The Gypsy's Dream

by Sara Alexi

  Stavros’ wheels grind against the kerb as he pulls in alongside the ouzeri.

  On seeing the double doors closed and no movement within, the muscle under his eye twitches. His hands tremble slightly.

  ‘Pacifying and grovelling to people over money.’ He huffs at the steering wheel. ‘Flirting gypsy.’ The words expelled as he pulls the keys from the ignition. ‘At least keep the place open!’ He climbs out of the car. ‘Useless foreign girl, where is she?’ He surveys the street with a sweeping glance as he strides to the shop doors, ignoring the cluster of waiting customers.

  ‘Hey, there you are.’ One of a group of three farmers greets him. ‘Thought we were not to have any lunch today.’ He laughs easily and his friends smile.

  Stavros does not speak but opens the double doors wide and hastens to poke at the grill, hoping it hasn’t gone out. The sausages are warm on the end bars and the chickens are cooked, wrapped in silver foil to keep them warm. He flicks the chip fryer on and looks around for the chips. There is a bowl of half-peeled potatoes.

  ‘Panayia, the lazy half-caste,’ he mutters.

  ‘Hello, chicken and chips for two, please.’ Someone walks past into the restaurant. Stavros does not turn quickly enough to see who it is.

  ‘Two giros with everything, please.’ A boy’s hand is visible, reaching over the counter with the money. ‘Mama says I have to hurry because Grandpa gets grumpy when he hasn’t eaten,’ the hand enlightens.

  ‘It’ll be done when it’s done,’ Stavros snaps.

  ‘Nektarios, is that you?’ The words are called from the restaurant. Stavros hears the light step of the boy’s feet as he walks through to the speaker, and then the boy addresses the caller as ‘Uncle’.

  Someone else comes in. He can feel them hesitate, hear them scuffing their shoes as they balance their weight. He looks up from the peeling of the potatoes: it is that Mitsos. Mitsos leans his crook against the wall and stands tall to pull his trousers up. Stavros notices that they are not his working trousers. Is he done up like an Easter lamb for the baptism or for seeing Stella? The twitch under Stavros’ eye intensifies and he picks up the poker.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he snaps. Mitsos straightens quickly from his adjustments and begins to shuffle away. ‘Take the dirty gypsy,’ Stavros mutters under his breath. He notices Mitsos has forgotten his crook. ‘She’s only good for a cripple,’ he adds. The courage to say it loud enough for anyone to hear eludes him, the words held tightly between clenched teeth, the meanings running inward, twisting his stomach.

  A call from the inner eating area: ‘Mitsos. Hey Mitsos, is it true that it is your nephew’s baptism tomorrow?’ But Mitsos is out of earshot, retreating to the kafenio as fast as his disconcerting balance will allow. Another farmer answers the questioner.

  ‘Yup, and the whole village is invited, every man, woman and child. Food in the square. Which may well be served before my chicken and chips, eh Stavros?’

  Stavros looks up.

  ‘What? Everyone’s invited?’ Stavros asks. The farmer nods.

  Stavros turns back to the peeling. If she has gone off to stay with one of her friends, he will wait and see tomorrow. She won’t miss a baptism, flirting about, and the girl will not be leaving - he has her passport.

  The chips hiss and spit as he throws them into the fryer.

  Chapter 20

  The baptism is in progress and Mitsos will be there.

  Stella had not realised that she had been holding on to the thought of being with Mitsos at the baptism, maybe standing with him, cutting his food for him at the feast in the square. She wonders how close he has become to Marina in his convalescing. Maybe he has confessed his love to her. Maybe there is no room in his life for Stella now. But maybe there is. People change. He had not spoken to Marina for so long. What had her Baba said? ‘Love is five per cent attraction and ninety-five per cent proximity.’ Well, they had been nowhere near each other long enough for anyone’s love to die. Stella will allow herself hope.

  She brushes the last of the years of dirt out of the door.

  ‘It’s looking good,’ Abby announces. Stella looks around her Baba’s hut. It seems bigger than when they first discovered it. The crates and broken chairs they have stamped into firewood and piled by the chimney. The candle table sits centrally. Now only a light mist of dust dances in the shafts of light beaming through the roof window.

  ‘You did a good job with the window.’ Abby looks up at the clean glass.

  ‘It will leak when it rains though, always did,’ Stella answers, her tone flat.

  ‘What’s up?’ Abby asks, moving nearer to Stella.

  ‘Nothing.’ Stella shrugs and leans the brush against the wall.

  ‘Are you tired? I couldn’t get to sleep for ages in Juliet’s spare room.’ Abby yawns.

  ‘No, I slept well, the sofa was very comfortable,’ Stella says.

  ‘What do we need to do now?’ Abby hugs herself as she looks around the room. Stella’s forehead creases as she thinks.

  ‘We cannot do anything. The bees don’t give up their honey and wax until September and the olives stay on the trees until the same time, maybe later. We can’t really start with the candles and soap until the end of the year.’

  ‘Oh.’ Abby sits heavily on one of the last intact wooden chairs. ‘Is that why you sound a bit sad?’ she asks. The room is all pale browns, with bare wooden walls, wooden workbenches and compacted earth floor. Stella’s dress swirls with similar colours, her hair the same darkness as the back of the fireplace which is built around a hollow in the rock that the shack leans against.

  ‘No, I was thinking of the baptism.’ Stella sits on an unbroken crate. ‘We need more chairs,’ she adds. Abby nods.

  ‘Why does the thought of the baptism make you sad?’ Abby stands, shakes her legs out. The colour of her blue wrap-around trousers is diffused in the interior light.

  ‘I thought it would be good fun, to dance a little, spend time with people, with Mitsos,’ Stella says.

  ‘Ahh,’ Abby replies knowingly.

  ‘Well, we cannot sit here until September waiting for the bees,’ Stella says with energy. ‘We should go to the baptism party. Stavros will do nothing in front of the people.’

  ‘If we cannot do anything until the end of the year, beginning of next year, what are you going to live on?’ Abby asks.

  ‘I was thinking this too. I need to get the ouzeri.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I do not know.’ Stella loses her smile.

  ‘Maybe we could just be there, and when someone orders something put the money in our pockets instead of the till. Always be together, watch each other’s backs until he sees there is no money for him,’ Abby says as she opens the door and the sun brightens everything.

  ‘I don’t think he will give up that easily. But we will think of something. Come. Let’s go to the party.’ Stella jumps up from her crate and links arms with Abby, only to let go again as they cannot both get through the door at the same time.

  Striding down the hill, gravity speeding their steps, they chatter about the business. It is decided that when Abby comes each summer that is when most of the candle and soap-making will be done. The more they talk the firmer Stella becomes that one way or another she will get her ouzeri back, it can fund the candles and soap making in the early years. They touch on the olive picking they will do and of pulling Mitsos in to advise them about bees - he is sure to know. Their voices grow strong with their planned future and their stride does not decrease as the hill gives way to the flat ground. Stella asks Abby to tell her again what she would do to improve the ouzeri and their ideas flow. Stella gets excited at the description of fairy lights wrapped around the tree outside the main door.

  Stella holds Abby’s arm a little tighter as they enter the village. People are spilling out of the back of the church, but Stella guides Abby past the throng and into the square where Theo and some helpers are laying out tables under the shade of the palm
tree. The drinks-fridges and ice-cream freezers of the kiosk are all closed with their metal shutters. There is nothing on display to be sold. But the window to the inside where the cigarettes are stored is open even though Vasso is not there.

  ‘Vasso will still be at the baptism. She will sell a lot of cigarettes and cigars today,’ Stella informs Abby as they walk on to the ouzeri.

  ‘Won’t he be there?’ Abby asks, looking towards Stella’s shop.

  ‘No, who will buy chicken and chips when they can have roast lamb for free at the baptism?’ Stella laughs and unlocks the door and leaves it ajar as they go inside. She opens the till, takes out all the money and gives Abby the two days’ wages and the tips she would have earned had things been normal. Abby protests but Stella insists, they must start off on a good even footing. Stella pockets the little that is left.

  She rolls up her sleeves, the bruises a dirty yellow now, and takes the chicken cleaver from the counter. ‘Right, now we will do something!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Abby asks as she puts her bag down on one of the rickety wooden tables and follows Stella into the restaurant part. Stella does not reply, but after drawing back the bolts on the restaurant door she runs the cleaver down the painted-over gap between door and frame that seals it shut.

  Abby understands. She grabs the thin-ended poker from the grill and uses it to ease in the gap Stella is creating, once jammed in she uses her weight to lever at the door. The sound of paint cracking gives hope but the whole thing seems solid.

  Stella stands back and sighs. Through the window she can see where Marina’s corner shop once stood, the shop the widow had started and run by herself after her husband so tragically died. She wonders what Marina will do now, but she feels sure she will find something, she will not give up. Even if she is Mitsos’ love, Marina’s strength, determination and living as a single lady inspires her. Stella sets about the stuck door afresh. Her renewed vigour increases Abby’s energy and together they hear more paint cracking.

  ‘Even if it breaks!’ Stella puffs, using all her weight on the meat-cleaver to jimmy the door. Abby wedges the poker in at the bottom of the door and together they force it as hard as they can. With a crack, it opens wide enough for them to get their fingers around the door’s edge and the two pull, smiling at each other. The hinges object, but the pressure proves too much and it eventually gives, the door stands open, the sun lighting up the pale green interior and highlighting the layers of grease and dust. Abby and Stella grin at each other. Directly outside the door is the tree they intend to decorate with fairy lights, an area around it for tables by the road.

  ‘Panayia!’ Stella exclaims as she turns around to see inside the ouzeri in the sunlight.

  ‘You had better call on all your saints and gods.’ Both Stella and Abby jump at the sound of his bass grumble.

  Stavros stands in front of the takeaway counter, hands on hips. He has a white shirt on with shiny white vertical stripes which only aid in accentuating his round stomach. Dark patches circle his armpits. Stella recognises it as his only good shirt and concludes that he has been to the baptism. She wonders why; he hates social gatherings.

  Abby looks at Stella, but Stella seems to be lost for words.

  ‘Get out!’ Stavros barks.

  ‘You are not having it!’ Stella finds her voice and it is louder than she expects. She stands taller with the volume, and Abby stands by her side facing Stavros. His face turns a deep red and his eyes begin to bulge more than usual, their blue irises a harsh contrast against the bloodshot white of his eyes.

  ‘It was my father’s house we sold. You got your share paying off your debts. The ouzeri and the house are mine.’ Stella can see the raised meat cleaver in her hand shaking. Part of her mind wonders whether it is with fear or rage.

  ‘Stupid gypsy. Go live under a blanket. I am the man, you are only a wife, you do as I say. Now go, get out!’ Stavros spits.

  ‘Esy fige. You go!’ Stella repeats the phrase, the second time in English out of spite, knowing he hates what he doesn’t understand. Abby turns her head towards Stella momentarily at the surprise of hearing English. Her pride in Stella results in her taking a deep breath, her chest puffing out, her arms held out from her side, her grip on the poker firm. She faces Stavros, ready to defend her friend. But Stella does not stand sure. He is the man. She knows he will force her to leave. This time the stones being thrown are verbal but they hit with the same sting. She will be treated like her mother was, and her mother before her.

  Stavros takes a step towards Stella. He raises his hand. Stella drops the meat cleaver. She is shaking all over.

  His hand swipes at her face. Abby steps forward, the poker between Stella and Stavros. His blow catches the moving poker, knuckles taking the force, the skin tearing, the poker rebounding towards Abby who blocks it with her other arm.

  ‘Stupid Putana!’ he swears at Abby, his eyes on fire, white flecks of spittle gathering in the corner of his mouth as he turns back to Stella. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’ he shouts. He shakes with adrenaline and rage, his eyes black, dead like a shark’s. ‘With one word from me the farmers will no longer come, the business will stop. No man will side with a gypsy over someone who drinks coffee with them in the kafenio. Besides I have this.’ He draws from his back pocket a folded piece of paper. He laughs.

  ‘I saw the lawyer Kleftis today at the baptism, he told me you had gone to see him, you scheming minx, he also told me neither of us can claim the ouzeri because neither of us have a written lease.’ He unfolds the paper, it looks like an invite to the baptism but it has writing on the reverse. ‘Two rows back was our landlord, he was very happy to oblige, so the ouzeri is legally in my name, what, my dirty little gypsy, will you do now?’

  Stella grabs for the meat cleaver, her anger flaring. She lunges towards him. But she is small, her reach is short. Stavros grabs her wrist and shakes the cleaver to the floor as if hers were the grip of a child. Abby raises her poker but she cannot bring herself to strike. Instead, she prods him hard in the stomach. He exhales and Abby takes his attention.

  Stella stamps on his foot. He reaches out and grabs her by the hair. Abby prods him again, harder. He grabs the poker, twisting it from her grip, but she hangs on. He has Stella’s hair in one hand, Abby attached to the poker held in the other.

  For a second they are held in time. Stavros snorts with rage and exertion. Stella’s hands prize between Stavros’ fingers in her hair. Abby gazes into Stavros’ eyes, refusing to let go of her end of the poker, afraid of what will happen if she does.

  ‘Stop!’ A voice from through the newly open door behind Stella and Abby breaks the standoff. Vasso enters, she is holding something above her head, waving it. Stella and Abby pause their struggle to look at her. Stavros releases Stella’s hair. ‘I think, Stavros, that perhaps you should leave and not come back - ever.’ Vasso speaks clearly, but her voice wavers on the final word.

  Stavros’ sights are on the little maroon booklet Vasso holds above her head.

  ‘Abby’s passport,’ Vasso says. Abby recognizes her name and the word ‘diavatirio’. She glances to her bag which lies open next to Vasso on a table.

  Stavros’ eyes grow wider, a glance of malice to Stella, the person who shares the wardrobe with him. Stella looks back with a sneer of disgust. Stavros turns his shoulders to face her, his left eye twitching, the colour in his face deepening, his free hand clenching into a fist. He pulls the poker free of Abby’s grasp, her weight pulled forward until she overbalances and grabs a table to stop herself falling. He lifts the poker and points the end at Vasso’s face.

  ‘You give that here!’ he makes a little jab with the fire iron.

  ‘She’s under-age, Stavros!’ Vasso shouts.

  The poker lifts, ready to swing, rage in his face.

  ‘If you had done the maths you would have realised,’ Vasso says quickly, shrilly. There is a high-pitched edge of panic.

  ‘What are you tal
king about?’ He dismisses her with the curtness of his question but the poker is lowered slightly.

  ‘This.’ Vasso holds the booklet towards him, her finger pointing out a date next to the picture of Abby. Stella looks away from Stavros, interested in what Vasso has to say.

  ‘Her date of birth. Stella, ask Abby if Stavros tried to kiss her or touch her.’

  Stella relays the question in English. Stavros watches in horror. Abby nods her head.

  Stavros lowers the poker. He scowls at them all under his brow, guttural noises like a dog, the poker not lowered to the floor, still holding its menace.

  ‘Under-age, Stavros. Fifteen years old.’ Vasso sounds triumphant.

  Stavros rocks back on his heels, his chin jerking upwards. Stella searches Abby’s face, trying to reassess. ‘And we have a few other items that we can call as evidence if Abby’s word is not good enough. In fact I think it is time we called in the police.’ Vasso feels through her pockets for her mobile phone.

  Stavros lunges at her, a hand towards the passport. Stella grabs at Stavros’ shirt sleeve to stop him, Abby grabs the shirt tail. But his momentum urges him forward toward Vasso.

  Stella pulls harder, Abby makes a second grab, Vasso steps backwards and in the moment he twists in an unexpected way and falls on his face.

  Mitsos stands in the doorway calmly pulling his shepherd’s crook out from the tangle of Stavros’ ankles.

  ‘I just came back as I felt the need for my crook,’ Mitsos says simply.

  Stella grins at him. He puts the end of the crook in between the shoulder blades of the prone Stavros.

  ‘Or I could not call the police, and leave Abby’s father to do that when he arrives tomorrow. He flies out tonight, I believe?’ Vasso looks to Abby for confirmation.

  At the mention of a father Stavros twists his head and tries to look up at Abby.

  ‘Abby, just nod your head,’ Stella says, knowing that Abby will not understand a word of all that is being said in Greek. Abby nods, looking Stavros in the eye.