by Sara Alexi
She hears a rushing noise and looks down. Her feet are still straddling the sink and Stavros has reached between her ankles and turned on the tap. He holds a glass under the tap and the water runs into it. He has not turned the tap on fully and the glass fills slowly. Abby feels vulnerable and wishes Stella would come.
She alters her position ready, with some embarrassment, to put both her legs onto one side of the sink. In doing so the angle of vision on the black object changes and she can see thin lines of white. It comes as a rush that it is the skeleton of a mouse.
Abby’s throat constricts and she is about to squeal when she feels something rubbing her leg.
Stavros’ glass is full and with a wet knuckle of the hand holding the glass he traces a line down the inside of her calf just below her knee.
Abby freezes, with her knife behind the dead mouse, until, with no thought, she flicks the sack of bones and mould at Stavros’ face. She doesn’t mean to. It is a reaction. She opens her mouth to apologise when Stavros explodes with what can only be a string of expletives, brushing his face and hair as he backs out from behind the grill.
Abby is too horrified by his degree of anger to find his reaction funny. She jumps down from the sink, dithering about whether to leave or apologise.
Where is Stella?
She can see through the gap between the grill and the chip fryer that Stavros has gone outside, still brushing off his clothes, before pulling out and lighting a cigarette. She feels a little safer with the distance. Stavros bends over and shakes his head once more, running his fingers through his hair to ensure no dust remains.
She can imagine the scene when Stella comes.
‘Hey Stella, I understand now, your husband is a creepy letch, no wonder you are so grumpy.’
Or maybe, ‘Stella, I like working with you, but I have to say I cannot work alone with Stavros because he’s a smarmy git.’
Abby sighs. She stays behind the grill, but she is pretty sure Stavros won’t come back in. A customer comes in, a regular, and Abby peeps out from behind the grill before stepping boldly forward and deftly making him a giro, without onions she remembers, and with a smile that belies her mood she hands it to him.
He smiles back and says, ‘Thank you, kind English lady,’ as if he has been practising. He tips her two euros before he leaves.
‘Damn!’ Abby says out loud. She is happy here. Why does Stavros have to be here? Stupid bog-eyed toad. She slams the till shut.
Ok, she can handle this. This is just another test of her abilities. There will always be creepy guys, and this a good chance to learn to deal with one. Creepy guys should not win.
She goes to her bag and takes out her purse. With the tip she may just have enough.
She walks straight past Stavros, who is sitting outside smoking, and continues towards the bakery but turns down a side lane. The sun hits her like the opening of an oven door. The blast of warmth becomes bearable and her tension eases. She walks with purpose but not fast, the sun demanding that she take her time. She found this strange little shop when she explored the village on her first day.
There it is. The ancient cracked mannequin in the cluttered window has on a 1960s crocheted tank top and a pair of sailor’s trousers, creased across the thigh and across the calf, with wide bell-bottom ends. Dust has settled into fading brown lines across the creases. Next to it is a wooden towel-rack with blue muslin laid over it. On the floor of the window is a pair of roller skates, a bucket and four tennis rackets.
Abby pushes the door open. The bell above the door rings. It is comparatively dark inside and Abby waits to be greeted or for her eyes to adjust, whichever happens first.
Her eyes adjust and she takes the blue muslin from the window. She suspects it isn’t just a piece of material, and she is right. The muslin unfolds into a pair of 1970s wrap-around trousers.
‘Cool,’ Abby exclaims and turns to look for the shopkeeper. There is a little white-haired woman, her head on her chest, asleep in the corner, next to a free-standing full length mirror. Abby hasn’t the heart to wake her, but she must. There is a price sticker on the trousers but it is in drachmas. She takes the opportunity to look around the shop. There is a diving suit with a big brass helmet and weighted boots. Beside this is a single tank with a harness to wear on your back, attached to a hose leading to a spray nozzle. Abby presumes this is for gardeners or farmers. A rack of clothes, a jumble of colour and another pile on the floor in front of it. There are some postcards that look as if they have been there since the first tourist stepped on Greek soil.
‘Ti thelis?’
Abby jumps.
‘Do you speak English?’ What are the chances, Abby wonders. An old lady in a village in the outback of Greece, why would she? She wishes she had brought her phrase book.
‘Of course.’
Abby is more surprised by the accent than the English. She sounds like the Queen.
‘Oh, er, I wanted to know how much these are. Where did you learn your English?’
‘They are clearly marked 5,000 drachmas.’ The woman laughs, pulling the price sticker off. ‘I was born on Corfu. Mother did domestic work for a very well-to-do British family and took me along for the fun. I played with the children of the house in the gardens. They taught me English and I taught them Greek. They’re yours for two euros. You know they are faded down one side where they have been in the sun?’ The woman tries to hold them up but, as she is sitting down she is too near the floor for them to fall evenly. She struggles to get up, shifting her weight this way and that.
‘Let me.’ Abby steps towards her and take the trousers. The woman is right, they have faded all down the left leg. ‘Awesome,’ Abby says. ‘And this top?’ She holds out a cheesecloth V-neck shirt with embroidered flowers on the front.
‘That’s a bit nicer, three euros.’
Abby picks out five euro coins . ‘Do you have a changing room?’
The woman points to a red curtain folded over the arms of two mannequins who are touching fingers across a corner.
‘I heard you are working at Stella’s. Poor girl.’
‘Who, me? I am not a poor girl! I love it.’ Abby’s voice is muffled as she pulls her strappy T-shirt off and replaces it with the long-sleeved cheesecloth shirt. It looks great in the pitted and musty mirror.
‘No, Stella.’ She enunciates perfectly.
‘Stella? You mean her ankle?’ Abby slips off her dirty white shorts and battles to work out how to put on the wrap-around trousers.
‘No, I mean having him for a husband.’
Abby comes out, folding her shorts around her strappy T-shirt.
‘Don’t I know it!’ She glances though the window as if he might be there, spying on her.
The woman stands and fusses, looking for a bag. Abby says she does not need a bag but the woman continues until she finds one. It is a thin blue plastic one that smells of fish.
Abby wants to know more about what she thinks of Stavros but it seems the moment has gone. It would be awkward to ask now. Besides, she cannot be away from the ouzeri too long. She thanks the lady and smiles as she catches her reflection in the mirror next to the woman. She looks like the hippies she saw that time Dad took her to Glastonbury. She smiles again at the memory and then remembers the postcards that look as if they have been in the shop since the dark ages. She chooses three; she likes writing them. It’s fun, like writing a diary but someone gets to read it.
‘How much?’ she asks.
The woman jerks her head back, chin up. Abby has learnt that this strange nod means ‘no’.
‘But I must pay for them,’ Abby insists, opening her purse.
‘You hang on to your money, my dear. I have a feeling you may need it.’
Abby gives her a quizzical look and decides she is just weird.
On the way back to the shop she passes by Vasso’s for some stamps and gives her a twirl.
Vasso says, ‘Twiggy.’ Abby is surprised she knows who Twiggy is.
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br /> Fully covered up, she walks past Stavros, who looks her up and down and snorts and returns to concentrating on his cigarette.
Abby hopes the point has been made.
Chapter 15
The weeds by the whitewashed walls down the lane’s edge are browning. There is the usual scuttle of unseen creatures as she passes each clump of struggling foliage. She aches everywhere. The hot shower has only taken the edge off the soreness. Stavros did not come home last night. Stella, instead of feeling relieved, felt strangely disappointed. The bed in the kitchen was her statement, to tell him ‘the lie of the land’.
It is as if his not coming home had taken the choice away from her. As if he is still in charge.
She enters the square, the sun searing up at her from the paved surface.
Vasso has a queue of three farmers and a pair of tourists at the kiosk, big people in shorts and sandals. Presumably the large people-carrier parked incongruously on the kerb is theirs, so shiny compared to the usual tractors. The sight of the tourists brings the slightest bounce to Stella’s step; her improving English is a joy to her. It feels more positive than thinking about Stavros. It proves she is more than a punch-bag.
‘Hello,’ Stella calls. She enjoys the rebelliousness, proving she can do something he cannot. It feels good. ‘How are you, I hope you are enjoying your holidays, there is much to see …’
The tourists grin in delight and tell her they are fine, loving their holiday, and something about a ticket to the theatre at Epidavros being lost. Stella smiles all the way through their sad tale, told in a strange accent. She understands most of what they say, but she is more interested in being seen to understand by both the farmers and by Vasso, who is looking on with wide eyes.
It feels good to impress people.
She walks a little taller, and less painfully, as she continues on to the shop, which she is surprised to find closed and the car gone.
The smells from the sandwich shop beckon her over to buy a bougatsa for breakfast. The vanilla cream-filled pastry is fresh and Stella is hungry.
‘Did you see Stavros leave with the car?’ she asks.
The girl says she saw Stavros loading something in the back of the car and a little later drive off towards town with the blonde girl in the short white shorts.
They are short, Stella reflects. Maybe that is ok in her country. It seems to be what all the celebrities wear in the summer, but Stella does not find it wholly appropriate for a young girl in an ouzeri, especially around Stavros. She sniffs.
She leaves with her breakfast in her hand.
The village taxi is parked by the square, the air above the bonnet shimmering with the heat. She can see Nikos relishing a coffee at the kafenio, his car keys on the table. The empty room rings with men’s laughter, banter and the clack of backgammon pieces slammed down with force, the roar of the good throw of the dice as they play. The high ceiling and blank walls create echoes, layers of sound.
Stella doesn’t feel comfortable going in, with so many men, so she hovers, hoping to catch Nikos’ attention.
Eventually a man, sitting, leaning on a crook, looking out at the world, asks what she wants. The whisper passes to the back that someone is waiting for Nikos. It is a common event, he is a taxi driver.
Word reaches him and he looks out, spots her and lifts a finger in acknowledgement.
Stella knows she must now wait for him to finish his coffee. The front of the kafenio is baking in the sun. Stella thinks to move under the palm tree’s shade. Normally this would be a good time to chat to Vasso. She checks the sleeves and hem of her dress to make sure they are covering the pictures of her marriage. She is not sure she has the emotional energy to cope with Vasso, her kindness, her strong opinions.
The memory of Vasso stopping her reaching Mitsos floods to her, Vasso’s restraining hand on her outstretched arm.
Stella quickly looks at the ground. What does Vasso know? How can she know? Stella is not even sure she knows herself.
That’s a lie, she knows.
‘Ela,’ Nikos brushes past her, telling her to ‘come’.
Stella sits in the back, something she normally doesn’t do. Her skirt will ride up when she sits down and she doesn’t want a conversation about her private life.
She tells him to head into town and they banter for a while, raising their voices over the engine. The polished leather of the seats and the smell of various sprays Nikos perpetually uses to keep his Mercedes pristine delights Stella. There’s no chip fat here. The seats do, however, make the turns in the road a sliding affair. Gripping on to the door causes her ribs to ache. She is glad when they arrive.
‘Whereabouts?’ Nikos asks as they cruise into town.
‘Here will do.’ Stella slithers out and pays him through the window. As he drives away the warmth is already burning her, the sun in her eyes. Someone walks past, trailing a scent of coconut suntan cream.
Winding her way slowly between cars and across streets, away from the shops, she makes her way into back roads which are flanked by offices and apartments
The four-storey-high blocks were built before she was born, preserved only by careful cleaning and constant maintenance as the concrete crumbles. They are decaying, but slowly. A discrete white plaque marks ‘Kleftis and Pseftis’, the lawyers who helped Stella organise her mother’s affairs when she died.
She presses the bell and is buzzed into the building’s gloomy stairwell. The buzzer continues after she enters. The antiquated, mirrored lift takes her to the unlit, windowless second floor, where she feels her way to the light switch. She depresses a large button which illuminates the hall, the button slowly extruding to click the bare bulb off after a short time. It is just long enough for her to find and ring the bell outside a lacquered, peeling wooden door. The smell of cooking drifts down the stairs from the floor above; the aromas of everyday living, tomatoes, onions, garlic.
The door is opened and the light is welcome. The office is enthusiastically air-conditioned. Stella feels a shiver run down her spine. The secretary has on a light jumper.
‘Hello, Stella, how have you been? What, seven, nearly eight years? Everything ok?’ Mr Kleftis shakes her warmly by the hand.
‘Yes, well no …’ She looks at the secretary and Mr Kleftis opens the door into his private office, follows her in and tucks his suit jacket flat around as he sits behind his desk. He bridges his fingers, elbows on his cluttered desk, and asks in a baritone voice, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need to know the lie of the land.’
‘What?’ He seems bemused. He is right of course, the phrase does not translate into Greek well.
‘I need to know how things are legally with the ouzeri and the house and everything.’
‘From what point of view?’ he asks, dropping his chin and looking over his glasses at her. He picks up a pen and distracts himself, signing a document on his desk before reinstating his serious gaze.
‘If me and Stavros … If I … If he …’
‘Ahh, I see. Now, from my memory …’ He stands up and goes to the far wall which is stacked floor to ceiling with box files. He takes one out. Opening it, he sits back down behind his desk. A rummage through the contents produces a thin, dog-eared cardboard folder from which he draws out some papers. ‘Yes, I remember now. Your father left a very clear will. Well, not really your father, but you know what I mean.’ He reads.
Stella sits bolt upright. ‘What? What do you mean?’
‘The will, it was very clear.’
‘No, what you said about my father?’
‘Oh. Ah. Yes, of course, well, long time ago, doesn’t matter now. So you and Stavros …’
‘What doesn’t matter?’ Stella’s voice is raised, her stomach tight, she feels cold.
‘It’s nothing. Just a little point of law, if you like …’ He pauses, hoping this is enough, but when he sees it isn’t he adds, ‘… that potentially made your inheritance a little difficult, but we dealt with it
well.’ He dismisses it with a wave of his hand.
‘Dealt with what well?’ Stella can feel the tension in her stomach increasing and a dull roaring in her ears. Her mouth feels dry.
‘You knew about your mother, of course? I mean that she was a gypsy?’ Stella can see small beads of sweat forming above his eyebrows.
‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Stella’s eyes widen; she feels slightly sick. The last time she can remember feelings like this was when she had heard the rumours about Stavros and the teenage girl after they were married.
‘No, quite, let’s move on.’ He flicks through the papers.
‘No. What did you mean “not really my father”?’
He visibly sinks into the chair, deflated and wrinkly like an old balloon, his face collapsing like a candle in the sun. He exhales and interlocks his fingers across his chest. He sighs, takes off his glasses, puts them on the desk, rubs his eyes and then crosses his fingers across his chest once more.
‘Stella, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt that out.’ He waits, but Stella just stares at him, swallowing hard. ‘Your father, and he was clearly a good father, judging by the provisions he made for you and your mother, was, well, by blood, not really, umm, you know, well, your father.’ He stammers and picks up his glasses again.
Stella doesn’t move. Her face remains still, her back upright. The ground opens beneath her. If she moves she will fall.
‘I am terribly sorry to have told you in this way …’
He drones on, but Stella is six again, walking with her Baba to the top of the hill, the sudden view of the plain across the valley and the sea coming upon them, and her Baba bending his knees to be her height and saying, ‘You see the world? Anything is possible, Stella. Anything. All you have to do is see the world from up here, like a game, a map. Just play the game well, without doubts. Once you are down there, among the people, you will find that your fears, your beliefs will hold you back. But up here, Stella, you realise anything is possible. No matter who you are.’