The Silent Minority

shower, and collapsed on the bed, awaking late the next morning.

  This day he went to Chora, the main village of the island, and also went to visit the cave, where John wrote the apocalypses. He followed the procedure of elderly people that happened to be there at that time, by lighting a candle and staying in silence for a while. As he was in silence, he was trying to visualize how it would have been in the days when John wrote the apocalypses. It was in vain, so he left the place, got a taxi and went back to his hotel.

  For dinner, he went back at the little restaurant so close to the water. The restaurant owner was happy to see him again and told him in broken English that today's special was octopus on charcoal. He ordered that, with a nice fresh Greek salad topped with some feta, and this time he ordered a bottle of retsina, a dry golden yellow wine, with a very distinctive smell by the pine resin.

  This one is something you either like it or do not. There is not in between, but luckily for him he liked it. And the octopus, topped with freshly simple sauce based on olive oil, lemon, basil, and oregano was perfect.

  The next day, he decided to explore the island. He hired a scooter and off he went. He was roaming the island, stopping in places with a good view, or a cafenio for a coffee, or a snack, when he realized it was getting dark, and thought it was time to go back.

  He was traveling on a gravel road parallel with the coastline, but high above it, when the sun started to sink far in the sea. It was a view he could not possibly miss, so he stopped the scooter, and sat at the edge of the cliff, while in front of him unfolded one of the most serene, peaceful, and most beautiful scenes he ever experienced in his life.

  The sea was as still as a calm lake, and there were two suns. One was the orange fireball. The other was its reflection on these tranquil, calm waters, resembling an enormous mirror. Inside, it reflected the birth of the universe, genesis, and there was absolutely a silence. His heart seemed that it was going to burst in a thousand pieces. He felt as a magnet, as a focus point, as if all these magnificent happenings were absorbed by him and ready to rupture in a galaxy of millions of stars into the universe.

  He closed his eyes, and slowly he was engulfed by this goldfish-orangey light that made him feel in totally peace and soothed all his body. It felt as though the sun did not actually sink in the end of the sea, but in his heart, deep in his heart, as it dissolved him into a sea of love. He did not know how long he stood there, neither if this experience was real, or the accumulation, the zenith point, of this magnificent natural happening that unfolded in front of him.

  Suddenly, he realized he had to go. He tried to start the scooter, but it would not start. He tried everything he could but it just would not start. He thought it may have run out of petrol, or perhaps he had pushed it too hard.

  Then he saw far away some lights flickering. That must be the place he saw right in the edge of a cliff surrounded with a wall before it got dark. He thought it must be a monastery or something. He turned around and as there was nothing else to go to, he started to push the scooter towards the flickering lights.

  What an anticlimax, he thought as he was pushing the scooter uphill, but after a while; he had to abandon it there, as it was too much.

  So he started to walk towards this place, with all this mixed feelings fighting in his head.

  Finally he reached the place, and knocked at the outside gate. Someone answered from inside in Greek and the Michael answered in English, saying that he needed help.

  Someone answered, and he heard him unlocking the door. A young man appeared holding a torch in his hand. He was about the same age as he, and was wearing a black robe.

  I was right after all, he thought. It is a monastery.

  "Thank God you speak English," the rookie said, my name is Michael I broke down with my scooter. I pushed it as far as I could, but then I abandoned it. I could not do it anymore."

  "My name is Anastasios come inside," said the young man. "We will have to ask the Geronda. By the way, Geronda means old man in Greek. He is in charge."

  The young man led Michael through a hall with long heavy wooden tables and benches; it seemed that they were preparing for dinner. They went to an elderly man, with a nice trimmed white beard, and sweet eyes, and the young man explained to Geronda what had happened.

  The old man without hesitation called to another man, slightly older than the other two, gave him some directions, and off they went with an old truck, to bring the scooter. It did not take long to find it, and they put it on the truck, and brought it at the monastery.

  At the monastery, the Geronda told the young man to tell the Michael that tonight he would eat and sleep there, and as for the scooter, they had already rung the man and informed him that the hirer and the scooter were all right, and tomorrow he would came to pick it up.

  The tables were already set for dinner. The main meal for the night was fish soup, a glass of red wine, and some feta, olives, and bread.

  Everyone would take his portions; bring it to the table, and sit about three meters away from the nearest monk. While they were eating, there was silence among them, but someone was reading aloud from some scriptures in the corner of the hall.

  When dinner was over, everyone brought the plates to the kitchen to be washed, and then they started to converse again. The old man came towards the rookie, and through the other young man, asked him how he liked the meal. Michael said that the meal was good, but the bread was lousy. The young man said to the Geronda that the meal was good, but he stopped at that; he did not mention anything about the bread. Michael felt that, and asked the young man why he did not mention anything about the bread.

  He said, "I am only try to protect you; you don't want to upset the Geronda, do you?"

  The Geronda sensed the ping-pong that was taking place between the two, and asked Anastasios what he had said. Michael intervened, and asked Anastasios to explain.

  The young monk finally repeated his unflattering comment about the bread.

  The old man cracked a smile, and said to the Anastasios "at last there is someone that understands about bread!" And then he told the young monk to tell Michael they had problems with the bread, since the old monk who had been their baker had passed away.

  The old man left, and the two young ones went out and sat on the veranda.

  It was a mild night, with a soft breeze soothing their bodies, the moon was nearly full, and was flickering on the water, mingling with some other lights of a village on the corner of the island in a merry dance.

  "How long do you intend to stay in Patmos?" the young monk asked Michael.

  "I will be here for about two more weeks."

  "Do you like it?"

  "So far, so good."

  "Can I ask you what you do back home?"

  "I am in the television industry."

  "That is interesting; you must meet many interesting people there?"

  "That is true, and what are you doing? Are you a full time monk?"

  "No, I come here whenever I can. The rest of my time I study."

  "What do you study?"

  "Theology."

  The rookie did not comment on this one. He thought, is there a man in this world to teach his fellow man about God?

  The young man sensed it, and asked, "Do you believe in God?"

  "I don't know. I sense that there is something out there, but I don't know more. If people want to call it God, so be it."

  "I feel kind of the same, and this is why I am here, when I am not study theology.

  I think so far, it keeps me on track; it is a check for me, not to do what my friends do."

  "What do they do?"

  "You know... drinking, violence, fanatical soccer fans, bouzoukia."

  "What is bouzoukia?"

  "Oh, bouzoukia... we call these venues which play a certain style of music of the subculture type which I despise, something like your rap stuff you know. Mind you, there's nothing wrong with the bouzouki, some of the most beautiful music that great music
ians as Hanzidakis and Theodorakis were based on the musical instrument of the bouzouki. It is the quality of it, the messages they spread, the irresponsible way towards life, the subculture in such that I cannot stand. And you know it is like a narcotic; when you start it, you are hooked, and all these aspects are married with one other, drinks, bars, soccer and violence, and at night topped up with bouzoukia. If you don't follow it, and you happen to search for something more than that, then they start to talk about you, thinking something is wrong with you. The funny thing you know is they will try to 'save' you, as my friends did. And if they do not succeed, they give up on you as a lost one.

  "It is ridiculous. If you participate in all this senseless acts, then you are okay. Even if you participate in violent acts and get caught by the law, everyone will try to save you; friends, political parties, various activities movements if you happened to belong to one of them. They say... well it is the normal behavior of young people even if you crack open someone's head in a soccer brawl, or if you are caught burning up someone's car, or throwing a Molotov cocktail in a political demonstration. They all will reprimand you with a slap in your wrist, and forgive you, but not if you start searching for something higher, no, not even your parents; they will not forgive you for that, I think they sense they are going to lose the grip they have on you, that is what I think."

  "Aren't your parents supporting you for what you do?"

  "They are sort of lukewarm; they are very disappointed about