A Recollection of Sorts

A Recollection of Sorts by Thomas Cox

         “Can you believe the shit she’s got up here?” Dimitri asked it incredulously but its rhetoric was lost on Nikos.
         “She was an old lady bro. She had nearly eighty years to collect all this.” Nikos indicated the entire room with a long sweeping gesture of his arm.
         “I know, but it seems like she kept everything. Check it. I found her third grade class photo. Sixth grade, yeah okay, and twelfth of course, but who in their right mind keeps a third grade snapshot?” He held aloft a worn, faded old photograph and Nikos peered at in fascination. He had been waiting for a distraction. They had been boxing heirlooms in the attic for hours and it was now well into the night. Moonlight stole into the room through the dusty window, finding its way around boxes of junk, fitting wherever it could.
         “Let us have a look.” Nikos ordered in his usual assertive tone.
         Dimitri thought to toss the photo across the room but then considered how difficult this might be. Unframed, he could have only guessed the flight path and coupled with the darkness he had no faith in his brother’s ability to catch it. He made his way across the cluttered floor, stepping carefully over assorted sentimental trinkets and the occasional lamp. Nikos tore the flimsy object from his hands and began to examine it. This had always been the case; whenever Dimitri had something Nikos wanted it, but is this not true of everyone? Nikos moved about a yard to the right to get a better view, illuminating the image in silver. Even as a silhouette, Nikos cut an imposing figure. Dimitri looked around absently for something else to do, his unhurried manner indicated he was lacking conviction. His wandering gaze eventually fell on an old, stained bedside table, which sat in the far corner. Its front cabinet was firmly shut, secured by a rusted padlock which piqued Dimitri’s interest.
         “Nicosia, 1937. She must’ve been about eight years old here, don’t you think?” Nikos’ question floated out into the still air and hung there without reply. Certainly a long time had passed between now and then, but they were not there to reminisce, though that was likely to be inevitable. They were there to clean out the house, an arduous task and they were both glad they were nearly finished. The real estate agent had planned on bringing people through within days and the brothers had been charged with removal duty on account of them being the most physically able and their father being too ill to help. The rest of the family was grief-stricken: the funeral had been only two days ago. Dimitri and Nikos, however, had a curious detachment from their grandparents which they attributed to their mother’s constant derision and instigation of arguments. This was not her place as she was only a daughter through marriage but none-the-less they usually found themselves spending Christmas with the maternal side. Their grandfather too, or Papa, as they knew him, had died while they were young and Dimitri especially, had trouble remembering him. They had returned now, to the house where Greta had lived all their lives yet they had scarcely visited more than ten times in twenty-six years. To their mother, Greta had always been insufferably sentimental and immodest, an unappealing trait in anyone and painfully obvious in an old lady. On several occasions they were forced to listen to Greta recount how she had won the heart of the man so many desired, wed him blissfully and left a country full of envious Cypriot women behind. It was hard to imagine anyone being jealous of the humble abode they eventually wound up in.
         The house itself was as you would expect, built before style was a considered concept. It reeked of humble practicality. It appeared solid, but the fact that it remained intact could be more accurately attributed to good fortune than the tenuous fibro walls from which it was crafted. It was a running joke among their family that, on the few occasions they did visit, they commented on the remarkable thinness of the walls, alluding to their transparency. Indeed, on one occasion, Dimitri remembered how Nikos declared he was thankful that they never lived there, for the rest of the family would have been sure to hear him making love in one of the rooms. Dimitri had retorted that surely Nikos knew nothing of love, other than his carnal instinct and in any case, he had heard him in one of the rooms making love to what he could only imagine was his hand. Thus are all memories: bitter-sweetly tinged with the sense of individual importance yet universal nothingness.
         The padlock stared back at him, combating his inquisitiveness with a steadfast resolution to protect its contents, whatever the case. For a few brief moments his thoughts, his place, this, would be his own until Nikos noticed him and would yield to his curiosity. Dimitri was wondering how long his reverie could last when he was interrupted by that familiar, inevitable voice.
         “What’d you find over there?” Nikos, having lost interest in the one-sided conversation associated with his grandmother’s photo, had begun floating over to where Dimitri was squatting, examining the rusting lock. As if coming out of a daze, and smiling knowingly to himself, Dimitri slowly turned.
         “I’m not sure yet. What do you think it could be?”
         “Looks like a dusty old, bedside table.” Nothing ever got past Nikos. “What are you taking so long on it for? What’s in it?” 
         By way of reply, Dimitri lifted the padlock into full view and then let it fall, making a dull thud on the old wood.   
         “So it’s locked huh?”
         “It would appear so.” Dimitri was tiring of his brother’s observations but made a concession on account of it being very late and them both being exhausted. Also, Nikos was considerably larger and more worldly than Dimitri who never considered it wise to mock his older sibling.
         “So… open it.”
         “That’s not the ways these things work, Nikos. You can’t just rush in all guns blazing, you have to let it simmer in mystery, contemplate what could be inside it, what you might want it to be.” Dimitri closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of stale air. “Besides, I don’t have the key.”