The Chestnut Man

(Christmas Night, 1950)
By Jim Terezakis

Cold and misty, bright white snowflakes, crowns, symphonies of car horns, December 24th brought its usual confusion of bustling throngs to Rockefeller Center.

Children’s choir sang their traditional carols while their angelic red cheeks spat wild most into the air.

The Chestnut Man stood stoically and observed. Having arrived from his native Creete five years ago, it seemed that this winter was particularly harsh.

Standing alone in the cold winter, half geared, half confused, he marvelled at the throngs of people cuddling the 90 foot evergreen spruce. Brightly lit, with thousands of lights he stared at it in awe. “What a wonderful gesture to mankind.”

His hands, rough brown yellow from the coals, his face weather beaten, moustaki frozen and skin like an urban fisherman. Eyes deep, misty blue and bloodshot, lakers of old clothes that he bought from the Chinamen, scarves with small holes, cleverly wrapped from ear to neck. HIs thoughts, like always, ran wild but especially tonight. The carols made him particularly sensitive and reflective. Visions of his native Crete danced wildly. His youth, festivities and tragedies ran with clever mandinades. Visions of the war years, the war had been especially rough. He lost Kostaki, his beloved brother in Albania, his aunt and father, Ste Katoxi, as well as two cousins to German hit squads. He was unmarried, but his life dictated that he would pick up all the pieces and beget a new clan.

His mind was saying,

“Kriti ta Palikaria sou

Kai yiadi ta xopizes

Kai e Xenetia ta xepete

Ke se ta laktharezes”

Ax mano mou, ta panageria, the lamb on the spit, flavored with lemon and garlic, kuria Froson kalitsionia, the stove oven, baked breads, jugs of wine and cheese, his mother and younger brother busy preparing dishes with wines and live, his uncle Leftheri’s Palikaria, who came once a year from Psiloriti, boots polished, pressed knickers, hand gus neatly packed, these giants of men, Palikaria, men who feasted on Psiloriti’s oxygen and deserted on its sunset.

“Hey Mister, how much for these chestnuts?”

“Ten for a dollar.”

“Give me then. Make sure they’re plenty hot.”

The chestnut man quickly came back to earth. Only a customer could bring him back from his private odyssey. Only a customer could give him the temporary reality that he needed to wipe out his tears.

“Merry Christmas,” the boy shouted.

“Merry Christmas,” the Chestnut Man responded.

Someday, he thought, I shall own a house and beget children. America is a good country, strange and silly but good.

Suddenly a line of tourists quickly rushed the Chestnut Man. These tourists quickly bought and were consuming all his stock of hot chestnuts, hot pretzels and soda. Showing his swiftness and entrepreneurial prowess, he soon forgot the cold and hurried the orders as the tourists boarded their buses. Bidding him farewell, shouting Merry Christmas, they quickly departed in their polished Greyhound, pouring exhaust into the midnight air.

The Chestnut Man, never being too greedy, was grateful that one bus was able to buy all his stock. He soon crossed himself, whispered, “Doxa to Theo,” and began loading his cart for his voyage to Eighth Avenue. Eighth Avenue had a small warehouse where other carts found their way. Pushing this heavy metal cart, in the cold New York air, was not new to him. As he passed the homeless, they stood and waited for his excess chestnuts and soggy warm pretzels. The whores greeted him with smiles. The streets were his universe. There he saw life, made money, reflected, remembered and philosophically observed, sometimes stoically, sometimes in utter bewilderment and enchantment. Dropping off his cart at the warehouse, he quickly proceeded to walk to Kuria Maria Tenement House on 49th Street and Eighth Avenue. That was his home. There he lived a spartan existence, pressing lightly on the earth. The staircase was dusty and squeaked. The hall lamps were dim as you walked up the stairs. Opening his apartment door, his home quickly felt to him, like the palace of Knossos. An old bed, one sofa and some used furniture were scattered cleverly around to disguise any holes in the wall. His apartment was clean and stood for the proudest of Hellenes.

Photographs of his father, dressed in Cretan war attire, as well as photographs of his mother, adorned his living room, making the pain chips, as well as the warped, damp walls, erase themselves from his reality.

Icons of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, red eggs and palms from last year’s Easter services decorated his bedroom.

The Chestnut Man brought his night earnings and cleverly put them in a shoe box. He patiently and ritualistically unwrapped himself of layers of old clothes. Walking to the sink, he opened the hot water faucet and waited patiently. The water spat hot steam before letting a cascade of hot water run through its pipes. He quietly removed his clothes, stripping down to his Long Johns, crossed himself.

“Doxa to Theo, praise be to God.”

The Chestnut Man now tired fell into bed, and staring at the ceiling his thoughts raced. He lost family and friends fighting in Albania and Crete, Monolis, Kosta, and Leftheris. But he will endure, he was given this chance.

Now edgy he tried to shut his eyes, but saw Marianna his secret love. A love that was never consummated, due to too much interference. His heart spoke quietly.

“I love you,” and with that the Chestnut Man fell silently asleep.