Madam Atina’s fashion salon was the first address in Thessaloniki. If you’re setting your sights on something, aim for the bull’s-eye. Maria was overjoyed when the senior associate listened to her story and accepted her request that she take on the ten-year-old girl as an apprentice. ‘The starting pay is modest, but money is money and every penny is needed. Besides, after learning the trade at Madam Atina’s – gosh – she could even sew for a king!’ Maria euphorically repeated this time and again to her husband, who looked melancholically first at her, then at the apprentice-to-be, mischievous Ekaterini, the eldest child of their pure and undying love.
She was quick to learn and really took to sewing. She surprised herself with her newly acquired skill which she had never imagined she possessed. Her mother assured herself that Madam Atina’s salon was a ‘respectable house’ and soon stopped picking her up after work. Ekaterini came back by herself, always along Paralia, Thessaloniki’s seaside promenade. At that time, she let her thoughts float free, not ever suspecting that in ten years time she would have to use very different names for seafronts and piers. She felt calm and ease in those moments. Her step was free, light and gracious. This bodily grace came from the awareness that she was earning her own money and that she could almost pay for the upkeep of a family of seven by herself; she assured herself that she was capable, competent and independent. Down by the waterfront, she also reflected on her new friends and replayed their secret conversations about the young gentlemen who often looked in at the salon to buy dresses for their wives, daughters or mistresses. Those walks home were the high point of every day: the sunset, her thoughts about the future, the dream of becoming a celebrated dressmaker and being able to choose between Paris and London... But unlike most people’s arduous ‘making plans for the future’, these were buoyant thoughts – pleasant like the mistral, the murmur of waves or the rustle of fig trees in the breeze, both soothing and encouraging. Somewhere in the panorama of those walks, she could make out that stretch of Paralia were the Free Trade Zone was situated. She had heard of the Yugoslavs who earned very good pay there because their currency was stronger than the dollar. ‘Quite incredible!’ she thought in passing. ‘Can there be anything stronger than America?’
But Madam Atina’s salon would soon become just another peacetime fairy tale. The very day Maria decided to discreetly shadow her daughter, following her to work at a safe distance to have a look at the salon and observe the situation as best she could from outside, an order came in from one of the most famous Thessaloniki courtesans of the time, the celebrated Miss Carmen. Maria immediately noticed something suspicious: the carriage which pulled up outside the salon was just too gaudy, in a cheap and nasty sort of way. The excessive luxury emanated by the young woman who entered the salon was suggestive of only one thing. Maria watched tensely. The woman stayed no longer than half an hour; the carriage left and went back the way it had come. Hours passed. Then the carriage returned and the same young woman, this time in a different dress, went into the salon. Soon she came out again, accompanied this time by Madam Atina and – lo and behold – Maria’s twelve-year-old daughter Ekaterini! ‘There’s something fishy going on!’ Maria thought and decided not to lose sight of the carriage at any cost. She paid the coachman a few drachmas extra so he’d follow the gaudy carriage surreptitiously. The trip took some time. Maria gazed in disbelief as they crossed into an ill-reputed part of the city. She thought she was dreaming when she saw her tender-aged daughter carrying a pile of boxes wrapped in golden paper with a ribbon on top and entering Miss Carmen’s villa.
‘This is impossible!’ she exclaimed.
‘What?’ the coachman asked, but she didn’t hear his question.
Fifteen minutes later, Madam Atina and Ekaterini came out again and the gaudy carriage headed back to the salon. Already she felt less bewildered and was filled with a growing rage. She was furious but still calm, now that she realised this was a real drama with a climax still to come.
Back at the salon, Maria faced her daughter’s employer.
‘Oh, what are you doing here, Madam Maria?’
‘Don’t give me that “what are you doing here?”!’ she railed at Madam Atina after grabbing Ekaterini, and holding her tightly by the hand. ‘I thought this was a respectable house! I entrusted you my daughter to teach her a trade! Respectably!’
‘What appears to be the problem?’
‘And you even have the cheek to ask what the problem is! Do you think that because we’re penniless we’re also blind? That we’ll go along with anything?! Well, you’re vastly mistaken, madam!
‘Please don’t shout. I still don’t understand what the trouble is. If it’s a simple disagreement, I’m sure everything can be smoothed out in a normal conversation.’
‘What are you calling normal? Is it normal for you to be taking a child of twelve –twelve – with you to a brothel? Well it isn’t for me! Here’s what my daughter earned here this month, we don’t need a penny from you. One day God will make you pay for your deeds. Shame on you!’
‘Pardon?’
‘What do you mean “Pardon?”, you wretch of a woman? We may be poor, but you are outright pitiable even if you do own this salon! I hope I never set eyes on you again, and don’t you dare say another word because I can barely restrain myself, I feel my hands on your throat already! Out of my sight, foul bitch!’
A door which is slammed shut stays closed forever. At least that’s how it was in Ekaterini’s life: even before she began to earn her own money, and when she had to stay at home under supervision, up to her ears in household chores, and when she got married, and afterwards too. Doors are doors: sometimes an entrance, but sometimes a walled-up opening that separates us from what lies on the other side.
Io Sono Solo
(Stipe’s story)
It’s a sad fact, which of necessity also means funny, just how little we know about our ancestors. We glean our information by listening to old stories made up by who knows how many anonymous or little-known narrative egos, which can be no less arresting – or blind – than the vanity of celebrated authors. Not to mention the impact of senility. How then are we to understand the prophetic advice, ‘know thyself’? Is it possible to learn anything at all about ourselves if we have to speculate about our origins and almost all of history on the basis of anecdotes?
Once upon a time, as one version of the story goes, a man with a bundle over his shoulder arrived in a town on the Adriatic known today as Karlobag. The townsfolk, as townsfolk are, were suspicious of the newcomer; they were immediately inclined to call him an intruder and some even wanted to send him packing as soon as they saw an opportunity which deviated from everyday monotony. But the townsfolk are human too, with a degree of residual curiosity, and they first had to ask him:
‘What’s your name?
‘Io sono solo.’
‘Šolo? Hear that, he says he’s called Šolo! I’ve never heard such a name!’ laughed the unofficial representative, a self-appointed but generally accepted and, one must admit, very responsible protector of the town. There were people like that once, natural leaders whose failings it was best to gloss over in view of their much more important abilities. His laugh was a sign for everyone else to obediently laugh.
Even today the Kozmićs are known mainly as part of the Šolos family. Because the Šolos are a broader notion,