Folding Laundry

In the Anglican Church they’re called vergers, the laymen and women that take care of churches. In the Orthodox Church, it must be candlelighters. I’ll call her Anna. The first interaction I had with her was on my way home. She was smoking by the side exit of Saint Demetrios, talking to a priest in a denim vestment that stunned me. Unused Diesel material was donated to the Greek Orthodox Church to adorn Saint Demetrios’ interior dome. A very dark blue with star studs. West and East collided with his baseball cap made in China. Anna looked at me because I dangled the keys. ‘AirBtoB’, she must have thought. I walked a few meters past them when I remembered my mum praising their koliva, the memorial snack for the dead. Sugar, cinnamon, boiled wheat, spearmint, almond and at least five more ingredients. It’s a confusing little bowl, for the confusing nature of death. I asked Anna when Saturday of Souls is again, because that’s when churches serve it. ‘Saturday of Souls?’ It’s past now.’ 

‘Isn’t it five times a year?’ and just as I thought she would look at me like the dumbest person in the area, her eyes glistened with optimism. Here was a young person, with faltering faith, convinced that the dead are remembered five times a year. She inhaled the end of the cigarette like a retired freediver. Her hair was blonde – is blonde, loosely secured with a hair clip at all times. She’s in her 60s. She has the same eyes and apples as Betty Pedrazzi. Her teeth are worn out, but other than that she could model. Black, long skirts, black sandals, striped tops occasionally but never lighter than navy. I don’t romanticise her. She’s definitely the type of person that keeps crisps in tupperware that hasn’t fully dried, but if a secular government were to impose a tax for her supply of cigarettes, I would protest to increase it.

The second interaction was between her and my mum. She was detangling the garden hose when she spotted my mum and I together. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you’, and she said it without the faintest sample of curiosity, ‘the tutor on the ground floor, his paintings, whose artist are they?’ My mum replied, also without the faintest interest: ‘Picasso’ and they both smiled like they had just got a joke, like they had just improvised something incredible. It was, pointless, genius and exclusive. Anna doesn’t have the inquiring gaze of older ladies but if the mafia was to consult her for protection money charges, she knows the neighbourhood best. There’s a pottery workshop next to the church that doesn’t sell any pottery and she’s baffled.  

She chose the church for the incense smoke. The priest is a baritone and the force of his voice spreads hoops of frankincense across the hall, Anna inhales and comes back out. She lights a cigarette and pours her last sips of water on the plants before collapsing the plastic. She sits straight and doesn’t pet the cats. Women candlelighters usually have a constant, non-discriminatory affection in everything they do. Christian marketing tangled with piety, tangled with tasks that are inherently tender. Lighting a candle, dusting glass objects, locking a carved alms box, feeding the cats, feeding the dogs. Anna lights lanterns without even looking. The heroic saints on the ceiling, scenes of repentance, uncorrupted goats, celestial saving, all seem comedic with her worldly gaze of small sections that need repainting. What holy mountains? The peak’s paint is chipping. 

Sometimes you look at a person in a uniform and think ‘Was this bishop born to be a bishop?’, ‘Did the police life choose him?’. Anna chose the church life once and it’s been choosing her since. The manual work of maintaining a church exempts her from the spiritual grind. ‘Do you need to make a confession?’, the priest asks. ‘Respectfully, your cuff has sauce on it’. I haven’t forced another conversation because I’m terrified. Her smoker’s voice hangs on for dear life and when she sits in half light – half shade, I fear she’ll turn me into an ointment. She turns the volume up when the priest leaves his portable radio outside. 

‘Do you vape, young lady?’
‘Good morning, no.’
‘God forgives most things, but not vaping.’
‘Okay, good to know.’
‘With every kolivo you eat, God forgives one cigarette.’ The priest stood on the doorstep.
‘Anna, that’s a sin for a sin.’
‘Is it?’ she turned to face him.
‘It’s excess, Anna.’ The priest took his radio and vanished inside.
‘God forgives, don’t listen. Do you know how many batches of koliva those ladies bring? Every memorial is the same story of leftovers. And it takes real effort, you know, to boil the wheat berries properly. The wheat seed is buried in the ground and it rises. It’s symbolic.’
‘Sure it is.’
‘It’s symbolic of rebirth. So bring a container next time. What’s the Duty Free allowance for tobacco?’