by Sara Alexi
‘He wants it to be fairly regular, so Leni can continue with this part-time job she has got. I don't think they are short of money, I think she just likes the stimulus.’
‘Stella!’ Stavros calls from next door.
Stella gets up suddenly. ‘Chicken and chips,’ Mitsos says quickly, and Stella leaves the room.
She soon returns with his lunch.
‘Your lobster, sir, and your champagne.’ She puts his plate of chicken and chips in front of him with a bottle of beer. As he didn't order the beer, he knows it is a present from her. She chops his chicken for him. He smiles at her, this act of kindness no longer embarrassing as it was in the early days. She briefly smiles back, wistfully, before returning to the take-away.
Chapter 5
Mitsos looks at his chicken and thinks of lobster. That was another of Manolis’ pranks. Although it is much more than a prank when you are a teenager and you are making money from it.
At that time the sea was their second home. They sailed it, swam it, walked alongside it, pulled things out of it, threw things in it. They felt they owned it.
Mitsos chews his chicken and looks at the picture of the sailing ship on the wall.
He remembers the first time they went out for lobsters: the calm of the water, the smell of the salt. The sun, just rising, orange-gold on the horizon, reflected off the sea so they had to shield their eyes as they looked out towards their destination. Mitsos sat at the oars feeling as free as any boy could wish to feel. Manolis was at the bow, directing and pointing. He was the captain.
The motion of the boat soothed any remaining trepidation that Mitsos felt. A seagull flew low overhead. He kicked the nets at his feet to make more room for his ever-lengthening limbs. He leaned back with each stroke and gazed up at the enormous expanse of blue sky, settling into a lazy, soporific state.
Mitsos no longer enjoys the sea. The lobsters had made them rich, briefly, even by today’s standards. Rich for teenage boys from a village. He dips his chicken into the lemon sauce.
That evening they went into town and spent money like it was water. They were at an age when they passed from boyhood to adulthood and back again on the whim of a fleeting emotion. That night they were men and everyone knew it. The girls flocked around blue-eyed Manolis, and they were treated like kings. They danced in the bars and drank like fish. And that was only the first day.
But at what price, Mitsos reflects. He squishes a large chip into two with the edge of his fork. They may have just been teenagers, but it was the fishermen’s living they had played with. Taking lobsters from their pots was no different than taking food from their tables. Manolis had told him nothing of the plot, as usual, to get him to row out to sea. He had talked cleverly about all lobsters still in the sea being free but – and he could own up to it now – it had been fear, on the first day, that made him continue to row the boat as Manolis hauled up other people’s pots to take their catch. After that it had been the money, not his clever arguments or his threatening manner. The lobsters fetched a good price at the local tavernas.
He had heard his Mama and Baba talking when he was in bed one evening. It was when he had been too hung-over to go with Manolis. He heard the words ‘lobsters’, ‘theft’ and something about the fishermen issuing a clear warning. He had felt such relief that he had not gone out that day.
Ignoring the chips he is eating, Mitsos’ stomach knots at the memory of his Mama saying how relieved she was that Mitsos was not involved for once. His Baba had cleared his throat.
Mitsos rests his fork on the edge of his plate and swallows some beer to wash the food down.
The word ‘theft’ had lingered in his mind back then, and still does now. He had not thought of Manolis as a thief, but lying in bed that night he saw how he had taken food from the mouths of the fishermen’s families. When he heard his Baba clear his throat it occurred to Mitsos that his father did not believe he was not involved, which would mean that he too was a thief. Is that why he cleared his throat? As he lay awake listening to his parents and struggling with his conscience, he still had several thousand drachmas under his mattress. He thought long and hard. But he didn’t give it back.
Mitsos wishes he had given the money back, given it to someone. It would have been one less burden to carry.
He mops the juices of his chicken lunch off his plate with a hunk of bread. His chest feels knotted with the recall of the lobster incident, even after all this time. He knew what they were doing was wrong, but at the time he felt he had no choice. Without Manolis he would be left with his older brother who was a bully, his younger brother Adonis who was spoilt, and his parents. His Mama nagged and his Baba was a drunk and needed little incentive to take his belt off.
Manolis was his escape. Maybe he should have gone further. There was a village lad who lied about his age and joined the navy. Maybe he could have found other company – Theo with his fluffy hair and his pirate suit, perhaps. Mitsos chuckles.
He pushes the memories away with his plate and leans back to digest his food, picking contentedly at his teeth with a toothpick.
Chapter 6
Mitsos watches the farmers goading each other on. Chairs are scraped, table tops banged with hammer fists, arms over shoulders mark affiliations over points of view. Genially swearing at each other, they sound crosser than they actually are. After ten minutes or so Stella puts her head round the door to ask if there is anything else Mitsos wants. The young farmers call her over for their bill. One of them has had too much ouzo with his lunch and is a bit cheeky. The other two try to act sober to chastise their friend. They apologise on his behalf, level all manner of obscenities at him, overcompensate with politeness towards Stella and leave a big tip. Stella is unmoved, she has seen it all before, and she knows they will be in again tomorrow, laughing as if nothing has happened They file out quietly, smiling but subdued. Their conversation is now on the afternoon’s work. Stella pockets the tip.
She turns to Mitsos. ‘Ouzo?’ He shakes his head and declares the food was very good. Stella smiles briefly, but fatigue wipes the smile away. Mitsos looks towards the door as she sits down at his table. The plastic table cloth crackles as her knees push against it. She arranges the salt, pepper, oil and napkins, in an abstracted way.
‘He's gone out.’ She moves her feet and Manolis can hear them unsticking from the old vinyl floor covering.
‘In that case, can I get you anything?’ He injects a cheerful note into his intonation.
She lets out a half laugh and then brightens. ‘Yes, behind the radio by the sink there is an open bottle of ouzo, the better stuff. Let’s have a nip.’
Mitsos is quick to get up, but slow to cross the room. He hurries as best he can. The grill has been set up behind the counter with just enough room for one person to cook and serve. Behind the grill there is a narrow mirror-tiled space with shelves for glasses, misty from the grease of cooking. The old marble sink is full of pots, and a line of dirt where the sink meets the wall contrasts with the white of the marble. The floor is darker round the edge than where people have walked it smooth over the years. There is just enough space for one person to wash up. A radio is perched on the sink’s edge, and this too has grime in all its recesses; the handle has kitchen paper wrapped around it that looks as if it has been there for weeks, compressed, tattered and no longer white. Next to the ouzo is a bottle of gin with no cap. Mitsos returns with the ouzo bottle under his arm and two glasses pinched between finger and thumb. He pours them each a generous measure.
‘How are the English lessons going?’ Mitsos asks, sitting down. Stella has confided in him that she is taking lessons from the English lady, Juliet, who bought an old farmhouse in the village.
She takes her frizzy hair from its elastic band, smooths and rebinds it, leaving a fluffy end. Mitsos thinks of rabbit tails and smiles.
‘Good. Thank you,’ she says in English before reverting to her mother tongue. ‘I quite enjoy it really. It is all part of Stavros’ pl
an. More business. Being able to talk to tourists. Tourists! Round here?’ Stella’s laugh is cold. ‘But it’s something new. I do it at her house so it gets me out.’
They sit silently for a while. Mitsos stares at the decoration for maybe the hundredth time. The room has a bare feel, like the kafenio, but with feminine touches such as the prints on the walls and the ceramic horses and swans along the shelf that runs around the walls above head height. He recalls that it was a barber’s before Stella and Stavros opened the souvlaki shop. He hadn't been a very popular barber. Not a villager. No one knew him, and he didn’t last long. Before that, it had been a place to buy sacks and barrels. An old couple had lived in the part with the toilet, and the sacks and barrels were in the other half. He had gone in with his Mama as a child to buy mouse traps that the old man made. The shop smelt of wood and dust. Mitsos remembers that the traps didn’t work, and this pleased him.
‘He wants to get help in.’ Stella breaks the silence.
‘Stavros? In here? What does he mean, “help”?’
Stella sighs. ‘He says if we get a foreign girl in to work she will bring her tourist friends, that or we will attract a lot more local farmers.’ Stella smiles, but there is no sparkle and the smile does not reach her eyes.
Mitsos can hear the sadness in her voice. She used to be so in love with Stavros, but his muscles have become fat and his belly is so big he could be pregnant with twins, all in the seven years Mitsos has known him. When they first opened the shop he was like Manolis, with his bright blue eyes hypnotising the girls. Mitsos imagines the type of foreign girl Stavros would employ and feels a wave of sadness too. He cannot look at Stella.
‘I am sorry,’ he says.
‘Take my mind off it, Mitsos. Tell me of your glory days.’
‘The more I think about them, the less glorious and the more stupid they seem.’
‘We are all stupid when we are young. Have you ever met anyone who hasn’t got things in the past that they would change?’ She sounds far away.
They fall silent.
‘Which do you think hurts more, the things we do, the things done to us or the things we don’t do but wish we had?’ she asks.
Mitsos considers before answering, rolling the clear liquid around in his glass.
‘I am beginning to think that all the things we have done might be ok if they came from a good heart. It is trying to work out if you have a good heart or not that is the tricky thing.’
‘But even if we do something from a good heart, if it is misread by others and it hurts people, what good is the good heart?’ Stella asks.
There is a clonk of a goat bell, followed by another. A clicking of hooves and more bells follow. The clicking becomes a gentle drumming, the bells a cacophony of clanks and dongs and knocks. The tops of brown and white heads can be seen passing the window. Curling horns, inquisitive noses, flicking ears. The procession continues until a man with a stick brings up the rear. The sound of the bells diminishes until it can be heard no more.
‘If we could see into each other’s hearts and understand each other’s true motivation no one would be hurt … and no one would be accused,’ Mitsos replies.
‘But no one takes the time,’ Stella muses.
‘Except lovers.’ Mitsos surprises himself. He feels his cheeks warm and fumbles in his pocket for change. He mutters an excuse and leaves.
Light fills his senses out on the street; it even smells warm. Vasso, who is writing numbers in a book in her kiosk cocoon, apologises that she has run out of his usual brand of cigarettes. He could go to Marina’s shop, she suggests, but he decides he will just do without. He turns up the lane to his house. Whitewashed walls on either side, a familiar incline.
He halts. A beetle hurries across his path and disappears into the wall, between the stones. Mitsos wonders if he has a world inside the wall, if the gaps between the stones where the soft mortar has washed away are his roads, the spaces between the rocks his houses, places to rest or store food. If he shares his world with other insects. A village within a village for the creepy-crawlies.
He leaves the beetle to its secret world and continues his slow climb.
It is getting hot, too hot to do much, maybe time to have a nap. He is glad to reach his yard. The hinges on the back door creak since the last rains. The kitchen colours give the illusion of cool, whites and pale green. The faded cotton curtains keep out most of the sun but it is still very warm in the house. He hasn't taken up all the winter carpets yet. His steps kick up dust, from the rag-rugs; it swirls in the sunbeams, settling to a hover, before being caught in unfelt currents. He must roll the dust traps up and put them away until next year.
The envelope catches his eye. He had forgotten all about the letter; maybe he meant to forget. This could fulfil his dream for Marina. It might also make things worse. He could insult her, embarrass her. He could inadvertently ridicule her.
Interaction with other people is confusing. His good intentions seem to have a habit of turning out bad.
He picks up the envelope, which feels thinner than he remembers. Perhaps it is bad news. He looks again at the post mark. His German is non-existent and his English was never as good as Manolis’, but he can read the word ‘Berlin’. He feels a shiver of excitement through his chest; his stomach turns over and flutters. He swallows hard, and blinks rapidly for a moment, stifling his feelings. Nothing is certain until it is certain.
He takes a knife from the drawer and slips the envelope half into the drawer to trap it. He eases the knife point under the edge of the letter’s flap. The cut along the edge is neat. Mitsos puts the knife on the draining board. He looks out of the window over the sink, aware that the next time he sees this view his whole position might have changed – or might not. He can see only one cat in the shade of the almonds. The compacted earth yard is unswept and there are weeds growing here and there. The remaining plants in the pots look as if they have died, and the pots need repainting.
There is a single sheet of paper in the envelope. He draws it out carefully, using his teeth to hold the envelope. He smooths the letter open on the table. It is all in English.
Mitsos sits heavily. He chastises himself. Of course it is not in Greek … Why would it be in Greek? English – the universal language. His energy fizzles away. He recalls his teacher chastising him for looking out at the herding goats during English lessons back in school. Then he could not imagine a reason in the world why he needed to listen. His shoulders slump and he feels for his cigarettes, and then remembers he has none.
Who can he ask to read the letter to him? Stella knows some English – she is getting lessons from the foreign woman. But he is not sure he wants Stella, or more accurately Stavros, to know his business.
He sits and thinks. He wonders whether Stella will continue her English lessons if Stavros gets foreign 'help' in. Probably, if it gets her out of the house and the take-away. But meanwhile, who can read the letter?
The English woman herself – of course.
He can’t remember her name. Stella had said. Everyone had said her name when she first moved into the village. Juliet, that was it!
He will go to see Juliet. She is an outsider, she has no one to gossip with. Although he has heard she is friendly with Marina. Well, he will swear her to secrecy.
He puts the piece of paper back in the envelope. He carefully replaces it on the mantelpiece, in the centre, and lies down on the day-bed in the kitchen.
Chapter 7
Mitsos taps tentatively on the metal gate at the top end of the lane. It has taken him the best part of a week to gain the courage to make the visit. Today he feels able to walk without his crook.
The gate has a metal arch over it, covered with bougainvillea, which creates a frame for the view of the front of the house. A strip of land down the side of the house leads to a back garden. There are flowers in all the borders and the place looks very cared for.
He has been to the house before, but that was forty yea
rs ago. It belonged to a friend of his parents then, a nice old lady. She died and her grandson inherited it. His parents said he let it go to rack and ruin, renting it out to Albanians back when they were illegal immigrants.
Now they live side by side with Greeks. Now Albanians run businesses.
Well, this Juliet is making a nice job of restoring the garden.
An Asian immigrant appears from the back of the house. Mitsos takes a step back and wonders if he can just walk away. He takes out his hanky and wipes his face as he turns to retrace his steps. It is hot and the lane offers no shade. A lizard darts across his path.
‘Do you want Juliet?’ the immigrant asks in Greek, his eyes scanning Mitsos’ empty sleeve as he turns again to face the house. Mitsos raises his brow; he didn’t expect such fluent Greek, and the man’s accent is not that bad.
The immigrant misinterprets his hesitation and asks again, ‘Do you want Juliet?’ in English. Mitsos’ feels his eyes widen. He tries to cover his surprise by quickly asking, ‘Where is she?’ in Greek. He would rather speak directly to her anyway. That is how things should be done, face to face, person to person. These days it’s all middle-men, telephones and computers. How can you judge a person, build a relationship, if you never meet them? The world has become so complex, impersonal.
‘She has just gone to the nursery for some plants for the garden. Would you like to come in and wait? I could get you some water.’
Mitsos ignores the Indian, Pakistani, whatever he is, and turns to walk away. He wants to keep this simple, get the translation from Juliet and leave. It is not a social visit. He does not want to talk to immigrants. A car approaches up the narrow lane.
‘Sir, this is her now,’ the immigrant calls. Mitsos wishes he could carry on walking away. This was a bad idea; he cannot let people he doesn't know into his personal business. In a small village that is a recipe for disaster. If people find you are doing well they get jealous and put obstacles in your way. Only if they hear you are doing worse than them do they leave you alone. Everyone in the village talks of nothing more than how badly they are doing, to appease their neighbours. But he is trapped between the car and the gate in the narrow lane; there is no escape.