A Self Effacing Man

by Sara Alexi

  The jerrycan makes more noise than he would like as he unscrews the top. Grit in the cap probably, but the fans are louder, and the men do not know the orchard as well as he does. He pours a little of the petrol on the nearest pile of logs, holds his breath as he sparks his lighter – they might see the spark, they might see his face, and, worse, they might see that he is alone. But with a whomp the fire takes, and he quickly moves across to the other side of the orchard and repeats the process with a second pile.

  The men seem to have stopped moving now. Cosmo creeps on silent feet around to the side of the men, who are talking hurriedly to each other. One is crossing himself, half turned and clearly eager to go. Cosmo looks back through his trees at the fires he has lit, which glow eerily. If he were a stranger and saw them he would not know what to think himself. The men seem undecided for a minute or two, but it’s not long before one of them, evidently the leader, waves a hand and, with slumped shoulders, heads for the hole in the fence, taking a crate with him. As the others clamber through the tear in the fence, all Cosmo can think about is how each man is taking little care and the rip is getting wider and wider with each shove and jostle.

  He sighs, but quietly, and watches as the men climb into their trucks and roll silently away down the slight incline, lights off. As they leave, Cosmo feels a tremor in his hands. Soon the engines start and the vehicles drive away, and he can feel himself shaking all over. He stands, runs to the back of his orchard and looks down the road in the direction that the trucks went. The road is empty, there is not a man in sight, but he can see that Yorgos’s fence on the other side has been cut and Grigoris’s the other way has a new opening. It looks like the army of men with their three trucks and their crates of oranges intended to make a night of it.

  Now he would really like to go home to his bed. He feels drained and, if he is honest, still just a bit scared. He turns and sees the eerie glow emanating from under the trees and makes his way to the fires. They are well lit, but he must light the rest – his mama’s thermometer tells him the temperature is hovering just below zero. The remaining hours until dawn are spent, thermometer in hand, going from one bonfire to the other, adding whatever wood is available, raking the embers together and trying to keep them going until the first weak change of colour in the east heralds the new day. The sun slowly (oh-so slowly) makes its way into the heavens and lifts the temperatures and Cosmo realises his work is done. The fires have all but burnt out now but the thermometer tells him the crop is safe, and so he heaves his body onto his bike and putters slowly home, where he falls onto his bed fully clothed, only to wake a couple of hours later in a panic, late for the post.

  Chapter 18

  With only three letters for Stella left in his bag, Cosmo considers his day done. He will take a coffee at Theo’s and then go to the ouzeri for a well-deserved lunch.

  His feet drag up the three steps to the kafenio, and he makes no effort to disguise his exhaustion. The place is humming, everyone talking at once, animated.

  ‘I heard they put it up,’ Grigoris says.

  ‘I heard that too,’ Nicolaos replies, ‘at the feed merchant’s last night.’

  ‘Can you imagine, though, your crop gone in one night! A year’s income stolen from under your nose! How would you survive? What would you eat?’ says Yorgos, whose orchard is adjacent to Cosmo’s.

  ‘Hey, Cosmo, you look beat, my friend.’ Petta and his baba, Miltos, are sitting with the farmers. The tables have all been pushed over to one side of the large room, arranged as if for a meeting.

  ‘Hell of a night,’ is all Cosmo can say.

  ‘Ouzo?’ Theo asks.

  ‘Coffee.’ Cosmo sits with heavy limbs, his head hanging, but looks up to find the men at the tables suddenly silent, looking back at him. ‘What?’ he asks, eyes flicking from one face to another.

  ‘What, what?’ Yorgos answers. ‘You are the one with something to say! You are the one telling us you had a hell of a night and looking like death.’

  ‘Ah, maybe he went to Saros, found himself a girl at last, had his first night as a real man?’ Grigoris guffaws.

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ Cosmo retorts. ‘I got to spend the night protecting your oranges Grigori, and yours, Yorgo. And all of yours!’ He looks up at the faces. He has all the farmers’ attention.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Petta speaks kindly.

  ‘Last night. Well, I thought my oranges would freeze, so I stayed up to light fires. You know, the old way.’ Cosmo wonders what they will make of this admission. He was lighting fires because he had not managed to get his fan working, despite having serviced it in the summer. Are they judging him as a fool?

  A few of the older men grunt, though, remembering their own ordeals with nights of frost, before the fans became an option.

  ‘What does that have to do with my oranges?’ Grigoris is quick to ask, and a look of worry flashes across his face. ‘Not a fire?’

  ‘In this damp?’ Yorgos says. The whole kafenio is silent, waiting.

  ‘Come on man, tell us?’ another voice says impatiently, and so he does, relating all he can remember and exaggerating only slightly the danger he was in. He certainly felt he was in serious danger, so he has to reflect that, does he not?

  When he finishes there is a moment of silence as everyone takes in the news.

  ‘They’ll be back!’ Grigoris says, his head hanging. ‘They are here to rob us blind.’

  This is met by sounds of agreement and thoughtful silence.

  ‘We could lie in wait?’ Cosmo suggests.

  ‘And which night will they come? And how many nights must we wait?’ is the answer from one of the old boys.

  ‘We could add to the reward, if we all chip in. If the reward is enough one of them will tell on the others. They have no morals, these men!’ Grigoris suggests. Some of the other farmers nod in agreement.

  ‘Reward for what?’ Cosmo asks.

  ‘Didn’t you hear? We have talked of nothing else for days! There is a reward for any information that will lead to their capture,’ Petta says as Theo delivers Cosmo his coffee.

  ‘On the house, you hero,’ Theo chuckles.

  ‘Yes, a hero! You are indeed!’ Yorgos says.

  Cosmo looks at the faces of the farmers to see if they are teasing, but he has never seen them look more serious. He is a hero in their eyes? Really? A hero? Well, he can fuel that fire!

  ‘Maybe even more than you think!’ he says. ‘I wrote down the number plates of all three of their trucks!’

  Just a fraction of a second passes as this news is taken in, and then every man calls, ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ The room erupts with the noise. Those with drinks stand.

  ‘Yeia mas!’ ‘Yeia mas!’ A new round of cheers begins.

  Theo slaps a piece of paper under Cosmo’s nose. ‘The reward,’ he says, and he nods at the paper, encouraging Cosmo to pick it up. Cosmo looks down at the paper and reads out loud, ‘To anyone who can provide information leading to the arrest of around thirty men suspected of stealing oranges in the villages surrounding Saros.’

  The paper goes on to describe the men, mentioning that they operate out of three trucks, stealing oranges at night.

  Cosmo looks around at the farmers’ faces. ‘That’s them!’ he says, and then he reads the smaller print that details the reward and explains how to apply for it, and he whistles through his teeth. That would buy a new fan. And a new fence! Maybe even a new bike.

  ‘You will need to go into Saros and tell the police what you know,’ one of the farmers says through the general noise and hubbub that the group is making. Cosmo finishes his coffee.

  ‘Well, to Saros I will go then,’ he says, bolstered by the attention. But as he stands, his body complains and he wonders why he does not just ask Theo if he can keep the piece of paper, and have another coffee or even go home and sleep. But all eyes are on him, and he suddenly feels responsible for everyone’s harvest: the village’s income is on his shoulders. Then ag
ain, his legs tremble with fatigue, which reminds him of his sleepless night and the fact that he still needs to get the fan fixed, unless he is prepared to stay up again and light more fires. And he doesn’t really believe he will get the reward. Those things don’t happen, do they?

  ‘Off you go, then,’ someone says, and there is a general hum of support.

  ‘Er, do we know if there will be frost tonight?’ he asks.

  ‘No, no frost tonight,’ is the general consensus, and his excuses die on his lips. Someone pats him on his shoulder, a thank you before he has done anything, and this is enough of a nudge to make his mind up. In any case, if his actions can stop his oranges from being taken, surely that is enough motivation in itself.

  ‘But first, a man must eat,’ he says as his belly rumbles.

  The men all wish him well, God speed. One or two follow him to the kafenio door, saying they hope he gets the reward.

  ‘See you, hero,’ Theo calls after him good-naturedly.

  Cosmo does not turn around, but he raises a hand and gives a little wave as he heads for Stella’s to fill his stomach.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Maria, up the lane towards the church, cats winding round her ankles and a dustpan and brush in her hand, by the bins where she deposits her rubbish. She is staring in the direction of the kafenio, presumably having heard the noise coming from within. Cosmo stands a little taller, striding out into the sunshine with the ‘bravos’ of his contemporaries still ringing in his ears. He smiles, but he does not catch Maria’s eye.

  ‘I am nearly ready to come to talk to you,’ he says very quietly to himself.

  As he crosses in front of the kiosk, the delicious smells of Stella’s cooking are brought to him on a breeze. He needs to eat, of course, but he also wonders how much of what he experiences as hunger is in fact exhaustion from the night before.

  ‘Yeia sou, Cosmo.’

  ‘Yeia sou, Vasso,’ he calls back as he passes the kiosk. When did he last eat? He cannot remember. He does know that even since buying his new clothes he has had to tighten his belt up yet another notch, so presumably he is not eating often enough.

  Stella is behind the grill turning sausages, her slightly frizzy hair up in a messy knot at the back of her head. She has a freckle on her neck he has not noticed before, just below her right ear.

  ‘You’re early,’ she says, and her voice tells him that she knows who he is and that she is smiling, even though she does not turn around.

  ‘Is there food yet?’ he asks.

  ‘Will sausages, chips, tzaziki and sliced tomatoes do you?’ she says, and now she turns to smile at him, but her face immediately falls.

  ‘Oh my, you look tired. What have you been up to?’ Cosmo is touched by the concern in her voice.

  He has had enough excitement in the last twelve hours to last him a lifetime, and doesn’t want to talk about it any more. He needs to calm his nerves and take stock, and so he just smiles.

  ‘I’m fine, the food smells great. Thanks, Stella,’ he says, and he walks through to the little dining area with its four tables, whose faded plastic cloths are as familiar as the grain of the wood of his kitchen table at home, and its wooden chairs, and a grease-smeared, glass-framed picture of a donkey wearing a hat on the wall to greet him. The small room is painted the same glossy pale green as his kitchen but he does not mind the colour here. The door out onto the street is closed and the air-conditioning unit on the back wall hums. At this time of year it blows a constant wave of warm air across the farmers. Cosmo is surprised but also delighted to see Thanasis sitting with Mitsos at one of the tables this early in the day.

  ‘Yeia!’ They greet him as one and Thanasis pulls out a chair for him to sit down.

  ‘Well, I need to sell my oranges,’ Cosmo says.

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Mitsos answers.

  ‘Yes, but the difference is that you have all done it before, and in my wisdom I have always let my mama sell ours. Who do I go to? Who is the man?’

  It was not so long ago that he thought this question would scare him, first because asking it risked sounding ignorant, and second because dealing with the buyers face to face is a cause for worry. Or at least, it is the one thing that he knows concerned his mama. She would get that look in her eye, the fear that would quicken her breath and so easily come out as bad temper. In the days and weeks before she knew she must talk to a buyer, she would become tense and then remain tense until the oranges were harvested and taken away. The tension would only really pass when she was finally paid, which sometimes took up to two months. There was always a chance of not being paid at all, as everyone in the village knew – of the horror of living with nothing until next year’s harvest. It is a familiar topic of conversation in the kafenio, and more than a few of the farmers are tied up in lengthy court cases with buyers who have not paid. The process can take years, and even if the buyers are found guilty there is still no guarantee of getting paid. It is a no-win situation; they are at the buyer’s mercy.

  But, as he asks, Cosmo does not feel all the tension he expected. He will find a buyer, hopefully one who can be trusted, with whom he can negotiate a fair price. The buyer will arrange workers to pick the oranges and then, paid or unpaid, no matter.

  This strikes him as a strange thought. Last night he was facing danger and barking into the night to save his crops, and today he is shrugging the income aside as immaterial. His brow creases as he tries to fathom his thought process, see where his feelings have come from, and it slowly dawns on him that all the stress of the oranges, the desperate need to keep them safe last night, to keep them on the trees as each month passes, is his mama’s. She taught him to think like this about the harvest, but it doesn’t take much thought for him to realise that the income will not make much difference to him. His mama never really shared the money from the oranges with him anyway. She paid all the bills, of course, but he is managing those on his postal income easily enough. She sometimes paid for the food they ate, but paying for food is just a fact of life. Of course, she covered the expenses of the orchards: the strimmers, the pruners, the water, the electricity for the fan. The fact is that now the farm is paid for by his income, whereas before it was paid for by hers. Well, if he does not get paid for the oranges then he doesn’t need to maintain the trees. He will put the whole farm up for sale and that will be that. He never wanted to be a farmer anyway. So, whichever way he looks at this, he remains calm.

  He marvels at himself. When did he become so – well, so … He tries to think of a word to fit but comes up with nothing.

  ‘Here you go, Cosmo. You want lemon or tomato sauce?’ Stella puts a plate before him, and a basket of bread with a knife and fork wrapped in a napkin and a choice of both sauces. ‘So, you are ready to sell, are you?’ She takes a seat.

  ‘Yes. Who do you trust to pay you?’ He says this with a laugh, and he is not sure if it is a nervous laugh or a slightly embarrassed one. He is aware it might sound like he is calling someone dishonest whom he doesn’t even know!

  ‘Well, avoid Vladimir,’ says Thanasis. ‘He does not pay, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Sergei is meant to be a man of his word. I used him the year before last,’ Mitsos says.

  ‘And last year?’ Cosmo forks up some chips. The food is reviving him.

  ‘Ah, well, last year …’ Mitsos begins.

  ‘Yes, but you promised not, this year,’ Stella replies, her words clipped.

  ‘Ah, did you wait, to get a better price because everyone else would have sold and the buyer would have no option?’ Cosmo asks.

  He has heard the farmers talk about this. This game divides the village; some take this risk, gambling on the possibility of higher prices, and others are adamant that it is tempting fate and sell as soon as they can, replenishing their depleted funds. The longer one waits, the higher the prices go as the available crop of oranges gets smaller. But wait too long and the harder frosts will come … Often the wives’ nerves make t
he choice for the farmers, or so they say. There are one or two hard-core players who wait and wait and still have their oranges on the trees in February! They must dust them with a lot of copper sulphate to keep them hanging that long, Cosmo decides.

  ‘You would be a fool to play that game,’ Stella says, and she curls her upper lip, which Cosmo knows is a serious gesture, and an unconscious one. Still, it makes him laugh.

  He covers his chuckling by adding, ‘No waiting for me. I just want them sold.’

  ‘Well, if you want them sold right now I have a good man’s number. Sold my little harvest to him last week,’ Thanasis says. ‘We’ll wander by my house after we have eaten and I will write it down for you.’

  Cosmo thinks of the journey he must make to Saros – but then he recalls with a start that the licence plate numbers are still inscribed in the dust! He’ll have to get those first, so he might as well go past Thanasis’s place too. His heartbeat increases: what if one of the men walked over that patch of ground, or a dog, or there was condensation and they are no longer legible?

  Well, finishing his lunch now will not make the difference. He takes another forkful of chips, adding a sprinkling of salt. The rest of his meal is accompanied by jolly banter and his concerns are lost in the moment. Stella is up and down, going backward and forward to the grill, keeping her eye on the chicken, making up the odd parcel of food for children who come in for their families. When Cosmo’s plate is clean, it is Thanasis who stands first.