by Sara Alexi
No one missed Dimitri, except his widow, perhaps, but the boys weren’t even convinced that she did all the time. They felt only relief. Mitsos’ elder brother tried to make his escape all the sooner, but his mother needed him now. Then the lawyer came.
There was a Will, it all went to the boys. The choice pieces of land went to the youngest, as he had the most distance to travel to independence. The eldest, on the presumption that he was the wisest, was left the worst piece of land, in this case a piece of saline-soaked sandy soil fit for only growing beets. It had been the family joke. Dimitri, the eldest boy in his family, had inherited it and now it would be passed on.
The two younger boys had laughed when they heard that the eldest would get the beet plot. It felt like a reprisal for his bullying. It was a flat piece of scrub land, stony, sandy and pretty useless as it was down away from the village by the sea. The salt water soaked into the soil, making it all but incapable of growing anything but beets. Mitsos’ and Adonis’ sides had ached laughing at their brother’s lot whilst their mother sat in her room and cried.
It was the same evening, with no Baba to govern his movements, that Mitsos went into town and chose a bar in which to get drunk.
The bouzouki player was good and the wailing clarinet player was loud; another man sat nursing an accordion to very little effect. The usual types of suited men sat in groups and pairs, ties pulled loose. The smoke hung like an eiderdown over the tables and chairs, giving a metaphoric atmosphere if not a breathable one.
Who should be there but Manolis. He seemed to be on the same mission as Mitsos judging by the number of empty shot glasses before him. He had grown lean with the army and farm work, and his eyes were darker blue than Mitsos remembered. His dark mass of curls seemed bleached, presumably by the daily sun, to give it golden flecks. There were two women sitting with him, one on either side. When he saw Mitsos he hailed him loudly, jumped from his stool and greeted him with a bear hug. Mitsos was flattered by his enthusiasm, as well as the admiring looks that Manolis’ interest generated from the women he was with.
‘What’s new?’ Manolis asked.
‘Not much,’ replied Mitsos. ‘Baba died.’ Manolis congratulated him on his new-found freedom and asked what land was his now. The women were dismissed; this was man’s talk.
Mitsos downed a whisky and told the tale of Adonis’ and his hysterics over the beet land. Manolis congratulated him again and refilled his glass.
Manolis told of his gambling prowess, which added to his income, as he took his father’s workers for their day’s pay night after night.
‘What do they live on,’ Mitsos asked, ‘if you keep winning their earnings, and where do they sleep with no wage to pay for a room?’ Manolis said they could always eat oranges. His Baba, whom he was now calling by his first name, Costas, (in fact he was calling him Old Costas), had put wide shelves up in the old barn and rented the berths out nightly to illegal immigrants. It was cheaper for them than a hotel, safer than under the trees, offered some protection from police raids and, if they had no money to pay after gambling, they were offered half-price berths whilst they worked for free to pay off their debt.
Manolis laughed his evil laugh as he told of one man who owed him so much that he had to work for a month for nothing to pay him off.
Mitsos had had enough whisky by this point to find it funny, and the two of them became increasingly loud. In the end they stopped buying single refills and bought the bottle so they could fill their glasses at will. Two unsavoury-looking girls came in and attached themselves when they saw the bottle, and the four of them drank until Mitsos thought he would fall off his seat.
‘We best go where the landing is soft then,’ Manolis said, and took the bottle, his glass and one of the girls out into the night.
The other girl took Mitsos’ arm but he wriggled free and told her to wait, he needed the toilet. The door to the facilities also led to the alley behind. Mitsos made his escape, fell over some soggy cardboard boxes of kitchen waste, used the wall to support himself, flicked pieces of unidentifiable food from his shirt, and staggered his way round to the front of the bar, to see Manolis and the girl disappearing towards the beach.
He could not hurry, his legs would not allow it. Manolis was getting further and further away. The girl’s white shirt glowed in the moonlight and the bottle swinging from Manolis’ hand glinted. They disappeared from sight behind some eucalyptus trees at the beaches edge, but Mitsos knew Manolis’ haunts.
He needed another drink, and he hoped he would catch them up before the whisky ran out. The town seemed quiet now, and he wondered why he had ditched the other girl.
He had reached the eucalyptus tree when the girl in the white shirt ran back past him towards the town.
Mitsos swayed onwards to the sea’s edge to find his friend.
‘Silly whore!’ Manolis was shouting and turning circles, his arms outstretched. His head thrown back, the moon on his face, he made the noise of a goat and threw himself down on the sand.
Mitsos collapsed beside him and snatched the bottle.
‘Whatswaswrongwithsherthen?’ Mitsos’ words came out as a stream and there were too many ‘esses’.
‘Ach!’ Manolis made a swift full arc with his arm and dismissed the crying girl from his mind.
The bay was so still, the water without a ripple, a path of light to the low-hung moon; the coast on the opposite side of the bay dotted with lights, the land black against the dark blues of sea and sky. Mitsos appreciated the beauty, although it puzzled him that there were two moons. He could hear the faraway putt-putt of a night fishing boat, a dog calling another dog, and goat bells once in a while. It was the music of his country, the sound of his home. He was revelling in it and presumed Manolis was doing the same.
‘Got it!’ Manolis slurred and stood up. He ran to the sea and in up to his knees, and dipped his head in the cool water, flicking his hair back as he came up. He returned, soaked, with only the odd patch of dry on his shirt.
Manolis stopped looking at the two moons and turned his attention to the two Manolises standing before him. He shivered at the vision. He put his head on one side. ‘Got what?’
‘I have our future. I have our wealth laid out before me. I have all the girls you could wish for and I have the most fun way to make a living. Are you in?’
At that point, for Mitsos, sleep was a far more attractive proposition than any amount of wealth or girls, and he lay down in the sand using his arm as a pillow. But Manolis was dancing from foot to foot as if he were a boy again, not a grown man, the moon turning his blue shirt silver. Mitsos had seen it all before and closed his eyes. Manolis tried to rouse him but sleep was all but upon him. He felt Manolis grab him by the arms, and before he could get his bearings Manolis was dragging him backwards through the sand. Mitsos felt disorientated. Bright moon, midnight blue, pale blue shirt. He closed his eyes and wondered if he had wet himself, but as the level of wetness rose, he opened his eyes and saw he was in the sea. Manolis continued to drag him.
Mitsos tried to find his feet but the sand shifted under his weight and there was no getting up. The water rose to his shoulders and splashed in his nose, in his mouth. He coughed and choked but still his arms were being pulled. His head went under, panic rose in his chest, he twisted and squirmed and the grip on his arms relaxed at last. But still Mitsos could not stand, the sand was shifting, he could not tell which way was up. He kicked and floundered with his arms. His fight for survival cleared his head quickly. He turned onto his hands and knees and rose to a squatting position. He gulped some air and lost his balance, but he had seen he was facing the shore. On all fours he pushed himself forward as fast as he could until the water shallowed. He gasped some more air and the panic subsided. He crawled further, his head out of the water, crouching, then standing. A hand came to steady him. He slapped it off and stamped up the beach and sat on the rocks, catching his breath.
‘You nearly bloody drowned me!’ Mitsos sho
uted.
‘I needed you sober.’
‘Go to hell!’ Mitsos stood up to walk away. His toe touched the bottle of whisky. He picked it up. Manolis put his hand out to claim it but Mitsos flung it with all his strength into the sea.
‘Hey!’
‘Go to hell.’ Mitsos was up by the eucalyptus trees. Manolis ran after him.
‘Listen, this is it, all our problems solved.’
‘You being dead would solve all my problems!’ Mitsos never forgot these words. He even wanted to take them back as he said them, but part of him meant them. He was horrified by his own feelings. He was not the man he thought he was. But nor was Manolis, who had nearly drowned him.
Manolis had stopped walking as he spoke and stood, a dark shape under the trees, the moon on the sea visible under the branches behind him.
Mitsos had turned to say, ‘That was too much.’ But he did not make it clear whether the near-drowning was too much, or his own harsh words. Manolis would interpret it as he chose. He did not move.
‘Come on, we are friends, no?’ Mitsos felt an increasing need to erase the effect of his words so he could forget he said them.
‘Are you with me then?’
‘I don’t know until you tell me the plan.’
‘Do you want me dead or are you with me: which is the truth?’
Mitsos was in a corner. It felt familiar – but wishing someone dead, that was not the man he wanted to be.
‘I am with you, Manolis.’ His words came out as a sigh.
‘Right, here’s what we are going to do.’
Manolis put forward his dream, painted in shining colours. With his arm around Mitsos’ shoulders, his silver words proved, without an inkling of a doubt, that it would be successful and they would not only be rich but also happy. The work itself, he said grinning at Mitsos, his eyes on fire with intensity, would be nothing but fun. All Mitsos had to do was swap his prime land with his brother’s beet field.
His brother, when told of the wish to make the swap, had felt it was a harsh joke but Mitsos (urged by Manolis), to prove he was serious, took steps to do it legally, and soon the field was his, his brother laughing.
Manolis had bought double whiskys all round when he heard the transaction was complete. The next day he arranged to meet Mitsos at the beet field and told him to bring any spare boards, wooden props, chipboard, old doors and discarded windows with him. Mitsos’ Baba had rebuilt the chicken shed before he died, and pieces of the old shed were stacked against the new. Mitsos loaded the lot onto a cart and towed it to the beet field with the tractor.
They resurrected the chicken coop, down by the sea’s edge in the beet field, extending it and raising the roof. To the front they built decking onto the sand and lined up some roughly made tall stools against their improvised counter. When it was finished they painted the whole thing with bright orange paint that Manolis had acquired from somewhere. Mitsos stood back to admire their handiwork, but Manolis took a hatchet and cut palm leaves from the trees along the lane to the beach and they nailed them all over the hut.
‘Hawaiian style,’ Manolis said, but he did not laugh in the work as he had done when they played the donkey trick, or even the paint scam before the lids came off. There was a seriousness that made Mitsos feel uncomfortable. Manolis’ emotions seemed to be all over the place; one minute he was angry, the next hysterically jolly. Mitsos found it difficult to keep up. The carefree boyish attitude that characterised him for so long had been rarely in evidence during their work.
When the job was finished Manolis took a board and wrote ‘Beach Bar’ in big letters across it and nailed it to the chicken coop’s roof.
The bar was open for exactly three days. On the first two no one came, even with the first drink free for the ladies.
On the third day they put up balloons and signposts, hung hammocks from the eucalyptus trees that bordered the beet field along the sea side, and had drunk a fair amount before the first guests arrived.
The man from the hardware shop brought his son and his son brought five of his friends. They pooled their money behind the bar and the drinks kept flowing. Three tourist girls came next and ordered cocktails Mitsos had never heard of, and as they drank they joined the boys.
Manolis invented all manner of drinks, blues, greens, reds. The clients seemed as perplexed as Mitsos as to their provenance but Manolis declared they were ‘Greek style’ whenever the question arose, and the mood was such that no one really cared as long as the alcohol kept flowing.
More people arrived, mostly tourists.
Manolis turned the radio on in his car, the volume on full and all the doors open. The party really started kicking.
The music must have drifted over the water, as more and more people came. Twice Mitsos had to go for more bottles whilst Manolis held the fort and flirted with his blue eyes at the western girls.
The second time Mitsos returned with more alcohol Manolis took him to one side and thrust him a handful of notes. ‘Here, keep it safe. You will have all the money you need to buy your land back if we carry on like this tonight.’ Mitsos looked at the amount in his hand and felt slightly sick at the responsibility of having so much money. He looked around the back of the bar for a place to put it but everywhere seemed too open, or too obvious. He stepped into the night and stuffed it down his trousers and returned smiling.
People kept coming and Manolis stuffed more money into Mitsos’ hand. Mitsos was half drunk and felt, once again, that Manolis was truly a god.
Until two sober-looking men in black shirts arrived.
‘Hey, have a drink boys,’ Manolis offered. When he held out his hand for payment that was their signal and they identified themselves.
‘You must close the bar immediately.’
‘You have no licence,’ the taller man added.
The second man stepped forward. ‘Greek law says you cannot build on the beach. Also, you had no planning. It must be pulled down immediately or you will receive a heavy fine.’ Along with his briskness he was clearly enjoying his power. Particularly when he said they would face a hefty fine.
Manolis protested and waved his arms about, and opened the till to show how empty it was.
‘How much money you have taken,’ the taller man explained patiently, ‘is not the question. The law has its penalties.’
‘You will be informed of the consequences. Meanwhile, we strongly suggest you dismantle the bar.’ The shorter man smiled as he spoke.
‘Which, incidentally,’ the first man added sniggering, ‘looks more like a chicken coop.’
Then they left.
A balloon popped. Mitsos jumped.
Manolis began kicking chairs, bottles and glasses in the sand. He was beside himself and he could not vent his anger enough for it to subside. Mitsos tried to talk to him, to work out the problem, but Manolis was speechless. His eyes shone with anger and something that, to Mitsos, looked a little like madness.
Manolis jumped into his truck, started it up and revved the engine hard. Mitsos felt afraid. He saw two people sitting on the far side of the bar, kissing. He ran to them and grabbed the boy by the arm. The two rose, protesting. Mitsos did not release his grip but swung the boy nearer the trees, out of the way, the girl following.
The revving truck’s doors slammed shut as it jolted forward and crashed through the chicken coop, splintering the dry wood into kindling. Mitsos put his hands in the air, and his mouth fell open. He had guessed Manolis was going to take this action, he had seen it coming, but the reality of the event seemed too dramatic.
‘Panayia, mother of God, stop!’
Manolis backed off the pile of firewood and climbed out of the truck, grinding broken glass on plywood pieces.
‘Every time you try to do something in this town some jealous bastard gets in your way. Who told them, eh? Who tipped them off? Some jealous bar owner, that’s who.’
‘But Manolis, we have spent the day telling everyone we met there was a bar here.
No one needed to tip them off, we advertised ourselves.’
‘No. Someone tipped them off for sure …’ He jumped back into his truck and shouted through the open window, ‘I'll find a way to get even,’ and he laughed that strange chilling laugh as he drove away.
Stella is watching his face as he tells his story. As Mitsos turns to her she closes her mouth. There is a sudden crescendo of noise. A boy of no more than eight years old rides past on a moped, revving the engine and trying to do a wheelie. He rounds the corner at the square and the sound dwindles.
‘What happened next?’ Stella asks.
‘Well, the licence people got in touch very soon after that. It is amazing how some wheels turn so slowly in Greece and others are like lightning. They contacted me as I was the land owner. We got a fine, and when I went to Manolis with the official paper he said, “I gave you the money.” I thought the money he had given me was my half. It seemed very unlikely that Manolis would give it all to me, even if it was only for safe keeping. But he said it was, so I paid the fine and was left with nothing.
‘Except a beet field.’ Stella laughs dryly, sliding down in her chair and crossing her legs out in front of her as she looks up towards the square.
Chapter 10
Mitsos takes the envelope from his pocket. The rustle of the paper attracts Stella’s attention.
‘What’s that?’ Stella asks, shielding her eyes to see better. Mitsos wouldn't mind sharing it with her. It would feel like a weight had been lifted to share it with at least one person. She is probably the only person he would feel happy telling. He doesn’t intend telling his own brothers. The older one is a bully, has been all his life like his Baba, and the younger is happy as a town dweller now, so his opinions would be biased towards the modern world. No, this is his business, and if he is going to tell anyone then it will be Stella. She won't judge or condemn, and she wouldn't want anything for herself or cause trouble. She will probably offer some sound advice, if she says anything at all.