It looked exactly the same to him.
When he came back up to where Artemis was sitting, she’d lit a cigarette and was staring cross-eyed at the smoke rising white and thick from her mouth. She had black specks all over, on her cheeks, her arms, her legs, her ankles. Her shirt, skirt, and sandals were blackened with ash. She looked like a miner.
Get up, let’s go.
No. Go home and get the kite.
Get up already, I said.
No. I want the kite.
They looked at one another like cats.
Please, do me that favor, Artemis said. Will you do that for me? Don’t you love me anymore?
His eyes stung. He rubbed them with his thumbs and they stung even more. A breeze had picked up and Artemis’s hair was blowing around like a torn flag. She pushed it out of her eyes with one hand, smearing black fingerprints over her forehead. She looked like a miner. A miner or an Indian covered in war paint.
As he headed for the car, he heard her calling to him. She was holding a bottle of wine by its neck and waving it in the air.
Bring something to open this, too, she shouted. I want us to get wasted tonight.
* * *
They used to dream. Staring out at the sea. That’s why they decided to call the place Good Will Come From the Sea. It wasn’t going to be just your regular ouzeri. It wouldn’t even be an ouzeri. They weren’t sure what it would be, only that it would be something different, something unique. They dreamed all kinds of dreams, had all sorts of ideas. They knew their dreams were bigger than what they could actually accomplish, but they couldn’t stop. They dreamed of doing things not just for themselves but for others, too. They couldn’t change the world, but they could at least change a small piece of it.
You know what we are? Artemis asked Stavros. We’re the planet by its proper name. Remember how you once told me that so much of the globe is covered in water that we should really call it Water, not Earth? That’s what we are. The planet by its proper name. And we’re like that fairy tale, too, about the village that was overrun by rats and one day a guy in brightly colored clothes with a magic pipe started playing and charmed the rats and they followed him into the sea and drowned. That’s what we are.
They used their compensation money on the renovations. It was an old fish taverna, on the water, between Agiathalassa and Paradeisia. Artemis’s uncle, the German, had bought it years earlier for the land, planning to knock it down and build a summer home there. But then his wife, an Italian woman with two kids from her first marriage, made him buy a villa in Sardinia, in a place called Costa Smeralda, where Berlusconi and Niarchos apparently had villas, too, and a scoop of ice cream cost twenty euros, so the taverna sat there, abandoned, worn away by the weather and the salt from the sea. Last winter, when they’d decided to move to the island, Artemis called her uncle in Germany. He was pleased at her news and told her to take the keys and go and stay in the taverna for as long as they liked. But they didn’t need a place to live. They’d found one, small and cheap, in Little Athens. They were looking for a business. Her uncle needed some time to think it over. He was a methodical man, had his systems in place, and never made hasty decisions.
Give me a few days to talk it over with Aunt Mauretta, he told Artemis.
He was the president of a pharmaceutical company. He had Greek blood, a German mind, and an Italian wife. He went skiing in the Alps, had a huge villa in Sardinia, traveled for work to Beijing, London, New York. He was a true cosmopolitan.
A week later they talked on Skype to settle the details. A two-year contract, five hundred a month, no deposit. They would start paying rent in September. The first three months, the whole summer, was on him, for good luck.
Artemis was thrilled. But Stavros didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t like her uncle, either, saw him as one of those guys who went from Raphael to Gaphael without looking back, Greeks who ended up even more German than the Germans. Just listening to him talk turned Stavros’s stomach.
Allo, Stavgos. It’s uncle Gaphael calling from Stuttgart.
They would talk for a minute, then Stavros would call Artemis to the phone.
Achtemis, come heag, please. It’s your uncle Gaphael from Stuttgagt.
Artemis would come running, biting her lip, and pinch him to make him stop.
He didn’t like Raphael one bit. More German than a German. You folks down there, he’d say to Stavros. You folks down there do this, do that. You folks down there need to learn to work. To stop crying over spilled milk and figure out how to stand on your own two feet. No one owes you anything. You know what’s to blame? Your backwards ways. Two hundred years later, you still haven’t decided if you want to be European. I mean, who do you think you are? Really, who?
He had a whole theory. According to him, over the past few years, Greece had committed the perfect crime. Actual perpetrators: politicians. Moral perpetrators: voters. Motive: to buy people’s conscience. Weapon: money – foreign money, black market money, easy money. Victim: the nation.
That was his theory in a nutshell. And as much as Stavros felt like giving him a piece of his mind in return, he always held his tongue.
Do us a favor and go fuck yourself, uncle Raphael, he wanted to say. Everyone’s always pointing fingers at this crime or that, but the Germans sure are ones to speak. And drop that line about Europe already. What Europe? Europe only ever existed on maps and in books. And don’t start in on Plato and Aristotle and the Romans. We’re talking about now, and about normal people. What do I have to do with a Dane, a Swede, a Czech? And what exactly was our crime? The fact that we wanted a shingle or two over our heads, wanted to buy a car? I mean, what were we supposed to do? Live in caves and ride around on mules? You’ll be sending us back there before you know it. To an era of caves and mules. And as for caves, fine. But who knows where we’ll even find mules to ride, by that point we’ll probably have eaten them all.
That’s how he wanted to respond. But he didn’t say anything. So Artemis had to bear the brunt of it.
Just imagine, us living in the taverna. What does he take us for, Pakistanis or something? And can I say one more thing? If I had his millions I would help as many people as I could. I wouldn’t sit there and charge my own niece five hundred a month for that ruin. The cheapskate. What’s the use of relatives like that? Instead of him saying, sure, take the place, it’s yours, and here’s thirty thousand to get things off on the right foot – instead of him telling you that, he has the gumption to ask for rent and contracts and all the rest. That cheapskate has no shame. What an asshole.
Are you insane? Artemis said. Instead of thanking the heavens that we found a place that’s ready to go, on the very best stretch of waterfront, you have the nerve to talk about him like that? Where else would you ever find a place like that for that kind of money? They’d want two or three thousand, at the very least. The guy’s doing us a favor. And he needs the rent for tax purposes.
Yeah, big favor, Stavros said. He should’ve just given you the deed. That would’ve been a favor.
Stavros.
What? Am I wrong?
Pull yourself together, please. And stop complaining. Don’t expect favors from anyone. Whatever we do, we’ll do it ourselves. That’s how things work. Got it?
Jawohl, fgau Artemis. Stavgos understand.
Get it together, I’m telling you. We’re foreigners here.
What do you mean, foreigners? Fuck that shit. Foreigners? Where do you think we are? Canada? Australia? Is it still fucking Greece here or is it not?
What matters isn’t where you are but how you are, Artemis replied. If you’re in need, if you’re on the outside, you’re a foreigner everywhere.
Stavros stubbed out his cigarette and put on his coat.
Where are you going?
I can’t stand to listen to you talk like him. I’m going to get some air. It stink
s of Germans in here.
* * *
They started to get the place ready in January, after the holidays. Bit by bit, week by week, thousand by thousand. Plumbers, refrigerator repairmen, electricians. Whitewashers, painters, floor guys – every dog in the pack. They spent their days haggling and their evenings dreaming. All kinds of dreams, crazy dreams, dreams by the sea. Good will come from the sea. Stavros said it was bad luck for them to dream so much, but he couldn’t stop himself, either. The first year would be tough, for sure. Real tough. And the second year, too. But after that, things would start to find a rhythm. They would set a little money aside and plow the rest back into the place. Later, they would buy the restaurant and the plot of land and would get the German off their backs for good. They would plant a vegetable garden and an orchard, everything organic, so they wouldn’t have to depend on rats who tried to pass off Chinese garlic and Dutch tomatoes as local produce. Next they’d buy a boat and Stavros would go out fishing, so they wouldn’t have to buy fish from rats who pumped them full of chemicals, like mummies. Then they’d buy olive trees to make their own oil, and grapes to make wine and tsikoudia. After that, they’d buy a big stretch of land up in Agrimia where they could raise their own livestock. They would make yogurt and cheese, their own eggs, their own milk. They’d make everything themselves, and have no need of any rats at all.
Everything would be theirs.
So they wouldn’t need the rats at all, on land or on sea.
They had other plans, too. They would build an eco-friendly hotel where they would use only local products – no more Luprak, Lipton, or Amita. Then they’d open a store where they’d sell local things, too, and eventually build an entire network for the production and distribution of local goods. And whatever money they made, they would keep on the island, to help others start new businesses and heal the wounds the rats had inflicted on this place over the years, building whatever they pleased, wherever they pleased, however they pleased, stealing from one another and collectively robbing everyone else, working three months out of the year and spending the other nine vacationing in the Seychelles or Gstaad, charging five euros for an espresso and ten for a Greek salad, importing frozen roosters in March and pawning them off as fresh and local in August, serving crocodile in Abyssalos and bison in Rigos, taking money from European Union programs to build bed and breakfasts and using it to dig foundations in the middle of nowhere, which they abandoned without access roads, or electricity, or water, pretending their arid, rocky land was fields so as to cash in on farming subsidies, hiring thugs to strongarm people and smash shop windows, smuggling in whole shiploads of knock-off liquor from the parallel economy, and generally greasing the palms of every mayor, tax officer, and cop around.
They had so many plans, so many dreams. And when they sat arm in arm on the rocks and gazed out at the sea, Artemis would remember the last Christmas they’d spent in Athens, before they left for the island, when they went out to shop for presents and everyone was so polite in all the stores, wished them a merry Christmas and a happy New Year, and looked at them so expectantly, with an expression in their eyes that wasn’t grasping or greedy, just full of melancholy and longing, and she remembered telling Stavros how badly she wished they had money, lots of money, so they could go into all the shops and buy something from each place, and remembered telling him for the thousandth time how ever since she was a little girl she’d wanted to give, to give something to everyone, for no particular reason – because what’s the use of living if you can’t give, and if you can’t give to everyone, at least give to those around you, give without expecting anything in return, give without taking anything in exchange, always be the one to take the first step and, yes, I know stuff like this is in fashion these days, everyone says it, and I know that the best way to destroy something good isn’t to fight it but to mock it, degrade it, turn it into an internet meme, an electoral slogan, an announcement on TV, but I really believe it, I believe it more than anything, and I know it’s not terribly original, it’s nothing earth-shattering, I know it’s all been said a thousand times, but that may be true of everything in life that really matters, and anyhow, just because something isn’t original doesn’t mean it isn’t true, in fact maybe that’s how the truth usually is – monotonous, boring, not original at all.
That’s one hell of a head you’ve got on your shoulders, Stavros said. It’ll make us millionaires one day.
They dreamed all night, every night. Even when they came home exhausted from work – Artemis from the souvlaki stand, Stavros from his delivery route with the truck – they would go out onto the rocks and stare for hours at the water, at the stars, the clouds skidding across the sky, the lights from other islands, the lights on ships passing by on the open sea, the lights on fishing boats casting out nets, or pulling them up again, so many lights flickering in the darkness. They would sit side by side smoking or drinking wine, would talk or listen silently to the plash of the waves, and Stavros would bury his face in her hair, trying to catch a whiff of bitter almond beneath the smell of grilled meat, trying to forget the days when her hair smelled only of bitter almond and never of grilled meat, trying to forget, trying to learn to forget, to forget, to forget.
They dreamed of fixing up the restaurant, later, once they had found their footing, to look like a boat, with masts and sails, a prow and a stern, a bridge, even a hold. They’d given it a lot of thought, and it seemed like a great idea.
An ark for the good that would come from the sea.
It was a great idea, really.
And useful, too, for the end of the world.
* * *
He left the car down at the square, behind the church of Saint Marina, and ran up the hill to the house so the neighbors wouldn’t catch sight of him and start in again on their condolences and questions. What a terrible thing, Stavros, one guy would say, and another would ask, have the police found anything? Of course they had. Sure, all kinds of stuff, hairs, fingerprints, traces of sperm – they’ve got it all. Any minute now Horatio Caine is going to jet in from Miami to take a look at the evidence. We’re on the right path. It’s just a matter of time, they’ll probably have the whole investigation wrapped up in a few days. The perpetrators will be arrested and brought to justice. The festering wound will burst. The scalpel will dig deep and clean out the wound. The bratwurst will tickle the throat. Oh, sorry, that’s from a different show.
He ducked into the house, went to the window, and looked out from behind the curtain, turning his head to one side like a bird reflected in the side mirror of a car. He was out of breath and as soon as he lit a cigarette he started coughing so hard he almost choked. His breath seemed tinged with the taste of blood. He looked out again through the curtain. It had been her idea to find a place in Little Athens. He wanted them to live outside of town, in one of the nearby villages. He knew what would happen. He knew sooner or later everyone would start treating the place like their own, coming and going whenever they liked. This isn’t a neighborhood, it’s a commune. And what’s with the name, half the people here aren’t even from Athens. They barge into their neighbor’s house whenever they please, drop off sugar, borrow coffee, bring spanakopita, take a bottle of wine, eat together, drink together, stay up together until all hours. That’s the worst, those late nights. Talking for hours, straight through until dawn. Everyone wants to tell you their story, and it’s all shit that happened a year or two ago, but the way they talk, you’d think they were unwinding yarns from the war or even before. Once, they say. Once, years ago – and then they tell you about something that happened in 2007 or 2008 or even 2010. What a bunch of kooks. They all sit around pouring out their pain, hanging their dirty laundry out to dry. They laugh, sometimes they cry, even laugh and cry at the same time. Sometimes they’re talking about layoffs, bankruptcies and evictions, and the next minute they switch to parties, trips, vacations. Men talk about their wives, women about their husbands, fat
hers about their sons, mothers about their daughters. They talk about old folks and children, grandfathers and grandmothers, nieces and nephews and grandkids, the living and the dead. Everyone talks, all the time, and all at once.
Hey, buddy, Stavros would nudge Stathis, who was a security guard at the nuthouse in Rigos. Can’t you take them all over there and lock them up? They’re all fit to be tied.
He’d warned Artemis. From the very beginning he told her not to open up to anyone. Stay sharp, he said. If they start asking about the restaurant, just play dumb, change the subject. Be careful, he said, it’s bad luck for them to be talking about us. Of course he was wasting his breath. He might as well have been talking to himself. Women. Sew up their mouths, their eyes, bind them hand and foot – they’ll still find a way to talk.
And then it happened, what he’d feared. They all started chiming in with their two cents.
You should definitely make it a fish place.
Yeah, but just stick to the little ones, anchovies, sardines.
For sure. Who’s going to spring for big fish these days?
I say make it one of those gourmet restaurants, or an ethnic place. That way you’ll attract the best clientele, and tourists too.
Come on, man. You think they’re going to serve Chinese food or something?
Why not? You see how many Chinese tourists we get these days. And they’re here by Easter, before high season even starts.
Sure, but why would they come all the way from Shanghai just to eat Chinese food? Are you guys totally nuts?
Make it a mezze place. They’re the only ones that stay open in winter, too.
Will you be open for lunch?
Where are you going to get your tables and chairs?
What kind of decor are you thinking?
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