The Gypsy's Dream

by Sara Alexi

  It’s early, but warm already.

  She settles into the plastic chair and sucks her frappé through a straw. There aren’t many people about. A girl stands in the shade leaning on the telegraph pole, a tourist. You don’t see many of those here in the village. Shorts, sandals, strappy T-shirt, bag. Everything looks creased. Maybe English. Too blonde for English?

  Distant sounds of morning echo around the village. Closer, from just across the square comes the grating sound of plastic against concrete as Vasso struggles with a stack of beer crates. It must be hard for her all day in the kiosk with no one to swap shifts with now. Not that Vasso will complain that she is alone. Her son’s job in Athens is such a point of pride.

  Stella stretches out her legs even further, luxuriating in the sun’s touch relaxing her muscles. Child’s legs, all skin and bone and no muscle. Stavros won’t be here for hours. She didn’t hear him come in last night but this morning the sickly sweet odour of sweated alcohol betrayed last night’s excesses. She sighs and closes her eyes, the sun turning the insides of her eyelids pink.

  When they first met he was an Adonis, with his charm, his flat stomach, his laugh. But mostly she likes to remember when he was still happy. When they were happy.

  A sound of farmers laughing drifts across the square. The kafenio is starting to fill up. This is a good sign for Stella. All day she will be slicing meat turned on the upright spit, stuffing it into the folds of grilled pita bread with tomatoes, chips and garlic-yoghurt dip, wrapping it in greaseproof paper, handing these giro to hungry farmers, lazy wives and starving school children. Eaten in the hand as they walk home, juice dripping down their chins.

  This is the sixth, no seventh, year she has been running her restaurant. Well, not exactly a restaurant. The four coarse wooden tables with equally rough chairs do not make a restaurant. An ouzeri, perhaps. She certainly sells enough ouzo, along with the charcoal-grilled sausages and chickens, to farmers who sit for half an hour and want more than the hand-held giro or souvlaki.

  Stella smiles. Seven years. She loves it. She loves being at the hub of the community. She loves the laughs and the banter. She loves serving food to the single men who all look a little crumpled and need some care. She loves putting extra sauce on for the children and extra chips when they buy a parcel of chicken to take home for their mothers. She loves Friday and Saturday night when she puts on the radio and the customers stay longer, drink more, enjoy themselves, the cool of the evening air adding energy to her limbs, and a bounce in her step as she serves and dances between tables.

  The farmers who come are a rough but jovial bunch.

  ‘Hey, Stella,’ they call. ‘Your potatoes are the finest in Greece,’ and the place dissolves into uproar, no harm intended. They fling compliments at her, these, who once threw stones. She gives as good as she gets, not offended by their rough ways and serves free shots of ouzo to the authors of the funniest comments, revelling in their flattery. Once Stavros had joined in. Lately he is more likely to clatter the spatula against grill, demanding her help.

  ‘Hey, Stella, don’t put any more fuel on that fire!’ the farmers hiss in a stage whisper, or ‘don’t blow on those coals, they will burst into flame,’ they warn as she scuttles to see what he wants, casting them a silencing look as she goes, giggles and whispers following her through to the grill room.

  Stavros’ piercing blue eyes rarely turn to her as she enters these days. He will just throw the spatula onto the counter and go to sit outside. One time recently he had just spat the words, ‘The sausages need turning,’ and had taken the bucket out to get more charcoal.

  It isn’t that what he says is cruel or unkind or untrue. The words themselves are harmless. It is the way he says them, his tone a window into his mind. What does he think of her if he feels free to speak to her that way? If she were the butcher the tone would be different; if she were one of the farmers even, then he would not be so dismissive. But the edge in his voice shows the absence of respect. It leaves her on the brink of tears. At these times a quiet desperation lodges in her, creating an urgency, compelling her to do something, anything to make the situation different, the feeling go away, to make things better.

  She sighs and scuffs circles in the dust on the tarmac with the toe of her shoe. He was the life of the place once. More farmers’ wives had come then. He charmed them and made them feel special. He used to make Stella feel special once.

  Stella stops grinding the dirt and looks over to the new sandwich shop across the road, just opened, and doing rather well it seems.

  These days, when Stavros offers more than a grunt all he has to say is that they need more business, tourists. He has even talked about employing a foreigner to help bring in these tourists, as if this foreigner will have an unlimited line of hungry friends trailing behind them. Why would the tourist come here, to this village, the same as thousands of others scattered across the backwaters of rural Greece? A moth flies to the light. But these thoughts remain unsaid; these days it’s better that way.

  Stella peers across at the tourist. White shorts is still standing by the telegraph pole, rummaging in her bag. It is big for a handbag but not a rucksack. She takes out a phone.

  Stella wants a mobile phone. She is not sure who she would call on it, but it would be fun. There would be no point in calling Vasso, she is right there in the kiosk during the day and next door when they go home. The butcher, next door? But the order is the same every week. The bakery is just across the road. There would be no point in calling Juliet, the lesson with her is at the same time every week.

  The lessons are a silver lining to the cloud of Stavros’ growing obsession with the need for tourist trade. It didn’t take much to persuade him that learning English would be a good idea. She arranged a direct swap, a chicken dinner for an hour of Juliet’s time. The lessons are going well and Stella studies when she can and becomes excited towards the day of her lesson. Last week they practised shopping conversations. Recalling the lesson, she forms her lips.

  ‘I would like a dozen teacakes and a jar of marmalade.’ Stella says out loud. She isn’t entirely sure what a teacake is but she loves Juliet’s marmalade.

  The thought focuses her senses. A batch of bread must have just come out of the bakery oven, the warm mouth-watering smell thickening the air. They will come across with her daily order soon. Stella will pick out the end of a warm loaf for her breakfast.

  She sucks on her straw considering how, overall, despite Stavros, she loves so much of her life. Hopefully Stavros will pull out of this mood and they will plod on until they are old and grey, serving hungry kids, adding extra sauce and dancing with the farmers.

  The girl at the telegraph pole puts her phone away and takes out a purse. She doesn’t look very happy.

  Stella wonders if she should put extra sausages on, the kafenio is very full. They will sit there all morning and wander across when they get peckish for a giro or sausage and chips. She might even put a chicken on early. Someone may want to eat their main meal before mid-afternoon.

  The girl in the shorts walks across to Vasso’s kiosk and flicks through a little book before looking into the window. Stella is side-on to the open window of the kiosk and she cannot see or hear Vasso until she laughs. Stella knows this laugh. She uses it when she has made a joke; it is slightly withheld as if she is embarrassed. Vasso’s head appears, pushed through the kiosk window, followed by an arm. She points in Stella’s direction.

  Perhaps the girl is hungry. Stella gets up to check the grill. It is almost hot enough but even the sausages will be fifteen minutes and the potatoes aren’t peeled yet. The girl will either have to wait or go across to the sandwich shop. She can imagine Stavros’ face if he found out …

  She looks over to the new shop, and the Romanian girl who opens up and serves there waves at her. She seems alright but Stella has not really got to know her yet: she is new to the village. Stella nods in return and looks back to the square to find the tourist nearly upon
her.

  ‘English?’ the girl asks. Stella wonders why she would think she is English. She has dark skin and dark, shoulder length hair, frizzy from the heat of daily cooking, and even darker eyes. But she seizes the chance to bring her English lessons alive. This is what all the work has been for.

  ‘No, I’m Greek.’ Stella smiles, feeling very pleased with herself.

  The girl talks too fast and Stella struggles to keep up. The story begins to unfold. It seems there is some sort of a mix-up. The poor girl has got on the wrong boat and is miles away from where she was heading. Stella feels for her, she is only young. She goes into the shop and pulls out a second chair. But the girl is all but curled up on the kerb, her knees to her chest.

  ‘No problem.’ Stella tries to sound cheerful. ‘I will drive you back to port and you can go to the Saros.’

  The girl does not move.

  ‘No problem, I will drive you.’ Stella finishes her coffee with a lot of dry sucks, getting the last of the froth. But still the girl does not move. Stella takes a step towards her, hesitates, and then takes one back before committing herself and crouching down beside her.

  ‘What is the problem?’ Stella asks. She peers under the girl’s hair which hangs lankly over her face.

  The girl sniffs. Stella jumps up and skips into the shop, grabs a handful of paper napkins and hands them to the tourist as she crouches beside her again. The girl looks up from her knees, her eyes wide and wet with tears. She looks so young. Stella can feel her heart reaching out to her. She puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve been stupid,’ the girl says. ‘I only had enough money to get to the job on Saros.’

  Stella sucks in her breath. This is tough. Stella has no money in the till. Again. She is not sure when Stavros empties it but it is becoming a more and more regular event. How does he expect the place to keep running if there is no money to even pay the butcher? He keeps saying they need to earn more, but for what?

  A crowd of thoughts presses to the forefront of Stella’s mind. Her eyes widen, her pulse begins to race. Stavros’ obsession with tourists; he will want to take this girl in as a worker. He will think she is the answer to all his business dreams. This is not good. Things are unsteady enough between them and this would be a terrible burden to place on the girl, who is so young. Besides, he would also take advantage of her position and pay her next to nothing.

  Under these thoughts is an angular, acid emotion. She recognises it, she cannot fool herself. It would only be a matter of time before he would want to prove his manhood in one way or another with this poor unsuspecting girl if she were to work for them.

  ‘How old are you?’ Stella asks as gently as she can.

  ‘Sixteen.’ The girl still sniffs and studies her sandals, wiping the dust from them around her toes. Her nails are bright pink.

  The girl is just a teenager. When Stella was first married there were rumours. Rumours about Stavros, about him before they were a couple. Rumours that he had been pushing his affections onto some girl who was too young. It wasn’t the old, old days when people were married as young teenagers: these were the days of George Michael and Michael Jackson. She can remember the posters on her wall. It had come as a shock to Stella, the dirty looks he received when they moved to his village after they were married. The gossip behind his back, the sudden silences when she walked into the village shop. The sympathetic looks she received, with her being so small and childlike herself. None of it matched the image she had of her hero. He had made her laugh and changed the subject when she asked him to reassure her. The gossip subsided when she was introduced as his wife in church that first Sunday. After that he had been so attentive in public no one could doubt his love for her. It silenced them all. She had touched on the subject a few years later, but he was not so jovial then and it was clear the matter was closed.

  No, he must not meet this girl even if these rumours were never true. There is enough tension between them without adding a new dimension.

  For the girl’s sake and her own sake Stavros must not know she has been here.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Abby.’ The girl lifts her head and looks at Stella. ‘You?’

  Despite her worries Stella is also excited to be living out one of her English lessons. ‘Stella. I am very pleased to meet you.’ She grins. This was lesson one.

  The girl smiles back. ‘I am pleased to meet you too.’

  Stella cannot think what to do next. She cannot abandon the poor child. For one thing the girl is sitting on the kerb outside her shop, and another, more compelling reason is if she and Stavros had been able to have children, their child would be – she pauses her thoughts to do the maths – twenty-four. She looks back at the girl, realising just how young she is.

  ‘Where are your mother and father?’

  ‘Never had a mum. She died after giving birth to me, haemorrhaged to death.’

  ‘Hem are itch?’ Stella curls her tongue around the word.

  ‘Bled to death. Dad’s back in England.’ Her tone is flat.

  ‘Ah!’ says Stella, “Aemmoragia”. Are you here alone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Abby’s eyes brim with tears again and Stella looks around for the napkins. The girl has them in her hand and she dabs at her eyes.

  ‘So if we call your Baba, I mean Dad, he will send you money?’ Stella smiles at her insight and this simple solution.

  ‘No, he probably hasn’t even realised I am gone yet.’

  Stella sees the problem getting bigger. She turns her head but cannot see the clock inside. Stavros could come down any time. Stella has much she must do before he does. The farmers will be hungry …

  ‘Ahh the sausages!’ Stella exclaims in Greek and runs inside to put the sausages on. She also lays on a split chicken.

  Without really thinking she picks up a bowl of potatoes and sits to begin her peeling in the sun. The girl looks up and Stella nods to the second chair which the girl, after raising herself like a boneless puppy from the pavement, relaxes her growing frame into, tucking her feet under her.

  ‘So you are away-run?’ Stella returns inside for a piece of newspaper to drop the peel on.

  ‘You mean a runaway. I suppose I am, but not really. I have a friend who has her own flat, so I am no more a runaway than her.’

  ‘You have your own flat?’

  ‘No, I mean …’ But she doesn’t really have the enthusiasm to explain properly.

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘The only thing I can think to do is to go back into town and try and find work there. I saw a couple of bars.’

  ‘Ah yes, a good idea. I give you a lift into town.’ Stella puts the bowl down on the pavement, wipes her hands and goes inside to turn the sausages. She looks at the clock. The girl must leave soon. There is Stavros and the chips must be cut.

  Coming back to the pavement, she reflects, ‘No. I cannot drive you now. I must cut the potatoes. He will get very cross if the potatoes are not done. I give you money for the taxi.’ She feels in her apron pocket.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it. I have a little money left which I was going to use for my breakfast. I will use that,’ Abby says.

  Stella’s pocket is empty anyway. She balances the bowl on her knee and peels the potatoes swiftly and carelessly, dropping the peel on the newspaper between her feet.

  Stella puts the knife and the potatoes down and greets a man coming across the road carrying a wooden box. He nods at Abby and calls a cheerful hello to Stella, putting the box on the floor inside the shop before marching back to the bakery. The shop fills with the smell of fresh bread. The aroma drifts out to the pavement and Abby’s stomach growls.

  Stella hacks a loaf in two on the counter with a heavy bread knife. ‘Then I will give you breakfast,’ she says, and hands the half-loaf to Abby and picks out the soft centre of the other half for herself.

  ‘I will call a taxi now,’ Stella says, chewing wit
h her mouth open. She checks the clock. Time is moving quickly. The sun streaming through the shop’s open door highlights a smear of grease across the clock’s face. She can remember wiping it for the New Year, half a year of grease and dust layered on the splitting plastic face, but it works, so who cares.

  ‘I guess so, thank you.’ Abby picks up a potato from the pile of those to peel and looks at it without interest.

  ‘The knife is in the bowl,’ Stella says as she picks up the phone. She turns her back on the world as she speaks into the receiver. The village taxi driver, Nikos, is always fun on the phone, and Stella chats and the minutes pass. A large black beetle, a chrisomiga, flies into the shop. Stella thinks they are funny: they fly into things as if they are blind. Close up, they are beautiful greeny-gold colour. The beetle hits the grill hood, drawing her attention back to the cooking. With the receiver tucked under her chin, she moves the sausages to the side of the grill to keep warm and turns over the chicken, which is spitting above the hot coals. Nikos is telling her a story of a lady who booked his taxi to take her goat to her brother’s, and insisted it sit in the back with her. She wipes tears of laughter from her eyes with the back of her hand and flicks the chip fryer on. The beetle flies past Stella and hits the clock.

  Stavros may not be much longer.

  ‘Sorry, Nikos I have to go, yia sou, yia sou.’ She takes the phone from her shoulder and before pressing the disconnect button she remembers why she has rung. ‘Nikos, are you still there? I nearly forgot, can you come to take someone to town? You are drinking coffee? Yes, it is urgent, she needs to go now. No, I understand your coffee will go cold, but she really needs to hurry.’

  Nikos agrees to come as soon as he has finished his coffee. Stella knows this is the best she will manage. She puts the phone back in its cradle and pokes the embers in the grill before putting more sausages on.