked mechanically. Papu looked up and down the length of Myrtle Street, a small smile playing on his lips. His smile broadened and he gave a nod as his eyes caught Michael’s.
    Michael smiled at Papu, then turned his attention back to Eugene, throwing the ball to him. The two of them threw the ball quietly, listening to Uncle Gus and Uncle Georgios. Time passed slowly, the sound of the guitar punctuated by the ball slapping into the leather of the gloves.
    “Eugene!”
    Eugene froze, dropping the ball to the street as his father staggered out of the alley between Michael’s apartment building and the Markarians’.
    Eugene’s father was dirty and unshaven, bleary eyed from too many shifts and too much whiskey. “Get away from that Greek,” he spat in French.
    Uncle Gus continued to sing, but Uncle Georgios stopped playing. Papu’s eyes locked onto the Frenchman and Michael’s father came back to the present with a hard, disdainful look in his eyes.
    Eugene remained frozen and silent as his father stumbled forward, grabbing the boy by the arm and slapping him across the mouth. Eugene whimpered, dropping his chin to his chest.
    “Get home,” his father hissed.
    Leaving the baseball in the street against the granite curbing, Eugene turned and raced for home.
    Eugene’s father focused his attention on Michael. “You stay away from my sons, you dirty Greek bastard.”
    Michael swallowed dryly and took a step back.
    “Leave my street, Ronald Cote,” Papu said evenly in French from the porch.
    Mr. Cote swung his whole head as he looked at Papu. “You,” he said, pointing a wavering finger at Papu. “You shut up.”
    Michael felt his eyes widen. Papu’s sons continued to drink and smoke, and even Uncle Gus stopped singing, his bemused smile replaced by a dark frown. Papu shook his head. “You have no respect, and deserve none. Get out.”
    “I’m gonna climb up those steps, you old Greek prick, and I’m gonna beat the hell out of you.” Mr. Cote swayed as he spoke, slurring his words.
    Papu stood up. “Me, Ronald Cote? You’re going to beat me?” Papu’s voice was calm, his French fluid and precise.
    “I’ll kick the hell out of you,” Mr. Cote spat.
    Papu nodded, sighing as he looked at his sons. “Do you hear this man? Do you hear his disrespect?” Papu shook his head, reaching behind his back.
    Papu’s hand lashed out, rising in a fast arc where at its apex his wrist snapped, and a curved pruning knife sprung out of its ox-bone handle. The blade stood steadily in Papu’s great hand and Mr. Cote stared at the steel numbly.
    “Now, Mr. Cote,” Papu said, “now you die.”
    Mr. Cote turned, staggered, and fell as the Anesti men exploded into movement. Shouts of “Ba! No!” rang out on the street as a bloodied Mr. Cote climbed to his feet and stumbed back to the alley, disappearing.
    On the porch Michael’s father and Uncle Georgios attempted to return Papu to his chair. Uncle Gus did not look like himself, looking instead like Michael’s father as he stood on the porch. Uncle Gus held Papu’s pruning knife, running his thumb along the blade and glaring at the alley where Mr. Cote had fled. Aunt Eleni came to the door, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She saw the look on Uncle Gus’ face and said softly, “Kostas.”
    Uncle Gus’ head snapped around. Aunt Eleni stepped out onto the porch. She held out a hand. “Please, Kostas.”
    Uncle Gus gave his sister the knife, and the glare vanished. The bemused look returned and he sat down once more. Papu sat heavily in his chair and Uncle Georgios took up the guitar, strumming it lightly. Uncle Gus hummed and Aunt Eleni turned to Papu. She held out the knife. Papu took it and sighed. “Thank you, Eleni.”
    “Do you want coffee, Alex?” Aunt Eleni asked.
    Michael’s father shook his head. He lit a fresh cigarette and poured another glass of wine. Settling back into the chair his gaze slipped away has he looked once more into the past.
    Michael walked to the baseball. He looked at it for a moment before picking it up. He carried the ball towards the apartment, to keep it safe until he saw Eugene again.

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