Boy cries about Amy
(Το διήγημα «Αγόρι κλαίει για την Amy» μεταφρασμένο στα αγγλικά)
Kimon Theodorou
Boy cries about Amy
THERE ARE ONLY TWO kinds of people in this world: those who cried when Amy Winehouse left us, and the ones who didn’t cry. Zefi gave me her verdict: “You’re nuts, you didn’t even cry this much about father.” And then she said that we were talking about a junkie here anyhow ̶ Amy that is, not father ̶ and everybody knows how junkies end up. She forgot about that time three summers back when we didn’t go on holiday ̶ besides, we never go because we’re flat broke ̶ and we made do with car rides along the coast, driving from Kalamaki to Saronida. The metal frame of the Opel was smouldering, the old wreck being a thirty-year institution, a family heirloom, with the windows open to the brim, a fan that didn’t work and a radio that hardly did either, but the old tape player could still spew out music, giving off a kind of retro feeling, ’cause who listened ̶ and still listens ̶ to music on cassette anymore? I’d filled up a tape just with ‘Rehab’ and ‘You know I’m no good’ on repeat. In a way, dear old Amy saved our lost holiday. Still, Zefi remained in the camp of those who didn’t cry and I wondered whether it was possible that we were brought into the world by the same parents. She didn’t cry when she lost the baby either; it was as if the miscarriage didn’t involve her body at all. Then, during the divorce, when she finally got rid of her husband, she almost had a party. At a random moment she had come out with a real slip-up, saying that I had no idea how much trouble I was missing because she didn’t see me getting married any time soon, at least not like I am now stuck in the wheelchair. You should have seen how much I cried about Michael Jackson. More about Amy though.
