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adam_mcphee 's review for:
Something Will Happen, You'll See
by Christos Ikonomou
The cloud is so big now that we can’t see the sea at all.
A fake fir tree gets blown off a balcony across the street and falls into the emptiness below, silently spinning. It’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Actually, no, I say. The most frightening thing is work. Waiting to get paid on every fifteenth and thirtieth day of the month. Measuring your life in fifteen-day chunks. Knowing that if your bosses don’t feel like paying you once or twice or ten times in a row, ten fifteen-day chunks, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Your whole life is in their hands. And there you are counting your life out in fifteens. That’s the most frightening thing.
I’m going inside, Lena says. I hate it when you talk like that. I don’t want to watch anymore. Let’s go inside.
But we don’t go anywhere. We stand there holding our drinks and silently watching the rain coming in from the west. We watch as that black curtain of rain slowly and silently closes in slowly and silently swallows up the shapes and colors and noises of the sunset to the west.
Title is kind of a misnomer, nothing happens, but that's what makes the book good. Stories of the most most precarious under Greek austerity. People staring down their own economic ruin, which is very relatable, although it must be said the Greeks had it far worse. Ironically reminded me a lot of the German writer Hans Fallada, although this feels a little bit more dire if only because Fallada had the Germanic capability of taking pleasure in drafting a budget, even if the numbers add up to something grim. Loved how the translator strategically omitted commas, I guess following the Greek, lent an urgency to the lists. There's a nice fairy tale formula to these stories that I really began to enjoy once I caught on: bad things happen and then right before the end we get his with a few heightened sentences, a little bit more stylish. I keep thinking of those bits as morals, but there's no lesson, just sort of sums up the vibe. Will definitely be checking out the author's other book.
I pour out another tsipouro and then open the box, take out a tack and put it in my mouth. It tastes bitter.
It’s December and there’s a full moon and a clear sky full of stars. I remember Petros telling me once that somewhere way back when, in Peru or maybe Mexico, people believed that humans were born from stars. Rich people had descended from a golden star and poor people from a bronze one. That’s why they can’t ever be equal. Because they were born into different worlds.
It really is strange, to be poor.
The wind is still whistling through the cracks. I look at the stars which from here all look the same – exactly the same, not gold and not bronze either. The tack feels cold in my mouth.
It must be cold where Petros is tonight.
A fake fir tree gets blown off a balcony across the street and falls into the emptiness below, silently spinning. It’s the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
Actually, no, I say. The most frightening thing is work. Waiting to get paid on every fifteenth and thirtieth day of the month. Measuring your life in fifteen-day chunks. Knowing that if your bosses don’t feel like paying you once or twice or ten times in a row, ten fifteen-day chunks, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Your whole life is in their hands. And there you are counting your life out in fifteens. That’s the most frightening thing.
I’m going inside, Lena says. I hate it when you talk like that. I don’t want to watch anymore. Let’s go inside.
But we don’t go anywhere. We stand there holding our drinks and silently watching the rain coming in from the west. We watch as that black curtain of rain slowly and silently closes in slowly and silently swallows up the shapes and colors and noises of the sunset to the west.
Title is kind of a misnomer, nothing happens, but that's what makes the book good. Stories of the most most precarious under Greek austerity. People staring down their own economic ruin, which is very relatable, although it must be said the Greeks had it far worse. Ironically reminded me a lot of the German writer Hans Fallada, although this feels a little bit more dire if only because Fallada had the Germanic capability of taking pleasure in drafting a budget, even if the numbers add up to something grim. Loved how the translator strategically omitted commas, I guess following the Greek, lent an urgency to the lists. There's a nice fairy tale formula to these stories that I really began to enjoy once I caught on: bad things happen and then right before the end we get his with a few heightened sentences, a little bit more stylish. I keep thinking of those bits as morals, but there's no lesson, just sort of sums up the vibe. Will definitely be checking out the author's other book.
I pour out another tsipouro and then open the box, take out a tack and put it in my mouth. It tastes bitter.
It’s December and there’s a full moon and a clear sky full of stars. I remember Petros telling me once that somewhere way back when, in Peru or maybe Mexico, people believed that humans were born from stars. Rich people had descended from a golden star and poor people from a bronze one. That’s why they can’t ever be equal. Because they were born into different worlds.
It really is strange, to be poor.
The wind is still whistling through the cracks. I look at the stars which from here all look the same – exactly the same, not gold and not bronze either. The tack feels cold in my mouth.
It must be cold where Petros is tonight.