by Sara Alexi
‘He is on his way.’ Stella turns back to Abby. ‘Five minutes, I should ...’
But her sentence trails off. Stavros is at the kiosk buying cigarettes.
‘Perhaps you should wait for him a little way out of the village.’ Stella tries to appear calm as she takes the girl by the elbow and lifts her out of her chair. The girl’s eyes are like saucers, her mouth slightly open, not understanding Stella’s manoeuvring. Stella picks up the bag to give to the girl who still has a potato in one hand and the knife in the other.
‘What have we here?’ Stavros calls in Greek as he swaggers across the square towards them.
Chapter 3
‘So what’s happening?’ The shadows inside the kiosk render Vasso almost invisible in contrast to the sunshine. The wooden kiosk is dappled by the shade under the palm tree.
‘Why did you send her over to me?’ Stella sighs, leaning on the shelf that runs around the outside of the kiosk, which is burdened with bags of sweets, packets of chewing gum, a vase of ballpoint pens, and a box of individual flavoured condoms. It is all part of life.
‘Didn’t you say Stavros wanted a tourist to work in the shop?’ Vasso is stacking cigarette packets in columns on the shelves inside the kiosk. Stella wonders why all old kiosks are painted mustard brown inside and out.
‘Yes, but he would never have found one.’ She sighs again and swirls her finger around a plastic box half full of individually wrapped chocolates. They are slightly soft and should to be in the fridge. She picks one out and unwraps it, licking the melted mess from the paper.
‘No, probably not. And now?’ Vasso puts her hand out to take the wrapper and pops her head out of the window and they both look down the square toward the ouzeri.
‘Now he is sitting at a table with her eating chicken and chips.’ Stella looks back at Vasso. ‘Can I have a packet of pain killers?’ She feels her forehead and closes her eyes.
Vasso reaches without looking and puts the packet of headache pills on the coin dish in the middle of the counter, a glass platter between her and the world. ‘You know if she is to stay she will need somewhere to sleep?’ Stella nods, opens her eyes and takes her hand off her forehead to chew at a finger nail. ‘With Thanasis now in Athens I was thinking of renting his room. I will not be gathering the olives this year so the income will be useful. That’s if she is staying.’ Vasso picks up a newspaper and fans herself as the day’s heat is growing.
‘You’re not going to gather your olives?’ Stella searches Vasso’s careworn face for an explanation. Her hair, as always, looks as if she has recently come from the hairdresser’s but the lines between her eyebrows speak of the stresses she has endured over time.
‘No. When we gathered them ourselves it made us a little money, but on my own I couldn’t manage, and to hire people will take all my profit.’ Vasso takes a bottle from under the counter. Rubbing lotion on her hands she qualifies, ‘It was Thanasis’ idea for me to rent his room. Two euros.’ She nods at the painkillers.
Stella smiles, pays, pats Vasso’s hand to reassure her that there are no hard feelings and returns, slowly, under the clear blue sky and warm sun, to music and laughter in the ouzeri. Stella’s heart lifts a little at the sound of the revelry, it’s like old times. When they first started there was often music, the radio was always on, smiling faces were the norm, there was dancing and laughter, and happy disorder. Her heart sinks again. Today’s party has nothing to do with her; it is all Stavros, Stavros showing off to Abby.
Their weathered olive skins crinkled in smiles, trousers held up with knotted belts, shirt sleeves rolled up, missing teeth showing, the farmers are enjoying themselves. They have put the radio on their table. Earlier Stella had turned it on to drown out Stavros as he tried to get Abby to understand his Greek. Usually the radio is behind the grill, by the sink, unseen. Stella feels a little embarrassed with it being out in public. It has grime in all the recesses and the handle has kitchen paper wrapped around it which looks like it has been there for weeks, compressed, tattered and no longer white. She swallows two pain killers with a shot of ouzo.
The man on the radio sings with such intensity he might be declaring undying love. But he is not, he is singing about what he wants to eat. Mostly he wants fish, particularly red mullet, barbounia. The farmers are caterwauling along at the tops of their voices waiting for their chicken and chips to be cooked.
In the corner sits the girl. Her bag is on the floor beside her, and she clearly does not know what to make of the situation. She is sitting at Stavros’ table and he is pouring ouzo. The sun is struggling through the dusty window, spotlighting the scene. The farmers stand to perform. They interlace arms, hands on shoulders, and dance in the tiny space. Stella moves chairs and tables out of the way, her eyes on Stavros who is grinning and flirting with the teenager in a tongue the poor girl doesn’t understand. She looks slightly afraid. Stella is not sure if she feels more hurt by Stavros’ actions in front of her or afraid for the girl’s situation. Stavros is nearly thirty years older than … what was her name? Abby.
One of the farmers is full of life; the lunchtime impromptu singing has brought energy to his limbs. He is feeling good; he has ‘kefi’, an appetite for life, joy. His hair is greying at the temples and his hands speak of years of toil, the skin thick and hard. But at this moment he is alive, his heart is full, he wants to dance, dance like there is no tomorrow, no field to dig, no olives to tend. To dance as if his life depends on it. He climbs on a chair and then jumps onto the table. It wobbles and threatens to collapse. The other farmers and Stavros cheer. The table holds his weight and he dances with his head brushing the ceiling, his friends kneel, as if about to propose, clapping in rhythm to encourage him.
Abby claps self-consciously, hands making such little contact with each other, no sound, but she is smiling. Stavros shouts ‘Opa!’ and raises his glass above his head towards the man. Abby giggles.
The man on the table pauses on its edge. He is a youth again, he crouches low and then springs from the table, completing a somersault to the floor with a wobbly landing and everyone cheers. No one looks more surprised than he does at his success. They all laugh and applaud.
Through the window Stella spots her friend Mitsos across the square, steadily making his way towards the shop. He concentrates, each step a tentative shifting of his weight, the slightest of pauses for correction, and then the next step. Some days he is so unsteady he uses a shepherd’s crook as a walking stick but today is obviously a good day. It’s early for him.
His trousers bag at the knee and crumple around his ankles, making his walk look comical. His balance disrupted by his accident, twenty or so years ago, a long time before Stella opened the ouzeri. She had been still living in Stavros’ town then, with his parents. She crosses herself and mutters ‘God rest their souls’, they were kind to her. A glance over to Stavros. He is locking Abby’s gaze with his piercing blue eyes, he is encouraging her to drink ouzo.
The clock on the wall by the grill tells Stella how short the time has been since Abby arrived. She grabs some kitchen roll and smears the grease more evenly over its face. Reaching under the counter for the anti-bacterial spray bottle she viciously sprays the clock and wipes it again. The dirty paper thrown on the grill brings a sudden roar; the stubble of a feather on the bare chicken laid there ignites and extinguishes itself just as fast as it blazed. The clock only looks marginally better. A collection of dead flies obscures the number six behind the plastic face. Stella looks past the insect cemetery to her husband and the tourist. Stavros looks back, scowling; she averts her gaze out of the window.
This is very early for Mitsos. He normally arrives for a late lunch after sitting at the kafenio for a while. He comes nearly every day but is thoughtful enough to come at times when she is not very busy. She can then take her time to cut up his food for him. Life is difficult for him, with only one arm. At first he was embarrassed when she offered her assistance but now it has become a routine, a moment
when they sit together without words. He doesn’t talk about how difficult it is and Stella doesn’t ask. He is a nice man, kind, sympathetic, quiet.
Today, as soon as he steps over the threshold he glares at Stavros and backs out again. He clearly is not in the mood for noise and high spirits. Stella nips across the room to him. She looks him in the eye, for understanding, support.
He has a kind of old-fashioned honourability about him and has indicated that the way Stavros speaks to her is not really acceptable. Stella knows he is her ally, nothing specific has ever been said, nor is likely to be, he has an old school manner about him but she feels sure she has read the signs correctly - he sides with her against Stavros.
She can’t remember the first time she got this feeling about him but it was probably once when she had been cutting up his food, their faces close. There was no judgement, just an understanding. Stella had felt her cheeks grow hot, shame that Stavros talked to her the way he did, ashamed of her weaknesses, embarrassed that she did not stand up for herself. There is no shepherd’s crook that can support her affliction. But Mitsos’ looks had been so kind that she was gentle with herself and gained some strength from his presence. A good man.
‘What is it?’ He looks upset about something. She indicates the chairs outside, they can sit there. The dancing and singing continue but the open air dilutes the intensity. The air is fragrant with the scent of flowers, drifting from the next-door garden, the sun a caress on their skin. A cat is sauntering in the shadow of a wall down the lane to avoid the heat. Somewhere on the hill a cockerel tells the time, incorrectly.
‘So?’ Stella leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her and crosses them. She crosses her arms across her floral dress. She distracts her thoughts from Stavros by wondering if she should paint her toenails pink.
‘I just talked to Marina.’ Mitsos lowers himself into the empty chair. Stella is the only person who knows of Mitsos’ secret love. The many cut-up lunches and dinners he has eaten at her shop have, slowly, over the years, cultivated a trusting friendship. She knows the story right from when Mitsos first saw Marina, through her subsequent unhappy arranged marriage to someone else who, on his death, left her with nothing. Poor Mitsos, out of the goodness of his heart, has a wish to improve the quality of Marina’s life, to make her happy and secure even if she feels nothing for him. ‘What do you think Marina needs most in the world?’ he asks as he concludes his narration of their recent, and very brief, exchange.
Stella can relate to Marina and her harsh life. Although that is a bit unfair: Stavros works beside her every day, they are still a team. Marina, from what she has heard, was a single parent even though her husband lived in the same house. He was never there, and provided very little. She raised two girls by herself and after her husband died she started the corner shop with all the junk he left behind. Now the village wouldn’t function without the shop. Stella admires her.
No. Stavros is not like Marina’s husband. Stavros may have his hand in the till and the payments may be late for the butcher but they always get by. Not so for poor Marina, for her it was proved that husbands can be absent even when they are there. In this culture, where many women do not work, not being provided for is the same as not being considered.
Look at Vasso, she had the best husband in the world, he considered her with his every breath, loved and cared for her till death parted them and then left her a little something tucked away. Vasso holds her head high every day, always has her hair done, looks smart.
Being ignored has to be the worst feeling in the world. When Stavros ignores her she can feel her self-belief draining away, her joy in the world evaporates. It is only the fun she generates with the customers that keeps her from sinking. That and a nip of ouzo. She knows exactly what Marina needs.
After considering Stella says, ‘In all honesty, she needs what no one can give her.’
‘What’s that?’ Mitsos asks.
‘She needs a memory of a husband who was good to her, who thought about her and who provided for her. With a memory like that she would feel like a different person. She would feel valued and loved and lovable. As it is she sees herself as unlovable, worthy of neglect and unworthy of being put first. You can see it with her children. She sees them as having so much value and herself as having none, she does everything for them she can, breaks her back for them and just considers it the “right” thing to do. Over the years she has neglected herself more and more and that has all come from him.’ Stella pauses; Mitsos stays quiet, looking at her. ‘Sorry. Did you want such a full answer?’ She smiles but she is turning her head to look inside her shop. Stavros is still at the girl’s table and the dancing has stopped. He is pointing to the dirty dishes and saying ‘plenis ta piata’, in Greek very loudly over and over.
Mitsos leans over and pats Stella’s hand kindly.
‘And you would know, Stella,’ he says.
Stella lets a tear fall.
Mitsos stands slowly. Stella wills him to go away. She could easily imagine her head on his chest, his arm around her and releasing all her sorrow, hiding from the world, him making everything safe. It is a long time since her father died but still, sometimes, she feels like a child, with childlike needs. Mitsos is up, he pats her on the shoulder before he sets off again back across the square. The pat releases another tear. Stella looks over the road to see if the Romanian in the sandwich shop is looking at her but she is busy putting bottles of water into her fridge. Stella wipes the tears from her face and braces herself to stand.
‘What are you doing sitting out here when I am in there busting a gut for the two of us?’ On silent feet Stavros is beside her. Still seated, his belly is at her eye-level. His T-shirt is rucked over his stomach and she notices that he has black fluff in his navel. In the seven years they have had the ouzeri he has become so fat, and, with each kilo gained, less fun. He could be carrying twins he is so round. ‘We have an opportunity and you just sit here!’ he grumbles.
Stella’s chest sinks and she exhales with his callous view of Abby. She is not an opportunity; she is a person, a child.
‘I thought you were quite happy in there by yourself.’ Stella stands, Stavros steps back but does not let her past into the shop.
‘If you showed a bit of friendliness she might decide to stay. God knows we need some tourists to bring this place to life, put some money in the till. Get in there and be civil.’ He puts his hand behind her arm and gives a push. Stella staggers forwards, finds her balance and, shocked, turns on him, but his face holds such malevolence she backs away and goes into the shop.
The farmers are quiet. Stavros must have served them as they are all busy eating and as a consequence they say little. The radio has been turned down.
Stella checks the sausages and spreads another split chicken on the bars over the embers, takes the cooked chips from the fryer and puts more in. The grill has been set up behind the counter with just enough room for one person to cook and serve. Behind the free-standing grill with a hood over it there is a narrow mirror-tiled corridor of space with glass shelves for glasses, misty from the grease in the air. Here she finds Abby, at the far end, peeling potatoes in the old marble sink which is already full of dirty pots. There is a line of filth where the sink meets the wall, darker than the greying white of the marble. Perched by the tap are a bottle of ouzo, and a bottle of gin with no cap. The whole area is in semi-gloom. With Stella’s appearance Abby drops a potato on the floor. She bends to pick it up but hesitates. The floor is grimy around the edges, the central foot-width where Stella has walked it smooth is lighter, her path en-route from grill to sink, grill to ouzo, grill to gin, grill to sink.
Stella picks up the potato and tosses it past Abby into the sink. It hits a glass but nothing breaks.
‘What does “plenis ta piata” mean?’ Abby asks.
She looks so young.
Chapter 4
After a while the farmers begin to leave. Abby shifts in her seat.
There is a toilet in the corner of the room divided off by a thin hardboard wall. During the course of the afternoon the farmers have demonstrated that it is not soundproofed. Will there be toilet paper? She crosses her legs.
She studies the picture of a donkey in a straw hat hanging on the pale green shiny wall. It must be gloss paint. The glass in front of the picture is greasy and smeared. There is a thin shelf around the room, high up, on which there are several ceramic swans and various other pottery objects. The room is hard and stark. Can she take a picture on her phone without offending the man? Back home friends will not believe this place. She will share it on Facebook. Fumbling in her bag she remembers the phone’s battery is dead. While her hand is still inside she quickly feels for the fur of the tiny teddy on her key-ring, just for a second.
Stavros, his knees almost touching hers, shifts towards her. Abby makes a show of picking her bag up from the floor, pushes her chair away from him and hangs the bag on the back of it without actually leaving her seat. He keeps babbling at her in Greek, with the occasional ill-pronounced word in English. She cannot guess what the Greek words mean, like she could, sometimes, guess the meaning of words in Spanish or French class at school.
Seeing these Greek men dancing, being part of it all, a private impromptu affair, not for tourists, is thrilling. Real Greek life. She will keep a diary. What an experience! She mops her forehead with a paper napkin. She cannot imagine anyone back at home getting onto a table in the pub and doing a back flip, certainly none of the grey-haired men anyway. One of the boys high on something might, but he would probably break his neck. Besides, someone would start bleating about health and safety if anyone even tried to stand on a chair. No wonder there is no life, no spontaneity left around where she lives. No wonder everyone over thirty has no joy; they are all beaten with the stick of conforming to health and safety legislation. She decides she will write in her notebook until she can afford a diary. She decides she is not on holiday, she is ‘on life’. She takes her pen from her bag and writes that line on a napkin. It can be the title of the diary. Stavros leans over but when he sees it is in English he loses interest.