The name is absent

58

Chapter 3

The heavy black door before me was worn from years of use and exposure, its
paint peeling and blistered. I searched the building’s façade but couldn’t find a street
number or mailbox; in fact, the only identifying mark I could see were the letters “Ф A”
scratched into the stone that surrounded the door. It was Stiflingly hot. I checked my
directions once more, looked at my watch, and reached for the door’s brass knob, turning
it tentatively. Somewhere within the old wood a mechanism released and the mass
swung back silently on large hinges. Entering into the foyer I looked over my shoulder,
instinctively, and removed my sunglasses. My heart rate increased as I stood in the dusty
space fumbling with the clasp on my bag, trying to retrieve my field notebook. Behind
me a spring caused the door to close with a decisive thud and I was blinded by the sudden
darkness: my breathing slowed to a quiet staccato and I became aware of the muffled
sounds of the street I had just left and the strange shapes in the shadows that now
surrounded me. My eyes adjusted eventually and I began to see details in the cramped,
graffitied space: the floor was a mosaic of the old style where stones were set in cement,
then sanded down and polished to reveal their intricate interiors; two doors, one broken,
stood on either side of me; a light fixture hung by its wires above me; and a spiraling
staircase made of wooden slats held tight by an ornate iron banister curled before me. An
acrid smell I could not identify hung in the air. I steeled my nerves and began to climb
the stairs, as per my instructions. Never had I been so aware of my footfalls as I was at
this moment.

On the second floor of this old house located at the heart of Athens’s activist and
political dissident district, Platia Exarchia, I found a poorly lit lounge. I entered and

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