But Helena wasn't giving up. She saved what she could, shopped on her only afternoon off, and managed to live on a single chicken throughout the week, a hen, she realized, that had been raised without seeing the sun, mechanically slaughtered, plucked, incised and gutted, Styrofoam-tray inserted, plastic wrapped, freezer-truck distributed, price-tagged with a sticky label, and shelved, all for her convenience. And if she could get her shopping done in time, she would make her way to Greek Town, on Danforth, which is where, at age eighteen, she found her ticket out of the textile mill, with no apparent ramifications to her immigration status. In retrospect, she was really only trading in one form of slavery for another. But, as Helena was beginning to learn, that was undeniably her lot in life.
She'd gone inside a restaurant to ask if they might need some help in the kitchen or with the cleaning and had made an impression on the woman who was running it. She walked out with a new dress to wear as a uniform, and a room to let above the bar. Within a week she'd moved in and was working both the lunch and dinner shifts, and found, for the first time ever, that she could make enough money to pay all of her living expenses and still have a few tips left over at the end of the week. She kept these in cash (assuming that the banks would dole out her figures to Revenue Canada and swindle her money away in the form of taxes) and stashed them in her room, keeping track down to the penny.
Then, on one of those muggy summer days that Helena despised in Torontoâwhere the heat clung heavy to her body in a way it never had in Kalamata, weighing her down, making her movements sluggish and arduous as if she were wearing three-too-many wool sweatersâYannis Andreadekis came into the restaurant, his shirt stained with lines of sweat along his spine and sternum, splotches of dark spreading from his armpits. He gracelessly asked for her phone number within minutes and, not getting it, came in every other day, demanding refill after refill of coffee and asking questions about Helena's private life while she topped off his cup. It was how he hung on to the few details that she'd inadvertently given him, how he repeated them the next time he came in, always asking for more in a way that seemed genuine enough, that made her finally accept one of his invitations out for dinner.
Throughout the evening, she learned a lot about Yannis Andreadekis, and the more she learned, the less he sounded like a find. To start with, he was the only Greek she'd ever met who had landed in Canada illegally, having gotten work on a ship in Greece, then, wanting to avoid military duty, leapt overboard just outside the port of Montreal, almost killing himself in the process, nearly drowning in the grimy water, was hypothermic for hours, and survived only for the kindness of the proprietor in a dépanneur who'd fed him fatty bacon and tea while he ran on the spot over a heating duct. He had been working under the table and dodging the immigration authorities ever since, he told Helena, winking, without the slightest bit of shame.
He began asking her out more often, which had Helena asking a few discrete questions to the regulars at the restaurant about how, theoretically, an illegal immigrant might eventually become legal. And she could never be sure if it was
because
of those questions that Yannis was suddenly plucked from work by Immigration Canada one day. He was brought to a prison to await trial and a seemingly inevitable deportation. Helena, feeling guilty, contacted everyone she knew, assertively cashing in favours, and hesitantly promising new ones. Until, through the restaurant owner's daughter-in-law (who had a close friend whose father worked in immigration), she found her in. She then contacted everyone who had ever known Yannis and, through the neighbourhood lawyer (who always brought his family for Sunday dinner at the restaurant), compiled documents that vouched for him, illustrating that he had several people willing to sponsor him in the event of his release, and, most importantly, someone with landed-immigrant status waiting to marry him.
When Helena signed the final papers, it occurred to her that, as far as marriage proposals went, this couldn't have been further from her adolescent daydream of a sharply dressed gentleman sitting at her father's table, listing his innumerable assets and proclaiming his unwavering love for her, not a whisper of a dowry, with the entire family rushing in afterwards, already celebrating. Instead it was she, the woman, offering her hand, and only as a means of getting a coarse labourer she had somewhat fallen for out of prison. It looked like, even when it came to getting a husband, she was destined for difficulty and hardship. With a sigh, she dotted the one “I” in her name and slid the papers over to the lawyer, watching them disappear into his briefcase, the lid being swiftly shut and sealed with two professional clicks. Yannis was released within a month, and, in accordance with certain clauses and stipulations, they were married almost immediately, a slapdash ceremony at the nearby Orthodox Church, with her cousin standing at her side in a dress she'd borrowed from a friend. The day after the wedding, she moved the little furniture she'd acquired over the years into a small apartment Yannis had found for them off of Arundel and placed a planter of red geraniums on the doorstep.
In 1964, after waitressing well into her eighth month of pregnancy (making sure the owners knew what this did to her back), she gave birth to her first son, Yórgos (though, as to avoid giving other children the chance to pick on him, his Greek name was pronounced only in the house; “George” in the playground). Two years after Yórgos was born, to the month, she had Kóstas (a name chosen for its ease of use both in the house and playground), and with the money Yannis was making, which, after becoming the co-owner of a growing and reputable painting company, was always on the rise, they managed to get a mortgage for a two-storey apartment building on Langford. The complex looked great from the outside, had four suites, and after choosing to live in the one with the small garden in the back, they rented out the other three, providing them with a bit more than their monthly payments to the bank, hence making it a legitimate second income. And seeing as Helena was at home and would be able to keep track of the comings and goings of the tenants better than Yannis, he asked if she would act as the landlady; take care of things so he wouldn't have to worry about the apartments “as well as everything else.” It was remarkable to Helena how, sometimes, others weren't capable of seeing her suffering for what it was.
Working as a landlady suited her. She was good with money, and good with people too, always smiling, asking about their lives, making them feel as at home and relaxed as she could. Understanding how these few simple gestures and niceties could make the business side of things go that much smoother. It lowered people's guard, had them throwing out fewer questions and demands. Because Helena detested demands, detested when people cocked one of their thighs out to the side, hand on their hip, and spoke like they'd just been coronated the sovereign of a newfound state. The problem was (and throughout the 1970s she became increasingly convinced of this) that people in Toronto were watching too many courtroom series, eating pizza slices off
TV
trays while admiring graceful lawyers strutting the floors in front of jury boxes, giving inspirational speeches and instilling viewers with a false sense of empowerment, as well as all the words that went along with it; words like “legal privilege,” and “within my rights.”
Thankfully, in the last year or so, Toronto had entered a unique era, a period in the city's history where these words had come to mean less and less. It was due to another word that was being thrown around at the time (and with much doom and gloom attached to it): “recession.” But for reasons Helena didn't understand, some provinces were being hit much harder with the term “recession” than others, like Ontario. Which had people flocking to Toronto. The vacancy rate was close to nil, and to address the housing shortage there was an abundance of new apartment complexes being built and renovations being done to existing ones to create extra suites, hammer falls counting down the seconds of summer. Which in turn had Yannis's painting company making a bundle and a queue of prospective renters at Helena's door, ready to put a security deposit down months ahead of the end-of-lease dates she gave them. Whatever this worrying phenomenon “recession” was, it hadn't come to the Andreadekis household.
For once, Helena thought, finally, the world wasn't working against her. Though, as she was sure it would revert back to its old ways very shortly, she thought it best to benefit from it while she could. Understanding that there was a limit to what people would pay for an apartment in their area north of Dundas, she was interested in finding out (as anyone would be really) where that limit capped itself off. Which had her carefully, and with quiet persuasion, encouraging tenants to move out of their suites as soon as possible, at which point she could change the contract and increase the rent to whatever she deemed fit.
Because, really, when it came time for them to leave, there was always something that needed repair; and even if there wasn't, what about the general wear and tear on things that she'd have to pay for down the road? Helena wasn't responsible for that wearing and tearing, so why should she have to waste her money refurbishing things that hadn't been cared for as well as they should've been? She was a businesswoman, and she was just adopting some justifiable common business sense.
And it wasn't as if it was making her richâby any stretch of the imagination. If she were rich, she wouldn't have to watch her money like this in the first place; in fact, if she were rich, she would
lower
the rent, practically give the apartments away to people. And, let's see, what else: she'd have a garden, a nice one, something bigger than the meagre backyard plot they had now, big enough that she could invite people over for the Feast of Dormition in August, with a firepit where Yannis could set up a spit and knock down the cinders, stirring the coals until they were the perfect temperature to roast a lamb. And if not a garden, then maybe a holiday, back in Greece. They could visit her parents, spend Easter there, in the way that Easter should be spent: go to the vigil in church on Pascha Saturday, watch the lighting of the Holy Fire at midnight. That's what she would do. And while she was there, she'd be sure to go to the beach near Kalamata where the shore slopes into the Mediterranean, and she'd swim in that sea that she remembers so well, in the water she can picture even now, water that was always calm and blue and clean. That's exactly what she'd do if she ever made enough money. She'd spend it. Because she would be free to. Free to do whatever she wanted.
Cedric, still squatting on the kitchen floor in front of his daughter, looked up at Helena, and, as if suddenly recognizing her, was beaming. He shook his head, something cold, something sardonic in his expression. “You don't say. Why it's Helena Andriakolopolis-alis.” Cedric stood up tall, until he was looking down into Helena's face. “I'm sorry. Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Whhell.” Helena took a step back, exchanging another look with Julie, trying to smile. “Is Andreadekis is how we say.”
“Cedric,” Julie mumbled, “is everything all right?”
“Yes, Julie,” he said with an odd formality. “Fine. Things are just fine. We're here, if I remember correctly, to sign a lease.” He looked around the kitchen and pointed at the stapled papers on the table. “Yes, that lease there. You see,” he said, addressing both women while tapping the side of his head. “A memory like an elephant.” Cedric stepped over to the table and slid the papers into his hand, scooping them up as if they weighed several pounds. “Oh, Helena, you'd never believe the things I recall. In fact, I wonder . . . knowing what I know now, if I could just . . . ask you a few questions about the details in this contract.”
Helena attempted a smile, scratched the back of her neck. “Yhess. Off-course.” She took two further steps back, leaning against the kitchen counter now, crossing her arms over her chest. She watched Cedric as he flipped the pages of the contract over. His wife and child watched as well, everyone in the room feeling the volatility in his gestures, everyone afraid to speak, as if the cartoon noises from the other room were fragile and sacred.
As the seconds passed, Helena felt herself becoming less afraid and more annoyed. You see, she found herself thinking again, do you see what the world had dealt her? No breaks for Helena. Never. She looked at her feet, wondering how long she was going to have to wait in this awkward silence while Cedric perused the clauses in the lease.
Cedric lowered the paper from his face. “You know, Mrs. Andriakolopolis . . .”
“Is Andreadekis.” Helena shifted her feet.
“Exactly. Well, you know, I can't seem to find anything in here about your needing both âkey money' to secure our placement
and
three full months of âlast-month's-rent deposit.' Strange it wouldn't be here because I think that's what you told us we had to pay. Now, you wouldn't . . . dream of taking advantage of us, would you?” Cedric let out a humourless chuckle. “I mean, that would make you a kind of . . . conniving, corruptâwell, for lack of a better wordâbitch, wouldn't it?”
Helena gave him a toxic grin, then looked at Julie, who in turn looked down at her daughter, feeling the sudden need to pick Melissa up. “I wonder, honey,” Julie mumbled toward the back of Cedric's head, bouncing her daughter as if the child desperately needed placating, “if we shouldn't come back a little later.”
“You know, Julie . . . I'm afraid âa little later' is not quite something I can do. Besides,” he smiled at Helena, cordially dipping his head before returning his attention to the lease, “I'm thoroughly enjoying myself here. So then, where were we?” He flicked the papers, turned the page.