Being Enough

by Sara Alexi

  She was twenty-one at the time, so it would have been … 1986. How could so much time have gone by? She is very proud of her children, but what has she achieved for herself in all these years?

  Yes, 1986, and yet she can still remember phoning the boatyard, to get a message to her baba to tell him that she was fine, as if it was yesterday. Tolis seemed very glad to hear her voice.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ were his first words. ‘It is all over Ta Nea. Here, let me read.’ This was followed by a sound of shuffling papers. ‘Nine people have been killed and one hundred and sixty-three wounded in a series of bomb explosions in Paris,’ he continued. ‘Responsibility for the attacks has been claimed by a group calling itself the Committee for Solidarity with Arab and Middle Eastern Political Prisoners, which is demanding that France free from prison a suspected Lebanese terrorist leader, Georges Ibrahim Abdallah’ – his tongue twisted over the foreign syllables – ‘and two convicted terrorists.’ He paused and then added, ‘There are big demonstrations.’ The paper rustled again and he added his own view;

  ‘You see what happens?’ he said. ‘Algeria and France. Once you have a history with someone you cannot erase it and it can come back and bite you if you have been unfair. People do not forget.’

  She cut him short, telling him how much the call was costing her, and made him promise that he would climb the hill and tell her baba that she was safe and in London. She rang a couple of weeks later, too, when she knew she would not be delayed any further getting home. She didn’t want to worry anyone, especially her baba, so she lied, and told Tolis that the tour had been extended.

  Walking on towards Orino town, she repeats aloud, ‘”But once you have a history with someone you cannot erase it.” How true is that, Christo?’ But something brings a picture of Harris to mind.

  The upper edge of the pine woods is marked by an old fallen tree, and as she passes it the sound of the cicadas is even more deafening. Their rasping love song is sung loudly and desperately, their brief lives above ground lived to the full: a few days to find a mate before their energy is gone and they fall to the ground. The forest is alive with them and nothing else can be heard. This stage of their life is an emergency and their rasping serenade seems to respond to this fact.

  Despite the noise, it is peaceful under the trees, insulated and shady. Rallou’s footsteps are softened by the pine needles that carpet the ground, and the sun’s direct heat is kept at bay. There is no one for miles. Before she knows it she glimpses blue sea between the branches, and she knows the small plain of the boatyard will be visible in a moment and – there, yes there, is the track that goes down the other way and leads to a remote olive grove. If she were to follow that track and go further she would pass the fig tree that guards the tumbling rocks down to the hidden cove.

  It cannot be very late yet. She waved goodbye to Baba before the sun was fully in the sky. It might set her back an hour, but wouldn’t it be worth it to see the cove again? Her childhood pulls at her, sparking a desire to feel unburdened once more.

  The track through the trees is little used and the way is not clear. It looks like it has been a long time since any man or beast has come that way, and when, after quite a detour, the pines give way to the olive trees she is nonetheless surprised to see them overgrown and neglected. Takis’s and Tolis’s baba began to cultivate the trees, but he has either lost interest or has found that it is too much work for his advancing years or, more likely, just not economically viable these days.

  Up ahead, the fig tree looks healthy. There are no figs yet, of course – it is far too soon for that – and the thought occurs to Rallou that Yanni’s mama must have found a way to store the fig sap that she used to make the feta. She might ask Yanni about this the next time she sees him. The sun reflects on the big, dark-green leaves. The tree is bigger than she remembers it, but then it would be: it has been growing without her all these years. The branches that once arched to show the way to the entrance down to the cove are no longer curved. Instead they are tangled and dense. But if she goes to the side of them there is a way through.

  Her foot touches the first stone of the descent. She cannot see the cove yet for the branches of the fig tree. The rocks are nowhere as near as steep as she remembers, but then she was so much smaller the last time she was here.

  She grips a branch and steps down. A tangle of vines has crept over the stones and it is tricky to sweep it away with her toes before planting her foot and still keep her balance. Maybe this was not such a good idea. This part of the coast is known for its rockfalls. The coastal path often gives way in the winter when the water rushing down from the top erodes the surface, creating gashes in the path, or else seeps underground, washing away small tunnels waiting for unwary footsteps to cave in the surface, the pebbles as slippery as ice.

  Rallou keeps hold of a branch or a part of the rock face at every step. Baba told her to always maintain three points of contact, two feet and a hand, whenever she tried to climb something that felt difficult. Between the branches she can make out shimmers of light and sparkles of blue, and what looks like a dark rock that must have fallen and landed in the centre of the small patch of sand down by the water’s edge. Concentrating on keeping a steady footing, she decides to wait to really look at the cove until her feet are on firmer ground. It will be easier going back up, as she is clearing the way as she goes. Just the last bit and – there, that is sand under her feet. Pushing the hanging fig leaves out of her face she turns to view the hidden cove of her childhood, and her hand goes to her chest at the sight that greets her. ‘Ah!’ she exclaims. ‘That is so sad.’

  Chapter 11

  What looked from above like a large dark rock, lying there in the sand, is in fact a donkey. Just its head, front legs and shoulders are out of the water. The animal is motionless, its coat smooth and glistening, wet. The current must have only just washed it up for it to be soaked like that. Its hindquarters are still immersed. The water gets deep here suddenly, Rallou recalls.

  But it does not shock her, particularly. Growing up with herds of goats and sheep, and having always kept chickens, she is used to animals dying. But a donkey! It brings back the sadness she felt when Mimou died. Mimou was old, very old, and had been Papous’s donkey before he died, and that was before she was even born. Their baba had explained to them all that the donkey was very old and that they must treat it as gently as they could before it died, so no jumping on its back, and they should give it a treat once in a while. Even so, when it happened, it felt as if life would not let her forget the pain of death, the isolation of life – that her mama was gone, that her little sister was gone. It seemed as if death waited at every corner for the ones she loved.

  She is older now, and the lifeless donkey on the sand arouses ambivalence in her. Animals and people die; it is a fact. But still, the sight of this poor creature touches something in her: the sadness of life passing, the waste perhaps? Or maybe the urgency created by the awareness that life can be cut so short with no warning, and must be lived. Rallou knows.

  The water splashes against one of the animal’s hooves, covering it with a thin layer of sand. Rallou lets her bags, with the bread and eggs and feta, slip from her shoulders softly onto the sand and on impulse she strokes the animal’s muzzle. They always look so soft, but she was nipped by a donkey as a child and has since kept a distance from their downy lips and nostrils.

  The poor animal is still warm. It must have been in the sea for a very short time; donkeys do not have the grease in their coats to keep water from their skin that horses do, and she had expected the creature to be quite cold. Curiosity brings her to her knees as she studies its face. She has never really examined one so closely before; on the island donkeys are there to do a job, and for years – since she has lived in Orino town, anyway – she has seen them without really seeing them, as she might a pickup truck, or any other device for carrying heavy loads. But, with its soft muscle against her fingers, the warmth of its skin indica
ting the recent passing of its life, she finds herself recalling her experience in London.

  ‘Today’s activities,’ said the tour guide, who was plump and chewed gum endlessly, in a voice designed to cut through the chatter that accompanied breakfast at the hotel, ‘will include’ – she looked at her notes – ‘a trip to the British Museum.’ Rallou thought this sounded rather dull. There was a museum on her island with displays about the ships’ captains who had lived there, and after her third visit she had found it very boring indeed.

  ‘This will be followed,’ the fat girl continued, ‘by a visit to Madame Tussauds.’ Rallou had heard all about Madame Tussauds, and it appeared that she was not the only one, because a wave of excitement spread through the group at this announcement.

  Once at the museum, though, she found herself in room after room full of ceramics from Greece: red-and-black Attica ware, Mycenaean pots with geometric patterns and pictures of octopus painted on them, and frescoes from the Minoan palaces in Crete showing brightly coloured dolphins and tall young men leaping over bulls. In the next room were Egyptian mummies in ornate caskets, with their twisted, blackened fingers and taut, dead cheekbones, and by the time she found her way back to the entrance the group had gone and she had been left behind. She chided herself for her stupidity and felt a momentary sense of panic, which was soon replaced with excitement. Being alone in this big city, with no one in the world knowing where she was, seemed to open up endless possibilities, freeing her from all constraints. Ever sensible though, and lacking the funds for a greater adventure, Rallou looked around for a taxi. She could have asked for Madame Tussauds but if the group were no longer there when she arrived that would necessitate a second taxi back to the hotel. With limited resources for such extravagances she decided one taxi straight to the hotel was the wisest thing to do. ‘There you go, darling,’ the cabbie called back over his shoulder, indicating the house her group had stayed in the night before, the signs outside advertising Bed & Breakfast and No Vacancies.

  Alighting on the pavement, she debated whether she could put off going straight into the place, with its gloomy hall and breakfast room. If the group were not back yet she could spend some time getting to know the immediate area, the ‘real’ London – maybe meet some genuine Londoners. That could be even better than the waxworks. These thoughts were crossing through her mind when she felt a sudden sharp tug at her wrist. Looking down, she realised in an instant, and with horror, that she had shut her bag in the door of the taxi and, worse, that the strap was wrapped around her forearm. As the car began to move off she shot forward with amazing speed, only to be stopped by a lamppost, her left shoulder taking the impact. Her head snapped backward and the last thing she remembered thinking was that the postcard she had written for her baba was still in her bag and if she did not get it back she would not be able to post it.

  Then lights seemed to go on and off, but at one point she was aware of a handsome man inside a white vehicle telling her to lie still, his fingers on her wrist. It might have been the case that she asked him to go to dinner with her, or maybe that was just a dream. Then it was all dark again. The next time she opened her eyes it was dark, and the same man stood by her bed.

  ‘I just came to see you were all right,’ he said, and everything went black again.

  Then, with no warning, Rallou awoke again and felt herself rushing upward and backward in a wide cylindrical tunnel, the walls of which were pulsating red, pink and dark orange light. She could feel the wind on her back, her arms and legs splayed out in front of her as if a string attached to her spine was being retracted to its place of origin, pulling her, allowing no resistance. The colours in the shaft shifted as she travelled and she had the sense that she was moving with tremendous speed. Now and then the colours lightened as if the tunnel walls were thinner there, but she knew if she reached out there would be nothing solid to grasp, and in any case the tunnel was wider than she could reach, even if she were able to hold her arms out to the side against the force that was propelling her. She had no power to resist the momentum, and it was clear that she was being taken somewhere. Then just as suddenly as it had started, the movement stopped, and the walls of the tunnel on either side of her grew lighter and widened into white, light area. Rallou turned around and found that she was on the edge of the tunnel, in an elevated position, with a good view all around. From here she stared amazed at the scene before her. In front of her and slightly below her was what appeared to be an endless space full of people busily engaged in some activity, the details of which were unclear. The floor was white, the backdrop was white and the sky was light. But it was the people that she could not take her eyes from. They were not made of flesh and blood, they appeared to be made of light, each glowing.

  It was beautiful.

  But the greatest impression was how she felt. It was as if her mama’s arms were around her again, she felt so loved. No – it was even more than that, more than any love she had ever felt before. She felt totally and absolutely accepted for everything she ever had been and everything she ever could be. Every aspect of her was love here. It was as if she hadn’t realised that a part of her was missing, and that that part of her was in this place; here, she felt whole, complete. She felt accepted. She felt love. If ever the word ‘bliss’ was appropriate then this was it. She was in absolutely bliss and every worry she had ever had, every insecurity she had ever felt was not only extinguished but also understood, by her and everyone around her. How could her life not have been confusing before this experience? Now everything made absolutely sense now and she sighs the deepest and longest sigh or pure flawless contentment.

  A being, or maybe a person, appeared at her left-hand side. He, and for some reason she knew it was a ‘he’ even though his features were obscure so much light as pouring form him, increased the feeling of being loved and accepted and she did not have to ask who he was or what he wanted. Nothing needed explanation, the sensation, the feeling she was enveloped by made sense of it all. The person, the being, the glow of human shaped light began explaining everything and as he did so he gently took hold of her arm, his fingers encircling her left wrist, and the light that he was made from began to creep into her up her arm and down to her fingers. Two more people, beings of light, appeared in front of her, to talk to her. There faces glowed so their features were not discernible, but she knew that she knew them and that they loved her and she loved them.

  As she talked with them, the feeling of love grew. This was where she belonged; she had never been so certain of anything ever. This was her home, the pieces of hers that was missing were here, she was complete. But just then, a flicker of memory of the home she grew up in, on the island, images of her father made her doubt herself. It was such a small doubt, so tiny it would have been forgotten in the next second. But it was enough to bring her rushing back down the tube, at a speed faster than she arrive with, until she was left awake and in her bed.

  Her body felt heavy, awkward and uncomfortable and she fought to be released but her skin had her trapped. The ward was dimly lit, and Rallou watched a woman in a nurse’s uniform walk past the end of her bed. The colours were drab and dim, the place felt alien and she felt very alone and unloved. She closed her eyes and tried to force the tunnel to reopen, force herself to travel up it, to get back to that sanctuary of peace, get back to herself. She wished and wished, and once, in the next forty eight hours she made it part way up the tunnel, and for a moment she was elated that she was going home. But it was not to be. She fell back into her body and awoke in the lightless word.

  ‘She’s awake,’ a nurse called to a man in a white coat.

  It went dark again at that point, and her memory of the next couple of days was hazy. A few days later the man in the white coat stood at the end of her bed with a group of people her own age who looked nervous, and who also wore white coats.

  ‘Ah,’ the doctor explained to the group. ‘Now here we have a lucky young lady. Cracked C2, broken clavicle,
and ribs, four, five and six. Came in in a coma. Didn’t seem to have the will to live at one stage and we thought we were going to lose her. But, as you can see, alive and well … But if that break had been a quarter of an inch lower, well, it could have been a different story.’ At this point he smiled at her and wagged his finger as if to suggest that she had done something wrong, or that she hadn’t taken enough care. Then the smile was gone and he turned to the group to ask, ‘Any questions?’ There were no questions, and the carnival departed.

  ‘It is a lovely place, donkey. I hope that you can go there,’ she says wistfully. She has never told anyone about this experience. It feels too important, too special, to dilute it by putting it into words. ‘But you won’t go there if you are not ready,’ she adds.

  With one finger she delicately traces the soft fur around the animal’s eye. An involuntary tiny tick seems to spasm the muscle in its cheek. Did she imagine it? Was it a reflex, a cadaver’s twitch of a nerve to the spinal cord? She jerks back and looks at the animal. Nothing has changed and her hope drains.

  Then – there! It did it again.

  The animal coughs and water comes from its mouth, momentarily turning the sand beneath its jawbone darker before draining away. It coughs again and wheezes. Its eyelids flicker and open. It is alive! A hoof digs into the sand but it has no strength to lever itself out of the water.

  ‘Hang on,’ she whispers. With one leg either side of the donkey’s neck she curls her hands underneath and tries to pull, but it is a dead weight.