Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides [51]
“This is my house.”
“So Mr. and Mrs. Stephanides are the boarders?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t do. Won’t do,” said the tall one. “We encourage our employees to obtain mortgages.”
“He’s working on it,” Zizmo said.
Meanwhile, the short one had entered the kitchen. He was lifting lids off pots, opening the oven door, peering into the garbage can. Desdemona started to object, but Lina checked her with a glance. (And notice how Desdemona’s nose has begun to twitch. For two days now, her sense of smell has been incredibly acute. Foods are beginning to smell funny to her, feta cheese like dirty socks, olives like goat droppings.)
“How often do you bathe, Mr. Stephanides?” the tall one asked.
“Every day, sir.”
“How often do you brush your teeth?”
“Every day, sir.”
“What do you use?”
“Baking soda.”
Now the short one was climbing the stairs. He invaded my grandparents’ bedroom and inspected the linens. He stepped into the bathroom and examined the toilet seat.
“From now on, use this,” the tall one said. “It’s a dentifrice. Here’s a new toothbrush.”
Disconcerted, my grandfather took the items. “We come from Bursa,” he explained. “It’s a big city.”
“Brush along the gum lines. Up on the bottoms and down on the tops. Two minutes morning and night. Let’s see. Give it a try.”
“We are civilized people.”
“Do I understand you to be refusing hygiene instruction?”
“Listen to me,” Zizmo said. “The Greeks built the Parthenon and the Egyptians built the pyramids back when the Anglo-Saxons were still dressing in animal skins.”
The tall one took a long look at Zizmo and made a note on his pad.
“Like this?” my grandfather said. Grinning hideously, he moved the toothbrush up and down in his dry mouth.
“That’s right. Fine.”
The short one now reappeared from upstairs. He flipped open his pad and began: “Item one. Garbage can in kitchen has no lid. Item two. Housefly on kitchen table. Item three. Too much garlic in food. Causes indigestion.”
(And now Desdemona locates the culprit: the short man’s hair. The smell of brilliantine on it makes her nauseous.)
“Very considerate of you to come here and take an interest in your employee’s health,” Zizmo said. “We wouldn’t want anybody to get sick, now, would we? Might slow down production.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said the tall one. “Seeing as you are not an official employee of the Ford Motor Company. However”—turning back to my grandfather—”I should advise you, Mr. Stephanides, that in my report I am going to make a note of your social relations. I’m going to recommend that you and Mrs. Stephanides move into your own home as soon as it is financially feasible.”
“And may I ask what your occupation is, sir?” the short one wanted to know.
“I’m in shipping,” Zizmo said.
“Nice of you gentlemen to stop by,” Lina moved in. “But if you’ll excuse us, we’re just about to have dinner. We have to go to church tonight. And, of course, Lefty has to be in bed by nine to get rest. He likes to be fresh in the morning.”
“That’s fine. Fine.”
Together, they put on their hats and left.
And so we come to the weeks leading up to the graduation pageant. To Desdemona sewing a palikari vest, embroidering it with red, white, and blue thread. To Lefty getting off work one Friday evening and crossing over Miller Road to be paid from the armored truck. To Lefty again, the night of the pageant, taking the streetcar to Cadillac Square and walking into Gold’s Clothes. Jimmy Zizmo meets him there to help him pick out a suit.
“It’s almost summer. How about something cream-colored? With a yellow silk necktie?”
“No. The English teacher told us. Blue or gray only.”
“They want to turn you into a Protestant. Resist!”
“I’ll take the blue suit, please, thank you,” Lefty says in his best English.
(And here, too, the shop owner seems to owe Zizmo a favor. He gives them a 20 percent discount.)
Meanwhile, on Hurlbut, Father Stylianopoulos, head priest of Assumption Greek Orthodox Church, has finally come over to bless the house. Desdemona watches the priest nervously as he drinks