LIVING
LIVING AUGUST/SEPTEMBER
2011
THE CULTURE OF COLOUR
One day, on entering Carrefour
supermarket ( during the good old days, when it was Dia), a
friend’s mother approached me and in a grave, lowered voice,
asked me if I’d had a death in the family.” No, why? “I asked.”
Because you are wearing black”. “Oh I love wearing black”, I
exclaimed, “so no, I haven’t lost anyone close to me, I am just
wearing a colour that I enjoy”.
Some weeks ago, whilst
shopping with my daughter, I bought a very nice simple black T-shirt
with chiffon bat-wing sleeves, perfect for covering bat-wing
arms during an evening out. Little did I know that I would end
up wearing it to my mother-in-law’s funeral. I realised then
that one simply doesn’t have enough black clothes to be
respectfully kitted for 40 days and it isn’t at all fun wearing
black clothes for mourning, plus laughter feels obscene.
Last Sunday, we attended a
christening and I agonized the night before over what I should
wear to conform to the occasion. White and bright colours are
suitable for christenings but my sun dresses were too casual and
my cream linen was nowhere to be found. My bedroom at 10.30 am
resembled a post frantic shopping frenzy and all I could come up
was a brown silk peasant skirt with matching jeweled sandals and
my loyal but versatile black T-shirt with the chiffon bat wings.
I tried to dress it up with amethysts but to me purple is too
funereal and doesn’t go well with brown. I opted for my string
of crystal beads that sparkle in the sunlight but alas, they
were too tangled and eventually, I decided to don my pearls. A
stroke of brilliant pink lipstick and lids caked in gold eye
shadow, I hoped that somehow I might look gay enough ( to all
you teenagers, ‘gay’ actually means bright and happy) “Will I be
ok in these colours?” I asked Mr. L. “Well you are supposed to
look happy and light but given that my mother recently died, you
will be respected for wearing dark colours.”
I counted three other women at
the christening wearing black dresses and each of them had
selected pearls as complimentary jewellery. I suddenly felt
common and wished I had been able to un-ravel my crystals.
Anyway, I busied myself with opening the card I had hastily
bought the night before and prepared to write a message to
accompany the money I was going to slip into it. :Why is the
word ‘dyplo’ written inside?”I asked Mr. L.”You must have bought
a card for twins.” he retorted impatiently. I had. There were 2
prams on the front but I had chosen it because I liked the
colours and the lack of soppy words. “Never mind”, he said.” We
can buy another in Agia Marina town on the way to the
restaurant”. Easier said than done when you are a pale coloured
foreigner dressed in dark silk and pearls.
I frantically scanned all the
souvenir shops for cards but could only see postcards. Mr. L
meanwhile, had settled himself down at a table to chat with
friends and enjoy a glass of cold white wine.
Finally, having exhausted
almost all the shops in Agia Marina, a woman who owns a
jewellery shop claimed in lowered tones (perhaps because I was
wearing black?)to come next door; she could help me. She pulled
from a cupboard a dusty shoe box, inside of which were several
aged greetings cards, from another era perhaps as they were
yellowed along the edges despite being enclosed in polythene
packaging. There was only one suitable for a baby boy but the
quality was far inferior to the one I had originally bought. It
was a basic, mono coloured orange card with a picture of a large
yellow duck on the front but at least its message was succinct
and un-soppy.
“How much?” I asked. “Four
Euros “she replied. “Four Euros?’ I asked incredulously. I could
feel my face becoming red with defensive fury. “But I only paid
2 euro for a card in Aegina which was 10 times better than the
one you are selling me. “You are a very lucky woman”. I
explained in acceptable Greek.” I would NEVER pay 4 euro for a
card like this but I desperately need one”. She didn’t back down
and I hurried back to the restaurant to find Mr. L and our
friends. On showing the card and explaining the price, Mr. L and
friends scornfully laughed but then angrily complained how
foreigners, even those who actually live in Aegina are too
frequently cheated for the sake of cheating. Mr. L, whose mood
is always black in the mornings took the opportunity to return
to the shop I’d bought the card from and then insisted the owner
justify why her old, dusty card was worth 4 Euros. She turned
slightly white, the colour of shock and insisted that I was not
obliged to buy anything. I retorted that I realized this,
however, she had obviously taken a look at me and decided she’d
exploit me for being foreign. I took the proffered 4 euro back
from the shopkeeper who at least had the dignity to blush
slightly…pink, the international colour of humiliation.
Finally, a kindly shopkeeper
selling postcards gave us a bright yellow tiny envelope in which
we placed the money. Yellow, the colour of cowards but a colour
that has been my lucky one since childhood.. May it bring the
baby a happy and lucky life..
Alison Lorentzos
copyright
2011
