Whiffs

# Night in a wet city, behind the windows of small bars, two or three drinks on the counter, some cigarettes and the atmosphere lit up by red cheeks and rolled up sleeves, loud voices close to my ears. When I come out I will wrap my coat around my trying to overcome the damp of the night and the cigarette smoke on my clothes, and on my breath of course  - will be the proof that it was a good night. It’s worth is relevant, with no Added Value.

# The cigarette... the cigarette offered by someone you have never scrounged off, is like a pat on the shoulder. Usually standing up, at most, both leaning against an old wall. Five words in five minutes, shared breath, common space... brother! Thanks for the ciggy, don’t get lost,  see you... See you. The cigarette from the next packet (or one of the next).

# Visiting at the prison. With a packet of cigarettes in your hand. An expensive gift and a necessary one. The smell of freedom, the measure of time, of thought, of flattery. The exchange of values. “I will bring you cigarettes in prison” you said. You said it out of habit, but if you’d only known what you said! And more: if you knew what you did every time you kept your promise. You curse me as well as blessing me...

# Kavvadia’s* cigarettes were always damp and would never light. From the confessions of witnesses, but mostly from those stories of betrayal. When the lieutenant kept him company on the Watch, with coffee where you couldn’t see what was in the cup, and stories which couldn’t hide the sins. And the apprentice overheard, with the sickness to frighten him – how would he manage, how would he die or would his nose fall off before they made harbour.


*Nikos Kavvadias is the poet of the sea. As a radio operator in the merchant navy,  Kavvadias visited the harbours of the world and his poetry contains all he saw, learned and experienced. The sea is always present either as a lover or as his assassin. He died in 1975 in a hospital bed – his worst fear having been realised.