Being Enough

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Okay, so Christos is safe. Thank goodness. Harris has fainted but is alive. We should see who else we can help,’ Lori interjects. She touches Rallou’s forearm.

  ‘I will go to find our brothers,’ Rallou tells Harris, but Harris’s eyes are closed, her eyelashes encrusted white with dust.

  Lori is on one side of Harris, Ted on the other. Rallou crosses herself as she passes the rubble that, just this morning, was her home. It is unreal, as though if she blinks hard enough everything will return to normal. How else will life carry on? They have no money to rebuild the house, and nor, these days, compared to when they were first married, do they have the energy. All her life force seems to drain out of her and she hardly sees any point in putting one foot in front of the other.

  Greg calls from behind them, ‘Pa, there is a man here who needs our help. His wife is trapped under a beam, I think he said.’

  ‘Okay, Greg. Rallou, will you be all right? I must go and help.’

  Rallou nods her permission. Now she is alone: completely, utterly, devastatingly. Her legs move but it is not by her will. They continue their slow tread to the port automatically. She should be delighted. Christos is alive! He is not buried in the rubble that was their home. But he is alive and in Corfu, not here with her to tell her that everything will be all right, to tell her not to worry about the house, to tell her that he has the strength for both of them. Why on earth is he in Corfu? What was so momentous that it would persuade him to leave the island? What did Harris say? A new love, a young love? They have no connection to Corfu. No family, no friends. The only connection they have ever had to Corfu is … But surely Harris did not mean that girl that Christos once knew, the one training to be a teacher – or was it a nurse? Yes, it was a nurse. Surely that is not what this is about? They may be going through a rough patch but this cannot be his response, can it? When people have been married as long as they have there are going to be times that are rough and those that are smooth. He must know that there is no truth in the gossip about her and Greg – surely he knows her better than that? But she shouldn’t have to flatly deny it, should she? Hadn’t her walking out stated loud and clear that she was disgusted that he even thought there was any truth in such a rumour?

  She coughs and her phlegm is thick with dust. She spits. Others are also making their way to the port: a place to find each other. How many other people are homeless?

  If he did not take her walking out of the house as a disgusted denial, what did he think it meant? Her legs stop moving. Surely not! He cannot have thought she had left him?

  The last walls of her life, the emotional walls that hold her together, collapse, and the world suddenly seems like a very large place with no boundaries, no limitations and no safety nets.

  He has gone. Everything has gone.

  There is no point in making any more effort so she sits where her feet have stopped, right in the middle of the cobbled lane. All the jumbled emotions inside have evaporated, and she is numb. Everything is functioning; her lungs operate, her heart beats, her eyes see and her ears hear but she watches herself function as one might watch an ant climb over a twig. It is impressive in one way, but unremarkable in another.

  Kyria Vetta’s son is now talking to a man who owns a small shop on one of the side streets. He is looking for his own son. They assure him that the last time they saw him he was down at the harbour in a cafe-bar and that he will be fine. They move off together, supporting Kyria Vetta herself, but they only get a short way when they are stopped by another man who grabs their arms and pulls them. He is shouting. Someone must help him roll away a large rock that has trapped his dog.

  Meanwhile, Ted has reappeared from a side street, the underarms of his shirt stained, his black trousers white with flakes and granules of plaster. An old woman in black calls to him and he in turn calls to his son.

  ‘Greg, a woman here says her husband is stuck.’

  Greg appears and turns onto the side lane, Lori behind him, eager to help.

  Rallou continues to just sit there.

  Chapter 17

  Slowly, her thoughts begin to press her for answers. When did Christos go to Corfu? Oh yes, Harris said she saw him yesterday. How long was that after she went to Korifi? Three days, five, a week? Why does the mountain do that – twist time until days and nights no longer have meaning? But whenever it was, Christos did wait some days. Maybe in that time he began to believe that she wasn’t coming back? But the only connection Christos has ever had with Corfu was the girl he was seeing when she was in London – the nurse.

  When she and Christos first started courting, Harris did try to warn her. Didn’t she say that he and this girl from Corfu were close? Maybe there was more to what she said than Rallou gave her credit for. Is it possible that he has been in contact with the girl all these years? Well, she will not be a girl now but a woman, and not such a young one, just like Rallou herself. But the difference between the woman from Corfu and herself is that Christos has not witnessed this ghost from his past age and wrinkle. In his head she will still be young and perfect.

  Rallou tries to swallow but her throat is lined with dust. Has he really taken her absence as the end of their marriage, and gone off to see what he has been missing all these years?

  ‘No – please, no!’ she says out loud.

  ‘You all right, Rallou?’ A hand on her shoulder. A neighbour is talking to her. ‘You and yours safe?’ The neighbour releases her shoulder and puts her hand to her head and pulls lumps of plaster from her knotted curls.

  ‘Yes,’ Rallou stammers. The neighbour’s face is masked with debris, little flakes of whitewash in her eyebrows. But she grins, an act of forced confidence, perhaps, and as she does so the red of her gums and the white of her teeth contrast with the film of grime on her skin. The interruption to her thoughts brings Rallou back to moment. All around her is rubble and chaos, people are crying and shouting, buildings are still collapsing, and the town is engulfed in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Your brothers, your baba?’ the neighbour asks.

  ‘My baba!’ Rallou shrieks at the sudden horrifying thought.

  ‘He is up in Korifi, isn’t he?’ the neighbour says, clearly alarmed at Rallou’s reaction.

  ‘Yes!’ Rallou cannot take in all the people around her. Where have they come from? It is like a festival, everyone on the street, but no one is laughing.

  ‘Korifi will be fine,’ the neighbour assures her with another grin that creases the parched skin all the way up her cheeks but gives no light to her eyes. She looks scared, despite her forced positivity. She does not explain why Baba will be safe in Korifi, but she pats Rallou’s shoulder and marches on, leaving her dazed and unsure what to do next.

  Her brothers. She must find Vasillis, make sure he and Eleftheria and their children are safe, and Costas and Yorgos, Grigoris, their wives and children. She scrambles to her feet and starts down the main lane, turning down a side street towards Vasillis’s home only to find it blocked by a fallen wall. She tries the next, which leads to his shoe shop, but this too has been filled with rubble and roof tiles. Many people, all with white hair and dusty clothes, all looking as dazed and unsure of their movements as she feels, are filtering to the main lane down to the port. Everyone is heading to the central point.

  As Rallou nears the waterfront, she turns off towards the small hospital. If any of her brothers or their families are hurt they will be there.

  The square in front of the small building is milling with people. Some are moaning and holding their arms, or legs, or heads. There are cuts and sprains and blood. A mama pushes for attention for her offspring. Her daughter has suffered a bump on the head. Her fussing is brought up short by the sight of neighbours and friends in a worse state than her little ones, and she helps an old woman with a torn blouse to find somewhere to sit. To Rallou it seems a remarkable piece of unselfish concern. When her children were hurt or sick she had no room for anyone or anything else. How often has Harris told her wh
at a dedicated mama she was? How can this woman think of others when her own child needs her attention?

  The woman pulls her child in towards her and bends to talk to the girl and give her a kiss on the forehead. Then the two of them, the woman and the child together, comfort another old lady next to them. Is that why she and Christos have been so far apart? Did she direct all her energies towards the children’s needs and in the process exclude Christos? Is it even possible to care too much for one’s children?

  Everyone in the square is talking, but not loudly, as if they have agreed that to remain calm would be best. The dust in the air is beginning to thin. People are coughing less. The doctors are there working methodically through the crowd, attending to those in most need first. Normally they share the job, working shifts around the clock. Rallou also recognises a German man who has been coming to the island for years, who is a doctor. He is busy treating people too, aided by the three nurses from the hospital, and in amongst all this is Lori, somehow still managing to look elegant despite the dust and her tear-stained face. Her sleeves are rolled up and she is attending to people with great authority, clearly in her element. Rallou had no idea she had any medical training and has always assumed she was simply Ted’s wife. She feels slightly shocked and just a little ashamed of her assumption.

  ‘Rallou!’ It is Vasillis. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ His voice brings her out of the stare she has fallen into.

  ‘Eleftheria? The children?’ she asks, once again animated as Vasillis takes hold of her forearm so the bustle of people moving around them does not separate them.

  ‘Fine. I have just seen Yorgos too and he is fine, and he has seen Costas and his family are safe.’ He is pushed close to her by someone making his way behind him.

  This news is a relief but it also feels surreal. What has happened is just not sinking in – the whole situation, all these people outside: it’s too much to take in. She is not sure what she should be feeling, or what to do. Her mind feels blank, her emotions on hold. She wishes Christos was here but …

  ‘Grigoris? His family? Baba? What about Baba?’ She tries not to shout. At the thought of him being harmed, panic runs through her chest, curls around her stomach.

  ‘I don’t know. I have heard Korifi was not so badly affected but we won’t know until someone actually goes up there. Don’t worry, Rallou. The houses up there have been standing forever and there is plenty of open ground. Grigoris is fine, his wife hurt her shoulder, but the kids are safe. I have to go – I am looking for Eleftheria’s mama. She was not at her home when it struck – she was at her friend’s house by the port, I think.’ With a quick squeeze of her arm he is gone, into the crowd, and Rallou is left as an observer. She knows all the people around her, by sight, by name, by little pieces of shared history, but no one is a close friend to her, no one special. She came to town as a besotted new wife, with eyes for no one but Christos and a desire to stay in the house and keep him with her. But then, so quickly, she became a mama, and then her children took all her energies, her time and her focus. At that point in her life, when would she have had the chance to make friends, real friends? At what point in her life should she had taken her eyes off her children, compromised their safety and focused on Christos or anyone else for that matter?

  ‘Excuse me, Rallou.’ Someone pushes past her.

  Maybe she had better leave the hospital square to those who need it – her brothers and their families are safe. If she goes to the port, perhaps she can find out if anyone knows anything about Korifi. Pushing her own way through the crowd, she briefly catches sight of Lori making a tourniquet around someone’s arm. The thought that even Lori has done more than just raise her children passes through the back of her mind as she makes her way to the port.

  Down at the harbour, even more people are milling about, shoulder to shoulder. One side of the port is unrecognisable. Whole buildings are missing. The statue of The Old Captain has shifted on its plinth and he looks in danger of plunging into the harbour. The Venetian-style clock tower, originally built in three sections, does not look right and it is only after a second glance that she realises that the top layer is leaning, the columns on one side missing.

  Where should she go now, and who can she ask about Korifi? She heads to the coastal path. A crack wide enough to step into has opened up across the walkway. How is the donkey doing? In all this she has forgotten about the animal. Just hours ago its well-being was the most important thing in the world, and now it is all but forgotten. If the rocks around the cove have collapsed in the earthquake, the poor thing could be buried. But animals are wise, they feel these things before humans do, and maybe the ground moving was enough to give it a surge of adrenaline that would have carried it up the stony path to the olive grove.

  ‘Rallou! Have you seen Vasillis?’ It is Eleftheria’s mama, who looks very shaken, her thin little legs hardly holding her. She does not have her stick with her.

  ‘He is looking for you. Eleftheria and the children are fine. Take my arm – which way are you going?’ It feels good to help.

  ‘I don’t know where I am going. Home? If it is still standing! Where is Vasillis, did you say?’

  ‘Looking for–’

  ‘Ah, thank God.’ Vasillis appears, crossing himself, and then his arm is around the old lady and her weight is transferred from Rallou to him.

  ‘Vasilli, have you heard any more of Korifi?’ Rallou asks.

  ‘Come, Mama,’ he addresses his wife’s mother. ‘Yes!’ He turns back to Rallou. ‘One of the Kaloyannis brothers has gone up to Korifi. He will call Costas Voulgaris as soon as he gets there.’ He nods in the direction of the kafenio. People are crowded outside it – drawn to it, perhaps, as a central point of congregation. ‘I will see you back here. Wait for me if I am not back in time to hear the phone call.’ Then he is gone, carefully leading his mother-in-law through the crowds.

  Costas Voulgaris is open for business, except no money is exchanged for the strong Greek coffees and glasses of brandy that the waiters are passing out to the crowd on the waterfront. Rallou turns away from the cafe, wondering what to do, where to go next.

  ‘Rallou!’

  She looks around to see who is calling.

  ‘Rallou, you all right? Over here,’ It is Costas Voulgaris himself and he is holding out a glass of brandy. He has always been sweet to her. ‘Drink, it will steady you. Are your family all right?’ The question is beginning to sound like a normal greeting, with everybody asking everybody the same thing. When she does not answer he says, ‘Drink, girl.’ She takes a sip and the liquid loosens the dryness of her throat. She wipes her hand across her nose. It is hard to believe that the sun is still shining and the water in the bay is still twinkling under a cloudless blue sky. Then Costas’s arm is around her shoulders, and he is hugging her tight as she drinks. It feels so supportive. The brandy, in her empty stomach, takes effect presently. Reality takes a little backward step and her overloaded mind calms.

  ‘Have you heard from the Kaloyannis brothers?’ That is the one thing she needs to know.

  ‘No. It will take them a while to walk up there. There is only your baba up there, right?’ Rallou nods and takes another sip. ‘Here, come here.’ He leads her to the front of his shop and pulls a chair out from inside. ‘Sit here, Rallou, just sit. Wait.’ Someone calls his name and he is gone, and Rallou is left on her chair, watching the strange chaos on the harbour very slowly subside as time passes. The table next to the chair, surprisingly, still has a holder for napkins on it. Perhaps it has been casually replaced by one of the waiters. Either way, she takes one and blows her dust-clogged nose and the relief is immediate. People are talking all around her. News is travelling fast from one person to another. As far as she has heard, no one, thank the heavens and the stars, seems to have been fatally injured. News like that would have already travelled like wildfire.

  Some people are beginning to leave the harbour, and others arrive. At first the question people asked was �
�Have you seen …?’, naming their missing loved ones. But as time passed the question changed to, ‘Is your family all right?’ – and now this has become, ‘I‘ve not heard of anyone seriously injured, have you?’ To that question the answers include broken arms, broken legs, bad cuts, sore bruises but, so far, not one person reported dead; then, later, this becomes the greeting: the miracle that no one has died.

  But all Rallou wants to hear is that Korifi is safe. Then and only then will she allow herself to think of Christos.

  Chapter 18

  The quake was so sudden and so violent that the world itself seemed to be coming to an end, and the silence that follows feels like a mockery. It seems ridiculous that gulls are still flying above the port, that the yachts are still floating. In a few hours it is ascertained that in the whole town there has only been one fatality, and she was a very old woman who was confined to bed, and who was not expected to be long for this world. People cross themselves when they hear the news, and consider it a miracle that there were no more deaths.

  Rallou goes on waiting for news from the mountain.

  A large woman, whom Rallou recognises as the wife of a local builder, bustles onto the harbour’s edge, telling anyone who will listen how she cried herself sick with worry, searching for her husband.

  ‘I thought he was dead! Buried under the rubble of that house he has been renovating for the Swiss man. Her face wears a furious expression. ‘Have you seen the huge stone lintels and ancient heavy wooden beams in that old mansion? Any one of them could have crushed him like a walnut!’ And she crushes the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other and twists them with force.

  She is talking to no one in particular, just anyone who turns to face her as she keeps walking.

  ‘But it turns out that he was not at the mansion at all! No! He was avoiding work and loitering in a kafenio here by the harbour, eating fish, drinking ouzo and playing tavli with Pan!’ There is no relief in the woman’s voice, just anger, and indignation, as if a cruel game has been played on her. Pan is a big bearded man who, for a price, will dive into the harbour to untangle the anchors of the visiting sailing yachts. He turns at the sound of his name and, seeing the woman, ducks into a kafenio out of sight. ‘Where is my husband?’ she demands, and someone tells her that he has gone looking for her. At this news there is a softening of her stride, and she bustles away again, still in search of her lazy spouse.