Agapi was just twelve when she came upon the man who would change her life for ever. She was wet and cold and looking through a rain stained window when it happened. Her violin was at her feet, safe and snug in its little case. Her violin, her voice these days. Waiting for the bus to take her back to her mountain village she had spent half an hour walking through the drizzle to the bus station from her music school. The school where all the other pupils lived close by and not in the mountains. Rich kids with less talent than her but better grades.  Kids with futures. Kids whose fathers had jobs. Kids whose grandmother hadn’t died last week. Not kids like her. 

It was only last year, after ten years of what her father called “capitalist imposed austerity”, that she realised she needed to find a way out of the jaws of this crushing monster. A way out for her and for her family. She sipped on her gazoza as the PA announced another delay to the arrival of her bus. The bay in front of her is shrouded by a fret of rain and on the inside of the window condensation runs down in streams. In month or so the bay will be blue and the sun will shine but now all is grey and damp and cold. For now it drizzles as it did that day last week when they buried her grandmother.

Not kids like her. Kids whose fathers got paid in money. Kids whose father could buy presents for xmas because they have money not a pig. In October dad had dome some work for the president of the village - the big man. He didn’t get paid. The president said he was waiting for his pension and would pay at the end of the month when it came. Every day she would see the president in the local cafe standing drinks for all his friends but he never came to the house to pay her father. Buying drinks for your friends is part of being a big man her father had explained. November started and the president still didn’t come and bring the money and so grandmother’s pension had to put food on the table - again. Dad did a few days of manual labour for an old man of the village that month and he brought home two chickens and a tough old rooster for his toil. November passed and still the president, the big man, did not knock on their door. Agapi took to hanging around the cafe trying to shame the big man and in early December there came a knock at the door late one night and there was the president. Did he bring the money he owed? Had he cashed his pension cheque at last? She knew that the big man had had a job that paid an extra month’s money in December. Instead of money the big man stood there the worse for wear with a piglet on a piece of string. And this was supposed to be payment.  It wasn’t even big enough to eat. It would take months of scraps to get it to table size. And father had accepted it in a resigned fashion. Grandmother had nagged him for days but he had accepted it and as far as the president was concerned the debt was paid. 

The lights are on in the car park now and still there is no sign of the man of the van. Agapi pulls the sleeve of her coat over her hand and starts to wipe away a sheen of condensation from the window the better to keep watch. As she wipes in circles she notices again the darning on the threadbare cuff of her coat and she begins to sob. She remembers her beloved YiaYia cleaning and darning the coat when it arrived from the social supermarket and big fat tears run down her cheeks. She stops wiping the now clean window and wipes her tears away. She sniffs the lapel of the coat hoping to catch even the faintest scent of her YiaYia. She thinks she does but knows it might be a mirage, her imagination. She wants so much to recapture her YiaYia. She misses her YiaYia so much. She does not want to look away from where the van is parked but she also wants to know what time it is. It feels as though she has been watching for hours. If she turns her head only a little she can possibly see the clock. She tries it and it works. She returns her gaze to the window and the van beyond. Slowly it dawns on her that the clock is showing exactly the same time as it was when she arrived.The clock, like her life, has stopped. Or has time itself stopped? The tears come again and she hears on the television that the road to her village has been washed away. She stares harder at the van not bothering to wipe away her tears hoping to conjure the man of the van by willpower alone. 

And all the while as she fixes and holds her gaze upon the van she is trying to undo the braid of her life story. Her mind is working at warp speed picking apart the threads that have brought her to this. “All great art is a braiding of many disparate strands in a harmonious and pleasing fashion - literature, music, sculpture, all of the arts work this way” Kyrie Daskalakis had told her. She thought then that if her life was indeed a braid then it was badly done and perhaps she could unbraid it and do it properly, harmoniously and then maybe it could become pleasing - at least to her. Identifying the threads is more difficult than she had thought though. Music yes. Writing yes. Family definitely - yes family. School yes, well probably. Friends not so much - not so many. Gym yes. What else?

… hiding under mum’s brightly coloured skirts at the panegyri … scared of the bearded musicians dressed all in black … excited by the sounds they made … the music of it all … feet tapping under the long trestle tables … the man on the violin sawing away under his huge beard and wild hair … entranced … beer bottles and cigarette end down there with her … the last time she saw her mum … her smell - lavender water … her sandals ragged and worn and dusty … the last time …  the gypsy women selling balloons and trinkets … rubbish her dad said … she didn’t get a balloon … she never got anything … the speeding rhythms … the intense solos … the villagers clapping … the stomping the cheering the singing … mum singing along with the lyrics when they played a sad song … laying in bed under the covers as her godfather reads her to sleep … tales of Zeus and Hera … Jason and the fleece of gold … and at xmas tales of the kalikantzorai … and the thrill of nonos Nikos teaching her to read … to read on her own …  mum’s mantinades in the kitchen … she remembers some to this day … the somersaults … the cartwheels … leapfrog … the vaulting horse … the smell of rosin … and embrocation and strapping … the bee so frightening at first and then exhilarating … and family of course … nonos Nikos with his stiff moustaches and his oily hair and his warm breath and soft voice though he could shout across the valley to the olive groves when needed … and always the cologne and a faint smell of tsikoudia … his shirts and jackets suffused with old tobacco and the smell of the kafenion … the sparkle in his shockingly blue eyes and the laughter … aways the laughter …  

see? you do have happy memories … happy times … yes but not so many … and not these days … winter brings you down and … and it’s been a hard winter … and anyway what about last week? … what about the music you heard …  what about that … oh yes … that … when I was waiting for Kyrie Daskalakis for my violin lesson … and waiting … and I heard … through the door … I’m sure he knew I was there … he must have done … I’m always early … and he knows it … now that was magical … 

Of course I knew she was there. She is a good girl and is always punctual. I had put a chair outside the door because I knew she would be early. Little Agapi is the most talented pupil I have had since I started teaching here - I teach both music and literature and she excels at both and although she appears to be naturally gifted she does not, unlike many naturally talented pupils, rest on her laurels but instead works hard and applies herself. I value talent, of course I do, but I value application and dedication as well and she has those qualities too. The principal would not approve of what I did that day but he will never know. He is a very old fashioned sort of teacher and although such people are valued in the current system they are essentially, if I might say, dinosaurs. They have no understanding of progress and to some large extent they seem to resent the way the world has changed and refuse to believe that education needs to follow such change. To get back to that day though I heard her arrive by the faint sound of the chair scraping on the wooden floor and that is when I started the music - a recording of the great Joe Venuti playing I Want To Be Happy. The principal would take a stroke at the idea of jazz in the music room. The track is just over four minutes long and I opened the door at about three - where he starts his second solo - to find her absolutely rapt - she did not even notice me and when I waved her into the room she seemed almost hypnotised, exactly as I had told myself she would be. 

She came into the room as if in a trance and I sat her in my chair while I changed the music - Paganini’s 24th caprice this time - and she continued, rapt. My intention was to introduce her to the depth and breadth of her chosen instrument and the music written for it - Joe Venuti to Paganini is quite a stretch but Paganini to Nyman’s string quartet number 2 performed so beautifully by Balanescu is perhaps less so. And then into the big finish - back to jazz with Regina Carter playing the Pavane for a Dead Child - I think that is how it translates - sublime. When the Pavane finished I let the silence settlle. We were both full of unshed tears by then and as the silence lengthened those tears had to go somewhere - and so they did. Agapi smiled as she cried and I knew that I had succeeded. I dried my eyes and she rose from the chair, thanked me and left. 

… and that’s just how I remember it … well no I don’t know the word rapt but I can work it out … guess … exactly how I recall it … but Kyrie Daskalaki missed out one thing … as I left he handed me a CD and an envelope … I thought that he had burned a CD for me with those tracks on it … he knows we don’t have internet at home … the village doesn’t have internet … and now it seems it doesn’t even have a road … unless the track coming down from the mountain is still open but … but if the proper road is washed away what are the chances … yiayia said it’s the worst winter she’s ever seen … she’d ever seen … and she is ancient so …. anyway, he’s seen me with my little Discman and that must be why he burned me a CD  … nonos Nikos got it for me one xmas … the Discman that is … but it wasn’t just those tracks on the CD … on the bus home that day I opened the envelope and there was this list of tracks for the CD … there were tons of them … and a little note from Kyrie Daskalaki but I won’t tell you what it said … says … I keep it in my purse … and the CD hasn’t been out of my Discman since that first time … did I say … my Discman is red … cherry red … it’s not a real Discman … obviously … not Sony … hold on I’ll check … no, it’s made by JVC but it’s very good … hardly ever skips … some of the tracks Kyrie Daskalaki put on it for me are old recordings from hundreds of years ago so they’re a bit scratchy but even so you can tell how good they are … but I think the jazz ones are my favourites … something living … something you just know isn’t all written down … Regina Carter, Vanessa Mae, Emilie Autumn … you can hear that they are women too … I don’t know how … you just can … well I can … I might have a listen now while I wait … not much else to do … maybe get a gazoza first … 

Not kids like her. Kids who have smart phones. Kids who have internet at home. Kids with Facebook and Instagram, and WhatsApp and Telegram. Kids who have cameras on their phone. Kids who have Spotify on their phone. Kids like her friend Eva who sometimes lets Agapi use her iPhone at lunch break. Kids with modern technology. Kids whose fathers have lost all the light in their eyes. It started when the work stopped coming in. When Kyrie Karelis cancelled that big order for furniture just after the first memorandum. He stopped smiling and joking constantly looking for orders to replace the lost one but they did not come. Even his regulars stopped coming around. And then the work dried up altogether because suddenly nobody had money to spare for such beautiful work. Agapi’s father is, I should say, a master cabinet maker, or perhaps I should say was a master cabinet maker - are you truly anything professionally if nobody wants your skill no matter how long it took you to learn? And while I am correcting myself earlier I described her father as having lost all the light in his eyes but it would be more accurate to describe it rather as a light on a dimmer switch that has been turned down over time and by tribulations. Turned down to the point where off is the only setting lower. 

… I like that bit about the light dimming … that resonates … and, yes, there were particular times … times when the lights dimmed further … times when he seems to have loosened his grip … lost interest … stopped fighting … just after Xmas, when he had to burn some chairs that he had made … when we had run out of wood for the stove … no stove no heat … no stove no cooking… when YiaYia was ill and cold and fading … and every time the postman delivered another bill … but on her death bed YiaYia never gave up … never despaired … she’d talk about it being the hardest winter she had ever known and … and in the next breath she would be talking about how spring would come and we would forget all that … forget it and move on … father would tut and shake his head … even then … even right near the end … her end YiaYia’s light was still bright … and then YiaYia died and the light in him died with it … or that’s how it seems to me … he carries on … he carries on but why … maybe for me … who knows … we’ll find out … maybe very soon …

At this point Agapi has reached the end too. The responsibilities have become too much for her narrow child’s shoulders, strong though they are. Being solely responsible for her father is too much. Just the contemplation of it daunts her young soul. She has made up her mind. Her resolve is firm and so it is that we find her once more wiping condensation from the window and staring fixedly at the van in the car park opposite willing its owner to materialise. No more announcements have come from the Tannoy. The van is white with rust marks but along the side panel is a rough representation of a a moustachioed man in a leopard skin holding a large dumbbell aloft and beneath this figure in clear lettering the legend: Ivan the Circus Strongman. Agapi does not know that Ivan is not, as she imagines, a Russian ,but instead is a Ponti Greek whose grand parents were expelled from their ancestral lands back in 1923 and who eventually settled in Larissa. No matter: Ivan knows family tragedy and this itself will stand Agapi in good stead.   

Agapi disappears her hand into the sleeve of her hoodie and once more wipes condensation from the window. The rain has stopped but the sky remains leaden, and the now choppy sea has taken on a steely grey tinge. She stares through the greasy glass and wills Ivan to appear. Wills him with all her might - the concentration shows in her face. If willpower alone could make it happen he would be here already but she is not daunted. She is not daunted either by the prospect of what will become of her father - she is resigned. She knows that Ivan will come and come today and will come before her bus. She starts and rises swiftly. She darts toward the door, past the ticket office, past the cafe counter, past the internet terminals but when she reaches the door she turns abruptly and rushes back to the table where late she sat so patiently, She stoops and retrieves her violin case, turns, and retraces her hasty steps. And then she is gone.  

Looking from her erstwhile seat and through the hole she so recently made in the fog of condensation we see her running toward the van splashing through puddles. And then we see a squat man in a battered parka, his head down, heading doggedly toward the battered van. 

And in those few moments as she splashes across the forecourt of the bus station she thinks of all the times her father told her that things would get better -" not today - but one day”, how things would go back to how they were before the memorandum, before this crushing austerity and sadness, but she doesn’t  remember those times, has known nothing other, and isn’t even sure the they were that good anyway and she knows that if she wants better times then she has to make them happen and she knows too that this is the way - music is not her way out … sport is not her way out … she is too young to emigrate … too young to join the army. She has thought this through. When YiaYia would talk of her mother she would always end with “ … and one day she ran off with the gypsies”. Every time, not in a disparaging way but plainly, non-judgmentally, just factually. When she saw the van she had made up her mind there and then: never mind running off with the gypsies, gypsies live a hard life and nobody really likes them but the circus, who doesn’t love the circus, circus people are glamorous, circus people are special and she is special. The circus it will be. Ivan will help her. Ivan must have connections. 

And we see them meet by the van. Ivan produces a collapsible umbrella from inside his parka and shields Agapi from the rain that has just resumed. We see them chat for a few minutes and then Ivan leans down and takes her hand and shakes it, He opens the sliding door of the van and Agapi jumps inside and shakes herself off before he slides the door shut. And then we watch slack mouthed as they drive off. 

The hole in the fog of condensation closes.