The Gypsy's Dream

by Sara Alexi

  ‘It won’t change that I am a gypsy,’ Stella says.

  ‘Gypsy is the last thing I see. Focus on your other qualities.’ He waits, but Stella does not respond. ‘If you have a belief that making other people comfortable is a good thing then put your heart into that. You cannot at the same time think about your place in society as a gypsy. You will be so lost in acting out your belief, so involved in other thoughts, that being a gypsy will not come to mind. You cannot think two thoughts at the same time. You cannot both fill a glass and empty it at the same time.’

  ‘But these thoughts just come. I wish I had never been to school. Some of those children are still here in the village, all grown up. They don’t even seem to remember, but I know how they think.’ Stella absent-mindedly arranges the salt and pepper pots and the serviette holder in the centre of the table.

  ‘Don’t give them power,’ Mitsos says. ‘It’s like the stream up behind my house in the winter. It starts as a small trickle seeping out across the land; soon it wears a little groove, and then as the water collects it takes the easiest route. Soon the groove widens until it becomes a stream. If I leave it the water will always take this easy route. If it is a route that suits me I leave it but if it is a route that goes past my back door turning all the earth to mud it is a problem. So I take my spade out before the trickle becomes a stream and I dig the route I want the water to take. Your mind is the same, it will always take the easiest route, and that will be the route you think most often. It’s easy, it has done it before. New ways are harder, but not if you start them early.’

  ‘Yes, easy for you to say, but I already have a river flowing through my mind.’ Stella snorts an unhappy laugh.

  ‘Then it just needs a little more constant work of letting your river flow into the channels you feel are good, your hospitality, your business sense, your compassion, your kindness. Focus on those and the river will be diverted.’

  ‘What I would have given not to have gone to school.’

  ‘And that right there is one of your worn replayed grooves. Either don’t think it and think something else, or think, “Thank goodness I went to school and experienced that, now I know how important it is to make people feel welcome, make them feel at home.”’ Mitsos takes another sip of ouzo. ‘I for one know, Stella, that without you making people feel welcome and comfortable this business would not be as thriving as it is today. It is the kindness you show.’ He pats his empty sleeve, his own need to receive kindness.

  At that moment a farmer, with a cheerful ‘hello’, comes in and flops into a chair as if it is his own home, timed as if to prove Mitsos’ point.

  Chapter 7

  The giro drips oil down the farmer’s hand as he banters with Stella for a minute. Mitsos raises his eyebrows, tightens his lips and nods at Stella. Stella succeeds in not looking at Mitsos but she gets the message. The farmer sees Mitsos and joins him at his table.

  ‘One of my goats got stuck in my child’s tricycle this morning, pulled the bell right off.’ He laughs heartily.

  Stella cleans up the counter area where she made the wrap and goes through to retrieve the ouzo bottle. The farmer eyes her up and down, and makes no secret of it.

  ‘I am forty-six,’ she scolds him.

  ‘My older dog knows how to herd sheep better than my younger one.’ He grins back at her. Mitsos is drinking the last of his ouzo. The farmer’s retort makes him laugh. The ouzo sprays back into the glass, and he puts it down to mop his chin.

  Stella wipes the table, smiling and tutting at the farmer before she returns the ouzo back beside the sink. The smile slides as she takes in the grubbiness behind the grill. She wishes she could raise the enthusiasm to clean but it all feels too much. Too many shelves to wipe, too much dirt to clean, too many years of neither her nor Stavros caring. She always puts the customers before that sort of thing. He puts his free time first. She will get some Ajax, glass cleaner. Vasso sells it.

  ‘Do you know that this will be the first year I have had to do the accounts on my own?’ Vasso says. There is a fan mounted on one of the shelves, blowing the warm air around inside her kiosk. Stella has the sun on her back, it is hot. ‘My son has always done them, before him his dad did them, now it’s me. I haven’t a clue.’ Vasso is up to her elbows in receipts and bills.

  ‘I have to get ours done soon. I hate it too. It’s a shame there’s no one in the village who can do that sort of thing. I am not going to pay a town accountant to add some numbers.’ She laughs at the thought. ‘Do you have any Ajax?’

  ‘No, but Marina does over in her corner shop.’

  Marina, Mitsos’ unrequited love. Stella knows she sells just about everything, but Vasso is closer and she knows her better. She doesn’t really know Marina, never really got to know her for some reason. Of course she knows of her, everyone knows about everyone in the village. Marina’s husband, she knows from experience, had not been such a nice man. Stella crosses herself anyway. He had once shocked her with how very unkind he could be, implied she was ‘available’ just because she was a gypsy. She had been twenty at the time, before she married Stavros, but he was married to Marina, in fact it was just a couple of years before he died.

  ‘Hang on.’ Vasso searches under her counter at knee level. ‘I have two of my own, give me a couple of euros and you can have one.’ Vasso pulls out a very old-fashioned-looking plastic bottle. ‘Do you need kitchen roll?’

  Stella shakes her head and puts two euros on the counter. Turning to go back to the shop, she sees the farmer she has just served in her ouzeri and Mitsos, making their way towards her, or rather to the kafenio.

  ‘Thanks,’ Mitsos says as he passes her.

  The shop has hit its afternoon lull; it is too late for lunch, too early for dinner. This would be a good time to start on the shelves. She puts the bottle on the counter and goes through to clear Mitsos’ dirty plates. She is washing them when there is the noise of someone at the counter. She shakes her hands dry and goes around the grill.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ Stella is surprised at how flat her voice is.

  ‘Any customers?’ Stavros asks.

  ‘Mitsos and that Achilleas who lives over the other side of the hill with the three donkeys. Did you have a sleep?’

  ‘Not much business then.’

  ‘About the same as always at this time of day. Did you bring more charcoal?’

  ‘It’s not enough.’ Stavros seems particularly grumpy. ‘I suppose you sat and cut up Mitsos’ lunch and chatted like you have all the time in the world.’

  ‘Of course I cut up his lunch. He only has one arm, how else would he manage? That’s the reason he comes here. What’s wrong with you? You seem so grumpy, did you have a sleep or not?’

  ‘This place, this hand-to-mouth living, frying and sweating all day, it’s not enough.’

  Stella decides not to say anything.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ he demands.

  ‘The girl is called Abby and she has gone to look around the village.’ Stella counts how many foil takeaway trays they have left.

  ‘In this heat? What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s English.’ Stella tries to stifle the giggle she can feel in the back of her throat.

  ‘Why are there no chickens cooking, not even a sausage on the grill, what the …’ He stomps around to the grill. ‘Stella! You have not even banked up the coals for tonight. Panayia!’ He calls on his God. ‘No wonder we are not making enough to get by on.’

  ‘We are making the same as we did last year at this time, and our outgoings have not increased. Even the butcher has kept his prices the same, so how come we need more money this year?’ She considers the structure of the next sentence before she says, ‘Is there something else the money is going on that I don’t know about?’

  ‘Out of my way.’ He pushes her backwards to get past her from behind the counter. He pushes her hard and she staggers. She hits the wall and her head hits against the peg that Abby’s bag is hanging on. For a
moment she is blank. There is only the pain. She blinks and rubs the back of her head to ease the intensity. She expects Stavros to say something, to ask her if she is ok, maybe even put a hand on her arm, help her to sit down. But there is no sound. She blinks again and focus returns, and she looks up. He is gone.

  Stella is more shocked by his lack of remorse for what he has just done than by the action itself. It is almost as if the shove was deliberately that hard. She holds the wall as she goes through to the four tables and pulls at a chair to sit on.

  With her elbows on the table she waits until the world stops swimming and the throbbing subsides a little. Surely it was an accident. Presumably he went to get charcoal and didn’t see her hit her head.

  She hears a snuffling and a snorting as Stavros lugs in the coals.

  She sits and watches him. Any minute, he will ask her why she is sitting down and then she will tell him, and he will be sorry for his strength and everything will be fine.

  He looks over to her.

  He says nothing.

  He unties the top of the coal sack and builds up the fire.

  He knows what he just did.

  It was intended.

  ‘You hurt my head.’ Stella decides she must speak out. He had pushed her by the elbow earlier to get her to go inside and now he has pushed her again, but much harder. It is unfair. She stands up, the backs of her knees against the chair.

  ‘You’re not dying.’ He says it quietly, his mouth hardly opening, dismissive in the lack of effort he makes to annunciate the words.

  ‘You hurt me!’ Stella’s voice is high pitched.

  ‘Forget your head, if you used it to increase business I would care far more but you flit and flirt, pile on too many chips, then they have no need to buy more. It’s a joke.’ His brow is wet with sweat. He tears off some kitchen roll and mops his forehead and the back of his neck, scrunches it into a ball, dries between his fingers and throws it in the fire.

  ‘Perhaps if our outgoings were less it wouldn’t be such a problem, and there is only one reason that they could be more than last year.’ Her knees feel slightly weak and she can feel the blood rushing to her face. The muscles in her forearm tremble, her fists clench. She looks to see her position relative to the door. Adrenaline gives her courage. ‘If you have a gambling problem you cannot take it out on me. I already suffer with the drain it puts on our money, and now your tempers as well.’

  He steps towards her. ‘So this is my fault?’ He sneers as he spreads his hand, palm-upwards, to encompass the whole shop.

  ‘No, the shop came from my dad. You haven’t earned, you’ve just spent.’

  No sooner are the words spat out of her lips than she wishes to suck them back in. But the saliva has not even dried on her lips when the grip he takes on her arms demands all her attention, his thumbs digging in, her muscles screaming at the compression, his fingers on her triceps, his short nails cutting into the skin as he grips hard. She opens her mouth to release the pain. The first noise is silence. Her head whips back and then forwards. He shakes, hard and strong. The snapping back and forward of her head leaves no room for thought. Her eyes spin. She loses sense of direction and with it her balance. Then she can actually sense her brain hitting the inside of her skull, which, in some quiet, calm part of her thoughts she considers is interesting as she did not know that could happen. The thought is obliterated by a tidal wave of fear that some permanent damage may be occurring in her neck, her head. The room distorts, her eyelids a dark red and then it stops.

  He sits her in a chair like a doll.

  ‘Did you have a good walk?’ Stavros’ charming tone drifts to her as if nothing has happened, his honeymoon voice, which he used on her when they were first married, and on the farmers’ wives when they had first opened the ouzeri. She hasn’t heard it in years. But she cannot look up or open her eyes; she cradles her head in her hands and just sits, listening to her own pulse in her temples.

  Stavros receives no answer. But Stella can hear someone else in the shop and the sound of pages being turned. Her neck hurts, there is a throbbing inside her ears.

  ‘I do not understand. "Then ka-ta-la-ve-no".’ It is Abby’s voice.

  ‘Ok, ok.’

  Stavros’ English is so strongly accented it does not sound like English at all. Stella opens her eyes and looks up carefully. Her neck feels loose and fragile. He is dragging the coal back outside to put it around the side. It is all crashingly too real. Her perception of Stavros pivots on its axis and her knight turns into her oppressor. She is amazed at the speed with which it happens, and the completeness of the transformation. The man who saved her becomes the man who is harming her. The man whom she was proud of becomes the man she is ashamed off, the man she worked with now the man she will work against. In among all that emotion, the most startling find is that there is no love left. Not even a sentimental love; just sadness.

  As this realisation settles Stella is aware that none of it is new. It has been going this way for years. This is just the defining moment that demands honesty, and she can no longer pretend to herself.

  She hears the sack scraping around the corner. She counts down the seconds it will take him to walk back. He doesn’t come in, he walks straight past.

  ‘Oh, hi! I didn’t see you there. What did he say?’ Abby spots her.

  ‘He hopes that you had a good walk.’ Stella tries to hold her head up straight.

  ‘Oh, how kind, what a nice thing to say. I think people are very lucky when they are married to nice people.’

  ‘Me too,’ Stella replies.

  ‘You OK?" Abby asks. Stella looks as if she isn’t focusing too well.

  ‘I’m fine, I just need to sit, too much ouzo over lunch,’ Stella says, looking away. Abby wonders if the problem is that Stella doesn’t really want her to work here. She wonders if Stella would be happier if she wasn’t around. Or maybe she needs to work harder.

  Abby’s shoulders are burning from being out in the sun. She puts opposite hands on each one to cool them but her hands feel hot too.

  ‘What shall I do?’ Abby asks. If she is as useful as she can be, it might cheer Stella up. Or maybe this is just the way she is, warm one minute, cold the next. That might explain why Stavros is the way he is, poor man. Still, he is a bit of a letch; there is no excuse for that.

  It’s late afternoon and she should really call Dad. He will be worrying about her.

  ‘I was wondering, my phone has run out of charge, you don’t have a charger, do you?’ Abby asks. Stella looks at her as if she is speaking Swahili, so she tries again. ‘Phone charger?’ But still Stella does not reply, and she has gone very white. ‘Can I get you something, some water perhaps?’ Abby asks. Stella looks ill.

  ‘Yes, water, please.’ Stella’s voice sounds shaky. Abby takes one of the glasses that she washed up earlier and goes to the fridge for the bottled water. She feels just slightly smug that she remembers not to get it from the tap but, actually, looking at the tap, it is probably a health risk anyway, even if the water was good. There seem to be no health and hygiene laws here. They should make a reality programme on restaurants abroad. It would be great.

  ‘Here you go.’ She watches Stella drink and then tries again, speaking slowly. ‘I need to charge my phone so I can let my dad know I am okay.’

  Stella cuts her off. ‘There is the phone.’

  ‘Is that okay? For England?’ Abby asks.

  Stella seems weary but Abby is drawn to the phone. ‘Do you know the code for England?’

  ‘There’s a book underneath, bring it over … There, 0044.’ Her voice is soft, gentle; she doesn’t seem cross.

  ‘Are you ill, Stella? You don’t seem right?’ Abby dials, it begins to ring. ‘Hang on, it’s ringing. Hello! Oh. It’s the answering machine. Hello, Dad, it’s me. Just wanted you to know I am fine. In a place called …’ She looks over to Stella, but Stella’s head is in her hands, eyes down. ‘I don’t know what it’s called but I am fine. I’ll
call again when I get some charge. Bye.’

  Stella looks up. ‘You are lucky to have a dad.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you have a dad?’ One of Abby’s friends is always going on about how fantastic her mum is because she has no dad; they are more like mates than mother and daughter. Her mum is only sixteen years older than her so they go out clubbing together. Abby would rather have had a mum than a mate.

  ‘Yes, but now he is dead.’

  ‘Oh. I am sorry.’ Abby puts the phone book away and neatens some knives and forks on the counter top.

  ‘He was a good man. My mother she came to this village on her own. She was working at the place they make cheese, the two green doors next the kafenio.’

  ‘Oh, that building with no windows?’

  ‘Yes, she worked there with the family. It is not so big, even smaller then. Now they have two people. When my mama worked it was because she was cheap and they gave her a small apothiki to live in.’

  ‘What’s an apothiki?’

  ‘A room for things, things you don’t use every day. But it had bathroom, not like new but with toilet and shower head from the sink, you close the toilet, it is a chair and you have a shower room.’ Abby is a little confused by Stella’s sudden talkativeness, but in the mood Stella is in maybe she needs just to talk. Sonia’s like that. Suddenly talking non-stop. Stella continues. ‘She had a little gas stove, one that you can carry. She told me all about it, she like it, she was proud. The room had a bed and a table, but you had to sit on the bed to use the table. There was no room for a chair she said.’ Stella stops talking and rubs her neck. ‘Abby, please give me the headache pills on the shelf there, no, down, next shelf, yes, thank you.’ She takes two and drinks the rest of her water before she starts again.