Page 69 of Pierce Me

There’s more climbing until we reach the room with the lit up window. It’s a tiny attic, but it doesn’t look sad, because there is light and music pouring out of its one small window, as if the tiny room can barely contain that much beauty and is letting it overspill out into the city below.

Dimitris knocks, and at once the music stops. How on earth can two guitars, three violins, a flute and a cello fit inside this tiny room? (Not to mention the musicians who are playing them.)

“Dude,” I hiss in Dimitris’ ear. “I can’t just show up at a stranger’s home, uninvited.”

“This is Greece,” Dimitris answers easily. “It’s what we do here. Besides, you’re not a stranger, and you’re not uninvited. You’re with me. I live here too.”

Oh, well. Can’t argue with that logic.

An eighteen-year-old Dimitris look-alike opens the door. Must be his brother. He nods at Dimitris, then peers at me. Lower goes my hat.

“I brought a friend,” Dimitris says. “He wanted music. Oh, and we’ll have to speak English for his sake. Behave.”

The lookalike groans, but immediately steps aside to let me in.

I reach the conclusion that yes, Dimitris is, in fact, crazy.

That being said, his lookalike opened the door for me and let me in, no questions asked, so it must be even worse than that: They all are crazy here.

Inside, the room is warm and cozy. It’s more spacious than it looked from outside, but not by much. There’s nothing but a bed and music inside it.

People are seated against each other, on top of each other, with no empty spaces left between them. There are backs and elbows touching, half of them sitting on the floor, and the other half on the first half’s laps. A few cans of beer are scattered around the room, and every person here is holding a musical instrument.

Everyone turns and nods at me, and then they go back to focusing on the music. There’s a dude with a guitar and curls down to his waist whispering a song to himself; no one pays him any attention. Then I notice that there are others doing the same around him. At some point, they stop and turn to each other, exchanging sheet music. They start to play together, and that’s when I realize it: They are composing. Either a symphony or a song, I don’t know which.

As soon as they’re done, they all whoop excitedly and turn to the Dimitris lookalike. His name is Yiannis and, I swear, they spend a full ten minutes begging him to sing them a song. He smiles and goes a bit red—maybe he’s not even nineteen, after all. Then he grabs his guitar and he starts.

His voice is largely untrained, but he has natural talent. There are men and women way over twenty-two in here, and in comparison, Yiannis is a kid, but he sings with the baritone of a man. His song is in Greek, but I can tell it’s a love song. It’s sad and a little bit angry, but mostly it’s the wounded cry of a man who has had his heart broken. It hits me right in the gut, even though I can’t understand a word. Did he write this? In-between verses, Yiannis brings a cigarette to his lips—the air is thick with smoke, as a lot of them are smoking. Everything looks fuzzy at the edges with this much smoke, as if you’re looking at it from an old photograph.

A girl to my left smiles as she reaches over me, squeezing my face into the wall, to crack open a window. Cool air rushes in immediately, and everyone yells at her to open it all the way. The window opens up like a door, bringing the night sky inside.

Yiannis starts a new song, and everyone sings along—it must be a popular song, one they all know. Most of them pick up their instruments and accompany his singing. At some point, Dimitris looms over me and tells me his brother is seventeen, and has his own band. He’s still in school—but he’s a musical prodigy.

Note to self: Don’t get him in the same room as my brother. Ever.

“Is it legal for seventeen-year-olds to drink in Greece?” I ask.

Dimitris shrugs. “Sure. It’s no big deal.” He offers me a drink, but I refuse. His eyebrows meet.

“You a musician too?” he asks me after taking a large gulp himself, beer foam forming a white moustache on his upper lip. His skin is tan and his hair is black and curly, but his eyes are a light brown, almost like Eden’s.Don’t think about her.

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

He laughs and points at my hand. I look down. My fingers are calloused from playing the guitar, but only a musician would notice that.

“Right,” I say. “Well, I play. A little. Not classical music like they were playing before.”

“What do you play?”

“Songs,” I reply lamely.

“No,” Dimitris laughs. “No no. I meant, what instrument.”

I laugh too, but it’s hollow. Where do I start? I don’t want to list every single instrument I play—I don’t want to give anything away.

“Ah, I play the guitar,” I say.

“And?” Dimitris prods.

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