goals without fear of retribution. Lost in his thoughts, George failed to notice that one by one, his clients had departed, without their usual trim. After the bewildering chaos, his barbershop drifted into an unfamiliar silence.
Georgeâs temples pulsed and his stomach grumbled from hunger. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was well past lunchtime, and he regretted the fact that none of his clients congratulated him on his Name-Day. The events in Greece had consumed everyone; the opportunity to toast his ten years in business never came up. The piles of boxes with the sweets, which he had eagerly purchased in the morning, were never opened. And even though his hunger pangs were growing more acute by the minute, he couldnât bring himself to open one of them. Georgeâs soul had been agitated like the waters when disturbed by a stone. An inclination to be alone took hold of him; it turned into an impulse to close shop. Every time his melancholy swelled inside him, he had a need to go somewhere. And thatâs what he would do, depart from his barbershop early and leave everything behind.
On his way out though, he realized that he couldnât go home right away, and a great long sigh left his dry mouth. He couldnât face his wife Anna just yet. She would notice and feel his melancholy, and he simply couldnât bear to discuss the dayâs events, especially with someone who had such boundless love for him. Theirs was a special marriage. It was a union of exceptional closeness that could pick up a subtle sign of mood change; the merest hint of distress or ill health was always betrayed in lacklustre hair, sallow skin or gloomy eyes. Anna would detect his sadness, George thought, just as she usually noticed his lingering smile. He had to kill some time; he yearned for something that would make him forget, forget the events in Greece and forget the planned celebrations that never happened. It was now two forty and he remembered that at three oâclock the nearby movie theatre featured a matinee every day. He headed towards it.
III
It started to rain. Big soft drops splashed on Georgeâs hands and cheeks. A great cold shiver went through him, and stayed in his hands and knees. Instinctively, he hastened his steps towards the theatre, but his thoughts turned just as quickly to his shame over how he had kept his comments to himself. Georgeâs guilt intensified. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone, a regret that made him physically uneasy to the point where he almost lost his bearing. And the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to make amends intensified his hurt. Why didnât he speak upâ¦.? Why did he hide his convictions, and deny his emotions? Was it the Canadian thing to do?
In a perfunctory manner, George purchased his ticket, not knowing what the movie was about. And once inside the theatre, the stale cigarette smoke engulfed him. But it was warm, and he craved this kind of warmth right now; his shivers, which had consumed his body, subsided. To get accustomed to the darkness, he blinked regularly. It was as if he had fallen into a cave with walls of darkness. With the help of an usherâs discreet flashlight, he walked along the front row of the theatreâs upper level to find a seat. Even though the movie had started, George could hear the whispers of the over protective grandparents who had brought the grandkids along. Impatiently, they cautioned them to keep silent, finish their popcorn and focus on the movie.
Instantly, George had a deep inward shockâoverwhelmed by the vast expanse of the blue ocean in front of him, with a sole submarine at its centre. It was a scene from a war movie, and from the submarine crewâs stricken faces, George discerned that the submarine had been hit and gone astray in the stormy sea. Lashed relentlessly by the raging sea, its cylindrical body shook violently in all directions. In a state of freefall,
Georgeâs temples pulsed and his stomach grumbled from hunger. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was well past lunchtime, and he regretted the fact that none of his clients congratulated him on his Name-Day. The events in Greece had consumed everyone; the opportunity to toast his ten years in business never came up. The piles of boxes with the sweets, which he had eagerly purchased in the morning, were never opened. And even though his hunger pangs were growing more acute by the minute, he couldnât bring himself to open one of them. Georgeâs soul had been agitated like the waters when disturbed by a stone. An inclination to be alone took hold of him; it turned into an impulse to close shop. Every time his melancholy swelled inside him, he had a need to go somewhere. And thatâs what he would do, depart from his barbershop early and leave everything behind.
On his way out though, he realized that he couldnât go home right away, and a great long sigh left his dry mouth. He couldnât face his wife Anna just yet. She would notice and feel his melancholy, and he simply couldnât bear to discuss the dayâs events, especially with someone who had such boundless love for him. Theirs was a special marriage. It was a union of exceptional closeness that could pick up a subtle sign of mood change; the merest hint of distress or ill health was always betrayed in lacklustre hair, sallow skin or gloomy eyes. Anna would detect his sadness, George thought, just as she usually noticed his lingering smile. He had to kill some time; he yearned for something that would make him forget, forget the events in Greece and forget the planned celebrations that never happened. It was now two forty and he remembered that at three oâclock the nearby movie theatre featured a matinee every day. He headed towards it.
III
It started to rain. Big soft drops splashed on Georgeâs hands and cheeks. A great cold shiver went through him, and stayed in his hands and knees. Instinctively, he hastened his steps towards the theatre, but his thoughts turned just as quickly to his shame over how he had kept his comments to himself. Georgeâs guilt intensified. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone, a regret that made him physically uneasy to the point where he almost lost his bearing. And the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to make amends intensified his hurt. Why didnât he speak upâ¦.? Why did he hide his convictions, and deny his emotions? Was it the Canadian thing to do?
In a perfunctory manner, George purchased his ticket, not knowing what the movie was about. And once inside the theatre, the stale cigarette smoke engulfed him. But it was warm, and he craved this kind of warmth right now; his shivers, which had consumed his body, subsided. To get accustomed to the darkness, he blinked regularly. It was as if he had fallen into a cave with walls of darkness. With the help of an usherâs discreet flashlight, he walked along the front row of the theatreâs upper level to find a seat. Even though the movie had started, George could hear the whispers of the over protective grandparents who had brought the grandkids along. Impatiently, they cautioned them to keep silent, finish their popcorn and focus on the movie.
Instantly, George had a deep inward shockâoverwhelmed by the vast expanse of the blue ocean in front of him, with a sole submarine at its centre. It was a scene from a war movie, and from the submarine crewâs stricken faces, George discerned that the submarine had been hit and gone astray in the stormy sea. Lashed relentlessly by the raging sea, its cylindrical body shook violently in all directions. In a state of freefall,
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