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If Only I Had a Trumpet

Maro Douka

Talking, daydreaming, a woman's tame excuse from square to square, from neighbourhood to neighbourhood, from bench to bench. From here to there, from the Athens of today to the Crete of her childhood. Secure in her fantasies, certain that her life depends on the small and humble, she roams the streets with her three dead grandmothers for company: the beautiful Aphrodite, with her fairy tales and her jokes; the Sfakian Erginia, the mountain lady with her gifts; the sorrowful but educated Filareti, with her Italian education and her knowledge of playing the mandolin. Images, thoughts, fixations, wanderings, mouths hungry for stories, each with their own burden. Love, marriages, murders, street fairs and births, the rush of time, the hum of History, wars, hardships, the toil of men. Katina-Katya-Katigo, the unrepentant Kakia who dreamed of running with a sledge through the snowy unknown. From a two-room apartment on Patision Street, with a bench as a base, born or not yet born, she has the art of inventing everything. Playful, passionate, tender, bittersweet, a river narrative about the timeless female experience.

The book is available at the Library; Call. Nο.: 889.334 Δου [in Greek].

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