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The Phanariot Manuscript
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constantly carrying all sorts
of bags with blue herring,
silver mullet, grumpy goby
and turbot all lined up piece
by piece in wicker baskets.
All this remained forever
engraved in his memory
alongside his father’s face,
embossed against the sky
as a big sunflower hat, dried
and blackened by rain.
His parent’s namewas Bradu
Milikopu, an honourable
name, well-known in the
whole neighbourhood, not
necessarily for some heroic
deeds, but for his pocked
face and his blazing eyes that
hid a single burning desire
by the name of Lambros
Katsonis.
On that April morning,
after the last basket was
laid under the stall, Ioanis
ran off as usual. Mustafa’s
shop was in the other part
of town, a small business,
crammed into one room
with a wooden ceiling. Into
this room lined with fabrics
and shawls, Ioanis would
go everyday only to touch
the huge ballots of cloth,
to weigh the rolls of Indian
satin and feel the Mosul
silk because few things can
compare to the softness of
textiles that slip between
the index finger and the
thumb like a drop of warm
tea. Sometimes, he would
go by Mustafa’s just to feel
under the palm of his hand a
pack of brocade or to absorb
the pastel colours of muslin
with his eyes. And when he
had some money, he would
buy scraps, leftovers from
others, even small patches
of cloth that no one wanted.
He would make adornments
for turbans, gloves, bags