by Sara Alexi
‘What, are you turning American on me, are you going to sue me now?’ Marina laughs and sits down again, the wisteria remaining thirsty.
‘No, I want to know that you agree with me, that he is responsible for me having the land, and if so, would you say, if he was still living, I would be fair in holding him to be responsible if the price was way short of the fertile land I swapped it for?’
‘You can't really hold him responsible, as ultimately it was your choice to swap the land, but I do know how he'd twist logic and make you feel like you didn't know your own mind until you agreed with him. So in some ways I would say he was responsible in the way a conman is responsible for the tricks he pulls. But for that he'd go to jail, not pay the difference.’
‘So we are agreed he was responsible. In one word, yes or no.’
‘In that case I would have to say yes, sorry Mitsos, but you were had.’ There is pity in her eyes.
‘Good, then you must take this.’ He hands the cheque back to Marina. She takes the paper again and puts it on the cracked wooden table under her coffee cup and then reaches out and pats Mitsos’ hand, a slightly pitying but compassionate gesture.
Mitsos can feel his breath shortening as he looks at Marina. ‘Look, I sold the beet field and did not make a loss, I made a profit.’ Marina looks once more at the cheque and seems to find something funny.
‘Mitsos, what you are saying and this piece of paper you are showing me do not relate. I cannot tell where joking ends and reality begins. Something has happened but you are not doing a very good job of explaining. Perhaps you’d better tell me in a bit more detail what has happened, and forget this cheque joke.’
Mitsos up at the blue cloudless sky and tries to calm his racing pulse. ‘The man at the bank wrote the cheque because I said I …’
‘No, Mitsos, from the beginning.’
Mitsos takes a deep breath and tries to think where the beginning is. He takes a sip of his coffee which is now only tepid.
‘A man from an estate agent’s in town came to see me. Well, he said he had been contacted by an estate agent from Athens who had a client from Germany who wanted some land.’ Marina nods her understanding. ‘He remembered me from the beach bar; he had been there that night. So he came and found me all these years later and asked if I still had the land. He told me he had a client who wanted remote land by the sea.’
‘So you have sold the land, then?’
‘Yes, I said so.’
‘But some person wanting to buy a bit of land in a remote location to build a house does not write cheques like that.’ She points to the cheque and smiles at Mitsos’ joke.
‘But it wasn't some person.’
‘Who was it, then?’ Marina picks up the cheque and looks at it again.
‘Well, I didn't know at the beginning. One of their men came and looked at the land and he said it was perfect so the estate agent man from the town winked at me and told me not to say a word. I kept my mouth shut and we all left. But I didn’t hear anything. I just thought nothing was happening so I stopped thinking about it. Then a letter came from their lawyers in Germany with an offer and the agent made a counter-offer and asked for more money and back and forth it went. Anyway, now it is settled and they put the money in my bank.’
‘So who was it that bought it?’
‘They are called Geld-drukken Hotel Group. They are going to build a hotel complex with pools, restaurants, cinema, somewhere that the tourist doesn't have to leave and even if they did where would they go, all the way out there?’
Marina straightens the cheque out, now a little creased by her dismissive handling, and looks at it again. ‘So this is really real then?’
‘Yes, it is real.’ Mitsos feels a lifting in his chest, the beginnings of a sense of freedom.
Marina begins to smile and then pulls her face straight. ‘Then this is yours, not mine. I cannot accept it,’ and she places the cheque on the table again as if it were too hot. Mitsos’ chest sinks.
‘I thought you would say that,’ Mitsos says. ‘But tell me, did you not inherit his house and his orange and olive groves, and did you not agree that he was responsible if I was to make a loss from swapping my prime land for the beet field?’ He pauses. ‘Loss profit, same difference.’
Marina’s face drains of colour. She picks up the cheque again, and then holding it carefully by the corners she looks at Mitsos, her mouth gaping until she shuts it to swallow before asking, ‘But what about you?’
‘I didn't split it exactly fifty-fifty, it was a bit in my favour, but I figured you wouldn't mind.’
‘Mind! What the heck am I going to do with a million euros?’
‘What am I going to do with one and a half?’ Mitsos laughs. Marina's round belly begins to wobble before the noise comes from her throat, a warble that rapidly loses control. Tears rolling down her face, she stands, forgetting her broken leg and nearly falls. Mitsos jumps up to catch her, wincing with the pain in his ribs and she falls against him, laughing. Their faces so close, eyes shining in their mutual joy. Marina looks up to him, Mitsos bends towards her and kisses her tenderly, on her forehead, recovering from his hysteria.
‘You are safe now, Marina.’ He holds her to him and smiles. Years of tension leave his face. He has fulfilled his promise, he has righted his wrongs, he has set them both free. He releases her slowly and she pulls away gently. They look into each other’s eyes and know of their shared history but also see the possibilities of their individual futures reflected there.
‘Will you rebuild the shop?’ Mitsos asks.
‘I have no idea. First, you must tell me how I change this bit of paper into solid money I can feel.’
‘You are such a village girl, Marina.’ And they both laugh as they recognise their mutual lack of sophistication.
Mitsos leaves Marina with joy in his heart. Her future comfort is assured, his pledge concluded. He walks with light feet to Stella's. She is not sitting outside so Mitsos pops his head in. Stavros is poking at the grill trying to get it going, using a lighter and pulling his hand away quickly so as not to burn himself, but too quickly for it to ignite. It is clearly a tricky process, and one that he has still not mastered after years in the shop. Stella is not with him.
‘Not open yet,’ Stavros puffs. Mitsos could have the grill lit with one match but does not feel inclined to help. He would like to ask where Stella is but feels this may not be in her best interest.
‘Oh, ok, what time are you opening?’
‘When they get back.’
‘Who?’ Mitsos is confused by the plural.
‘Stella and the English girl, gone off somewhere.’
This surprises Mitsos. He cannot imagine Stella wanting to spend any time with the English girl whom Stavros is clearly hunting, if not bedding.
Mitsos feeds his chickens and wanders under the pine tree. By midday he is hungry so he saunters back down to Stella's. The tickets are burning a hole in his shirt pocket.
He does not see her on his way in; the shop is particularly busy. Stavros himself takes the order. He waits a long time for his food to come. It is Stavros who brings it. Mitsos squirms on his seat a little, feeling guilty for his thoughts but reasoning with himself that Stavros cannot see inside his shirt pocket or his head, or his heart. He must just be cross with the grill and have her working in there or washing up behind. He finishes his lunch more quickly than usual and looks for Stella on the way out but as there is such a jostle of people he decides not to add to it. Wherever she is in the throng, she is clearly busy.
He stops to recruit an immigrant on the way through the square and a grinning Pakistani man accompanies him up to his land, where Mitsos sets him about clearing the path to the front door, showing him the difference between a weed and a flower after the grinning fool pulls up a rose bush.
Mitsos drinks coffee and watches the world, motorbikes racing through the village in pairs as young boys get their first taste of freedom, women in garish housecoats c
hatting on corners and the blue sky above going on forever, over the mountains in the distance to faraway places.
When the immigrant has finished the weeding he gets him to clear the front room of the rain-spoilt furniture. Not sure what to do with it, Mitsos asks the man if he would like any of it. The Pakistani says he would like it all and he piles it neatly by the gate. He pulls a mobile phone from his pocket, talks swiftly in his native tongue and grins all the more. A friend will come for it later, he says.
Mitsos is about to pay him ten euros for half a day’s work, when he recalls the man without shoes that the English woman had bought a sandwich for. He never did give that man his gloves, so he compensates his past omission by paying this worker for a whole day, despite his irritating grin and the truck full of furniture he will, in all probability, sell.
The front room is a lovely bright space with all the heavy furniture gone. Mitsos paces around in it to enjoy the change but he can’t quite settle as he is hungry again.
It is dinner time and he taps his shirt pocket and heads down to see Stella. He is excited with what he can offer her but worries about Stavros.
It occurs to Mitsos that he has chosen an unavailable girl again. He combs his short hair in the small mirror by his back door.
‘But this time, Mitsos, you are grabbing the opportunity, whereas with poor Marina you clearly left it too late,’ he tells his reflection before walking, as eagerly as the warmth will allow down to the village square and along to the fast-food restaurant.
Stavros is sitting outside. Mitsos walks in with a smile. Stella will know from the look on his face that something good has happened. Stavros follows him into the empty take-away.
Before Mitsos has sat down or gathered his thoughts the words come out. ‘Where's Stella?’
‘She’s not here. What can I get you?’ Stavros grunts. Mitsos feels confused and then disguises his perplexity by searching his pockets. He pretends he has forgotten his money and leaves. He has a curious feeling in his stomach but it is not like any hunger he has experienced, similar but definitely not the same. It slowly grows into his chest cavity and images of Stella fill his mind. He crosses to the kafenio and sits in his old seat by the counter. Theo is making a coffee and looks up at Mitsos and nods.
‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ Theo asks. Mitsos looks at him.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Adonis calls as he trips up the few steps into the cafe. He ambles over to Mitsos' table and sits down, patting him on the back. ‘Coffee,’ he commands Theo, who nods and picks up another cup.
Mitsos is still looking at Theo, who smiles benignly and commences his task.
‘So, tomorrow, did you remember?’ But Mitsos’ face is blank. ‘Tomorrow is his christening. You hadn't forgotten, had you?’
‘Oh!’ Mitsos squeezes thoughts of Stella to the back of his mind and scrabbles for some memory of the christening date, but finds none. He lies, ‘No, of course, tomorrow. Here in the village.’
Theo is sniggering at the counter.
‘Yes, everyone says they will be going. We are having food here afterwards. Theo will put tables in the square and we will have a party. The whole village will come. It will be great.’ He smiles widely and looks out to the square over the tops of the old men’s heads.
‘The whole village … you have invited everyone?’
‘Yup, everyone.’
Mitsos smiles very slightly. He likes the idea of giving Stella the tickets in the church.
Chapter 22
Mitsos is at the church early. The brass chandelier is lit, the glass in front of the icons with their gold leaf halos is polished, all is shining and shimmering in the cool, partially lit interior, the dark corners a relief from the ornate holy items.
To Mitsos’ amusement the trainee Papas, who is now an old man and highly respected in the church, has come to the village to perform the baptism. He says he offered to do it because he has fond memories of the village. He does not recognise Mitsos when he shakes his hand.
Mitsos slinks away from the Papas' verbosity and stands against the wall by the wooden side door. He doesn't really want to get caught up in all the social graces. His brother says he has invited many of his friends from the town and he watches their arrival in their town clothes, jeans made to look faded, thin shirts, expensive rags. They are full of vigour and life’s energy, happy to see each other. One of the women smiles and Mitsos imagines the smile that will be on Stella's face within half an hour. He transfers his weight from foot to foot at the thought. He wonders if she will let him buy her clothes, ones without designer patches.
A petite woman in a floral dress comes in. Mitsos catches a glimpse and stands on tiptoe to see, above the growing crowd, if it is Stella, but it turns out to be a teenager with a rather old-looking face. Mitsos can guess exactly what she will look when she is middle-aged.
Cosmo arrives, supporting his mother. He nods at Mitsos, who nods back. All the chairs have been moved from the centre of the church to line the edges to give more room around the font. Cosmo takes his mother to one of these chairs. Adonis arrives with his wife Leni and the baby, who is crying; Leni is trying to soothe him. Adonis ignores the baby, doesn't see Mitsos, but greets his friends from town. Theo hurries in and speaks into Adonis' ear, receives a reply, and hurries out again. The psaltis begins to sing the prayers. The church is filling now; Mitsos sees his neighbours arrive. Vasso has emerged from the kiosk in a new dress, her hair done. The two ladies from the chemist’s have exchanged their white coats for flowing dresses. He keeps looking for Stella but she has not arrived yet. He wonders if she has travelled any distance by boat before.
Juliet enters, quietly, alone, and finds a corner to stand in. She has a pale green dress on, which suits her. He taps his shirt pocket to make sure the tickets are still there. Stella will be so excited. Or maybe just relieved to be able to leave Stavros. He imagines the shop will shut without Stella, and Stavros will return to his own village. There won’t be a fuss.
The light from the open main doors is blocked and Mitsos turns to find a clique of people entering all at once. The women in the group go and light candles, as do some of the men; the rest of the men shake hands with those they know, smiling at the joy of the gathering and the prospect of the party and feast in the square afterwards. Mitsos recognises them as village people who work in the town. Some of their wives have ridiculously high heels on and not a hair out of place. Mitsos feels they are trying too hard, overdressed for the village. They are too gaudy to be easy on his eyes. He looks away and thinks of Egypt.
To his surprise he sees Stavros come in, wearing a crisp white shirt that stretches over his belly and is too tight to do up at the collar. He is sweating profusely and the shirt already has stains under the arms although he looks as if he has dressed specially for the occasion. Mitsos checks that Stella is not with him and watches as he moves between the people, lights a candle and kisses the feet of an icon before crossing himself three times and finding a chair to sit on. Mitsos loses sight of him as he sits. Mitsos reasons that he and Stella may have to leave separately; they don't need a scene.
The incense is blowing about the church and it is particularly strong where Mitsos is standing. He likes the aroma but the smoke itself bothers him. He coughs. Leni notices him and smiles and lifts the baby’s hand to make him wave at Mitsos. Mitsos smiles to be polite but thinks what a ridiculous thing it is to do, to make a baby wave as if it is a puppet. He chastises himself for thinking such unkind thoughts and then realises that he is still shifting his weight from foot to foot with his growing impatience.
‘Where is she?’ But there is no one near him to hear. He stands as tall as he can to look over the heads towards the door.
Several young farmers turn up with their wives. The wives have made an effort, but look distinctly uncomfortable in their brightly coloured clothes. Their husbands are wearing clean versions of what they wear every day and, with a relaxed manner, chat amongst themselves.
Still there is no sign of Stella. The church is almost full now and the Papas stands and people settle down and stop talking. Mitsos searches through the crowd that is already there to check that he has not missed her coming in, but there are too many people to see clearly who is there and who is not. The brass chandelier hangs low overhead; the gold of the icons shimmers in the artificial light and the illumination from the dozens of prayer candles that have now been lit and stood up in the sand trays near the entrance.
There is a small parting of people around the door and he sees Marina’s dark head as she shuffles in on her crutches. Mitsos stops leaning against the wall and goes to assist her to find a comfortable place. She insists on being near the font and Mitsos takes a chair from the edge of the room and pushes his way through the crowd to provide this comfort for her.
The psaltis nears the end of his singing and the Papas begins his prayers over the child. The crowd is hushed as the ceremony has begun.
The child is taken away and undressed. The Papas blesses the oil and the baby is brought to the font wrapped in a towel so he can blow on the child's face three times. Mitsos stays by Marina but looks over his shoulder constantly for Stella. The baby struggles as his godmother wipes the blessed oil all over him with her hands before pouring the rest in the font with three tips of the bottle.
‘Who are you looking for?’ Marina whispers to Mitsos.
‘No one, why?’ Mitsos was not aware it was so obvious.
‘Just wondering.’ She becomes absorbed in the Papas’ words. The baby spreads his legs to brace himself against the font, to avoid being dipped in the cold water. Marina then whispers, ‘Talking about looking for people, did you hear?’
‘Hear what?’ Mitsos whispers.
‘Stella. She walked out on Stavros and he has not seen her since. She took the English girl with her, yesterday morning.’
A shiver runs down Mitsos’ back. The hairs on his arm stand on end and he feels slightly sick. He tries to swallow but he has forgotten to breathe and feels as if he is choking. He coughs until his airways clear and someone pats him on the back. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything but, without his consent, he hears himself ask in a high pitched whisper, ‘Where's she gone?’