No birth certificate, no licence, no passport: meet the invisible man

Lefteris didn’t own a car, didn’t have a driver’s licence, and had no bank account or credit card or social media accounts. He had an unregistered mobile phone that he topped up with pre-paid credit. He had no superannuation, no pension, and spoke more lies than truth. I wanted to touch him to make sure he was real.

An orphan with four different surnames

Growing up as an orphan, Lefteris was introduced to our family by a friend of my grandfather’s. He now used four different surnames depending on who he talked with. My brother claimed he knew Lefteris’ real name but refused to share it with me. Lefteris said he was originally from Crete. He also claimed to have fathered four children to four different women from four different countries. My brother didn’t know if any of it was true.

We drove north in my brother’s labouring Romanian jalopy. Our first stop was the border station. My brother left me in the car while he and Lefteris crossed on foot into the Republic of North Macedonia to buy cigarettes, whiskey and fake designer clothes.

They knew the border guards well, especially Lefteris. He presented them with offerings from a plastic bag: homemade preserves and thick blocks of cheese that he’d either bartered, been gifted, or stolen. My brother told me the most you ever saw Lefteris carry was a plastic bag.

All Lefteris had in this life seemed to be his mind and his mouth. He carried his dirty clothes to the laundry in a plastic bag. He had no appliances or furniture in his flat and slept on a pile of old blankets.

His home was cold in winter, hot in summer. Lefteris never paid his first electricity bill, so the power was cut off. He kept a torch by the door that he used to see around his flat. He sometimes forgot the torch in his pocket, ended up with it at cafés, which his circle of friends found hilarious.

It was the same with the water bills – he never paid them, so it was cut off. He now refilled old plastic bottles from the spring near his house, pure drinking water straight off the mountains, and carried them home. He had never let anyone into his flat, not even my brother, who did not press him for it.

Lefteris spoke to the border guards in a combination of Greek and Yugoslavian. He was fluent in Russian, Croatian, and other assorted Baltic languages. He even spoke a little English he’d picked up watching American TV in the kafenion (cafe). I watched them all laughing and wishing each other well.

We returned to Florina with the car’s muffler scraping the surface of the road and a trunk full of black market booty, and drove straight to the police station. With so many illegally sourced items in our possession, I panicked for a moment, but my brother assured me it was fine. We sat in the station’s waiting room while Lefteris went out the back, clutching cartons of Marlboro high-tar cigarettes and bottles of French cognac and boxes of Italian shoes.

I could hear his voice echoing, chatting with the police officers, banter and gossip, and laughter every few seconds. In the corner of the room was the Greek police’s filing system of handwritten cards; it reminded me of my primary school library. Lefteris said it was an honour to help out his best friend’s younger brother in such a significant way. I’d asked my brother if I could buy Lefteris something in gratitude but he said no, it would only insult him.

My brother said winter was the worst time of year for Lefteris. With the snow knee-deep and the temperatures plunging to below freezing, Lefteris would stay out all night in clubs and cafes. It was the only way he could keep warm and escape the bitter cold in his sparse flat. He would stay till dawn, talking to whomever he could find.

Lefteris was regularly sick in winter, and rubbed his body with olive oil to warm up. He was one of the first to contract COVID-19 in Florina, and nearly died before the paramedics dragged him to hospital for treatment.

No one knew where or if Lefteris washed. He was known to try and pick up women just so he could use their showers. The younger girls laughed when they saw Lefteris hanging around the clubs. To them, he was a sad joke. But Lefteris knew he was following in a rich tradition. My brother knew it, too.

“People say if you took Lefteris up the mountain, into the woods, and killed him with an axe, there would be no crime,” my brother said. “How can you murder someone who does not exist? For all intents and purposes, Lefteris does not exist. Yet he is larger than life, and my most loyal friend.”

The man of the hour suddenly appeared in the doorway, beckoning me into a back room. I joined Lefteris and a young female officer who proceeded to feel the full force of his charm. He kept asking about her family, promising to bring her lovely mother some fresh mountain honey, and fluttering his long eyelashes.

Her cheeks were flushed pink as she handed over my new taftotita. It looked legit. It was legit. Lefteris winked at me. He later told me he’d been over to the police sergeant’s house the night before, sharing cigars and a bottle of aged whiskey, and solving the world’s problems.

Lefteris had done it. We returned to the car triumphant. My brother threw two cigarettes into his mouth, lit both, and gave one to his long-time friend who started puffing away.

We went to the kafenion to review the day’s proceedings. I ordered espressos for everyone and a double shot of single malt for Lefteris. I was not going to take no for an answer. He thanked me and raised his glass in cheers.

The Invisible by Peter Papathanasiou is published by Hachette.