by Sara Alexi
At dinner that evening, Petta came in and kissed her on the cheek and sat next to his son and gave him a green orange no bigger than his thumbnail to roll around the tray of his high seat.
‘Petta, how much time do you really need in the orchards?’ Irini opened.
‘Not much, really. I am still learning, but they grow themselves.’ He chuckled at his joke and leaned over to pick up the tiny fruit Angelos had thrown on the floor.
‘So if you had to do a few hours in the shop, that would be alright?’
‘Yes of course. Why? Is it too much?’ Suddenly he was alert, protective.
‘I just thought a little change might suit us all. You could take over the shop in the morning, which would give me time to do the little job I have got myself in Saros.’
Marina’s silence was audible. She came from a generation of women who did not talk back to their husbands nor do anything without their permission. Certainly she would never have gone out and got a job without her husband’s consent when he was alive.
‘You got a job?’ Petta asked. ‘Why?’ and so she told them, presenting both the problem and then the solution. The money she would earn would slowly pay off the loan, leaving the income from the shop and the orchard for food and clothes. They would be fine now. Petta listened intently, with a slight frown, but then he looked at her with loving eyes and told Marina what a marvel he had married.
A seagull calls high overhead.
Irini rubs her hands together to try to get rid of the oil.
‘Casablanca.’ The pirate finally answers her question in a monotone voice.
Irini thinks he is joking and smiles to prove she is friendly, to collude with him.
‘Why are you laughing?’ His knuckles holding the wheel go white, all except his little finger, where the skins flops loosely as the wheel moves with the waves.
‘Oh no, sorry. I didn’t realise you were serious.’ She scans his face, reading for signs of how much she has offended him. He has a generous mouth with curved creases in the corners. Lines from grimacing? Or maybe, at some time, he has smiled a lot.
‘Why would I not be serious?’ There is no smile there now.
‘Well yachts are slow and Casablanca is on the coast of Morocco, right?’
‘How long will it take?’ He is very serious but perhaps he is offering her a chance to show she can be useful to him. It would give her some value in his eyes, which can only be a good thing.
‘Here to Orino Island, which is the first island we will pass, will take eight hours just with the motor.’ She looks him over as he concentrates on the sea, which is flat calm this early in the morning, with no wind for sailing. His jeans have seen better days but his dark grey t-shirt is new. Printed on it in black is a jumble of English words. She can make out a capital letter S and the acronym a.m. over which a pattern has been stitched in red cotton. It tells her nothing about him, but the colour choice seems to endorse his aggressive stance. His boots look like army boots, and they are scuffed and unpolished.
‘When they bring the new boats from France, it takes about a week. But Morocco is further, so two weeks maybe?’ she offers, recalling Yorgos telling stories of his younger days when he would deliver yachts to far-flung destinations.
‘Two weeks!’ He looks left and right at the land and then back to the way they are going.
It never occurred to Irini as she sat learning English at school all those years ago, or more recently improving it by watching American films on television, that she would need her second language for this. There is irony in there somewhere but she cannot put her finger on it. She shakes herself out of the safety of her musing. Right now, she must think, be even more alert than the pirate is, use this English to keep herself safe.
‘Well, with good wind, maybe less. Although…’ She is not sure whether to say any more. She wants to stay helpful, useful, but not negative.
‘What? Say it.’ Presumably realising that standing stiff-legged at the helm is not necessary, he sits, one hand still on the wheel and his back still straight. He has wide shoulders, narrow hips. The physique of someone who has done a lot of swimming, perhaps. A gull flies above them, its feathers ruffling gently. It is a young gull whose chest is still mottled. The boat moves off course slightly and the gull is silhouetted black against the sun.
‘Well, I don’t suppose we have any water in the tank.’ Irini watches his face to see his reaction. ‘Captain Yorgos usually rings the water man on a Tuesday and he comes about the time I am finishing to fill up, and I doubt there will be any bottled water.’
‘What day is it?’ he asks. Her eyebrows raise. Is this a joke or is he serious?
‘Tuesday.’ She is about to add that the fuel man does not come until she is halfway through her cleaning each day either but decides that he does not need to know this. Maybe running out of fuel and the port police catching them up would be the best outcome. ‘Also, there will be no food, as Captain Yorgos buys it every day depending on how many clients he has.’
The colour changes in his cheeks and the muscle there twitches. His eyes are green.
‘But we can stop at Orino Island and stock up.’ She tries to sound cheerful. Orino Island is where Petta was born and where they lived together for a year before they moved in with Marina. Orino Island, so safe and close. She grabs at her heart through her t-shirt, as she mouths the word Petta to herself. Tears prick her eyes and her hand slides from her chest to twist the ring on her finger. She catches the pirate watching her.
‘Are you married?’ she blurts out, almost accusingly. Hasn’t she read somewhere that it is best to become a real person to your captors? Read where? In a magazine in their corner shop? She would give anything to be back there right now.
‘I do not want to tell you.’ Cold, emotionless.
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t expected that and could never imagine saying something so blunt to anyone. Her sights rest on one of the ropes she coiled earlier and the realisation comes that she will not be there to see Stathoula today. She cannot stop her bottom lip quivering; her vision blurs. In fact, with this man wielding a weapon, she might not be seeing anyone else on any other day, either.
The thought that she may never see loved ones again sucks her dry. Her head drops and her arms become limp and for a minute, she is boneless and motionless. The sun continues to shine and her body responds. The sweat drips from her forehead, making dark circles on her jeans which dry as quickly as they are formed. Something twists in her chest, and for a panicked moment, she wonders if she is having a heart attack, but then her fists clench, her mouth sets hard, and one side of her upper lip curls and twitches. The rawness of her emotion frightens her. The shadow of life before Stathoula and after her parents died passes over her. A memory igniting long-buried responses. She survived that; she will survive this.
She sighs a long out breath and her stomach settles and her fists unclench. The layers in between that time and this fall away. Her life with Petta, although the most important thing that has ever happened to her, recedes. Angelos, and the love she never believed she would feel, is neatly packed away, a velvet curtain drawn over him. Stathoula’s successful attempt to build up her trust and belief in the world evaporates, and her eyes widen with the ease at which it all drops away and she is emotionally transported back in time. Nothing she has learnt since seems useful here, today.
She is the child again, the person she was from fifteen to eighteen – blasé but with adrenaline coursing, living by stealing, one eye always open, sleeping in hallways. Fighting with police and other street children. Avoiding Omonia Square where Indians and Pakistanis squatted in misery to sell mechanical toy rabbits with red glaring eyes. Whoever was forcing them to do their bidding was the enemy, to be watched for. There too were the Eastern-block men, quick to pull displaced people into their windscreen washing ‘services’ that were inflicted on drivers at red lights, a rap on the window and a hand out for spare change. But Omonia also felt like the centre for all
homeless people and she found herself drawn to it again and again in search of company, to stop being lonely. A sharp eye and quick feet kept her safe from the pimps, the drug addicts and the police.
She can almost feel the stiffness of the grime returning to her hair, which she has never allowed to grow long since. Easily remembered are the raw cracks in the soles of her shoeless feet, the crust of filth around her mouth from hasty eating and no washing. Fights with knives and pieces of glass were commonplace. She has watched as friends chose to die of overdoses. Others died of injuries. Mothers as young as thirteen dying in childbirth with no one caring about their screams. She has lived in that heartless, dark place that the ordinary Athenians deny the existence of, and she has survived.
If this man with his tattered, limp pinky and his scowl and his gun thinks he can bulldoze his way into her life and take anything from her, he has got another think coming. She uncrosses her legs and sprawls out in the heat of the sun whilst taking a good long look over the stern of the boat. In the distance, she can see two boats leaving Saros port. Just dots. But these will grow as they draw nearer. She hopes they will be flying the port police flag.
‘What’s your name?’ Irini asks. Her voice sounds strong. There is no trace of fear, no tremor. The man stops gazing out to sea and looks at her.
‘I don’t wish to tell you.’
‘I am Irini and I need to call you something, as all the way to Casablanca is a long trip, so choose.’
‘Call me what you like.’ He looks back out to sea. To the east, the sea looks darker, ruffled. The clouds on the horizon are growing puffy and white but the day is getting hotter as the sun climbs to its zenith.
The bakery will be all but empty of bread in the village now. The kafeneio at the top of the square will be open and Theo will be setting out his tables and chairs. The farmers, in baggy trousers and white shirts, sleeves rolled up, waiting at tables set around the dried fountain for him to open, will begin to gather, anticipating his return behind the counter to take his time in brewing their nectar.
Vasso in the kiosk will be watching her portable television, and the doors to Stella’s taverna will be thrown open, Mitsos lighting the grill. The small sandwich shop will already have sold out of bougatsa after the wave of children passing on their way to wait for the school bus, which is half way in to Saros by now.
She hasn’t lived there long, but from working in the shop, she has got to know everyone in the village. During the mornings and the evenings, there is always someone sitting in the shop with her, keeping her company, telling her their tales of woe or sharing their secrets. She has found that she is good at keeping peoples’ confidences, and there are plenty to keep. It has given her a sense of belonging. Maybe that is something that she has learnt that could be useful now. Listening, talking, keeping secrets.
The pirate shakes out one leg, pulling his jeans down from the knee.
‘Sam,’ Irini says.
‘What?’
‘Your t-shirt says Sam. Capital S, a.m. Like Uncle Sam. Are you American, Sam?’
‘I don’t want to say.’
With no wind, the day is getting hotter. Sam fidgets in his jeans as if they are sticking to him. He gets up, looks all around the boat at the calm waters, and stares for a while at the two black dots near Saros before dismissing them.
‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ He stands abruptly and with a leap, he is around the helm and descending the steps.
Irini is left alone. She stands. The distance to the shore on either side is too far for her to swim; she is not that good a swimmer. The dots that she hopes are the port police have not grown any bigger but she has no doubt they have powerful binoculars. She has no idea how strong they will be, but it cannot harm to presume they are very strong. With a quick look to the hatch ensuring that Sam is not watching, she waves her arms above her head, but only for a second as a noise from below makes her nervous.
He comes back on deck in a pair of khaki shorts, barefoot and shirtless. He strides over her and back to the helm. Whilst he was down below, the yacht has veered wildly off course and he checks their direction by looking at the land before sitting down again. Irini is staring. There are several dark red, raised scars on his chest, both long and short, and the whole area is pitted with small round welts which she suspects are the result of a shotgun fire, having seen it before after a rabbit hunting accident on Orino Island. Across his stomach, his skin is thin and distorted as if it has melted. In comparison, the smooth brown muscles of his shoulders look unreal. It is only as he lifts his arm to steer that the open wound under his shoulder blade, in that place that is impossible to reach with either hand, is exposed to the air. It is wet with both blood and pus.
‘What happened?’ She cannot hide the horror in her voice and she gags. Not even on the streets has she seen survivors of anything as brutal as this. She witnessed lots of line scarring and the resulting thin skin of continuous self-harm but, her guess is, these are the remains of some grim wounds that she seriously doubts anyone would, or could, inflict upon themselves.
‘Which one?’ The tone of his reply kills any further questions, but she cannot stop staring. He tuts and shakes his head, rolling his eyes as if her response is naïve.
Chapter 5
They sit in silence, the motor puttering away, the sound of water bubbling at the bows, churning in their wake. It cannot be much past eight, maybe nine o’clock. It is going to be a long day. The sun is reflecting off the sea so brightly that Irini screws up her eyes to look at the waves. Over by the coast, a small fishing boat moves idly, no doubt trailing a line. A fish for dinner, to be gutted and cooked by his wife, along with horta, boiled wild greens the woman has collected herself from the hills behind the cottage that sits by the beach, no doubt.
Just the thought makes Irini’s stomach grumble.
The chocolate in the croissant she left on the dashboard in the car will have melted by now, run out of the pastry and puddled in a corner of the wrapper.
Watching the land pass is hypnotising. The rocking of the boat is soothing and it is not long before Irini finds her mind wandering for a few seconds, forgetting where she is and the man who has put her there. When she notices, she sits up straight and tries to keep alert but after some time, her mind wanders again, this time for longer, dreaming of Marina’s loan being paid off, the oranges commanding a higher price and being able to afford things for Angelos that she never had as a child. She jolts back into the present and looks at Sam, whose gaze has a more lazy quality to it than before. He has settled in his seat but with his arm at an awkward angle as, with a light touch, he steers the yacht.
‘You know that there is an auto-pilot,’ Irini says and then wonders why she is saying anything that will make his life easier.
He doesn’t even acknowledge her, but continues to sit awkwardly. Presently, he shifts in his seat and tries to steer with his other arm. The position is impossible.
‘How does it work?’ His eyes meet hers. The dead look has gone and the green of the irises seems lighter. There is something very sad about them.
‘Those rubber belts hanging over the steering column.’ Irini points. ‘They go over the wheel and then over the motor there on the floor and then you turn it on and press auto-pilot.’ Until now, Irini would have said that she knows nothing about sailing, but it is amazing how much she must have picked up from Captain Yorgos and his endless tales of personal heroics and the things he has had to do on his boat.
Sam studies the motor on the floor and the simple control panel. Standing, he unloops one of the belts and tries to attach it to the wheel. It looks like he is doing it right, but when the belt is looped over the helm and the motor, there is no tension. Irini has no idea why. Sam studies it for a second and pushes a lever on the body of the motor, tensioning the belt. Turning the control panel on with a flick of a switch, the motor zizzes and turns the wheel, via the belt, just a fraction first one way and then the other until it settles.
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br /> Taking his seat again, he mutters a ‘thank you’ towards her. His right arm lies limply in his lap, his upper arm shadowing his ribs, but the wound beneath his shoulder blade is exposed, open and weeping. The skin around the wetness has jagged edges and in amongst the raw red tissue, there is something yellowish. It is not difficult to guess that without attention, it is not going to close and heal well.
The autopilot motor zizzes again, another tiny correction.
Irini licks her lips. She is thirsty. If there is no water on board, he can hardly be planning to go all the way to Casablanca.
‘Can I go below and use the toilet?’ She stands. He waves his arm towards the hatch without interest. The autopilot buzzes. The engine putters. For floating at sea, it is very noisy.
Below deck, the engine is even louder, housed as it is behind the steps. The radio is crackling. It would be nice to be in contact with someone out there, to be told again that someone is coming.
‘Port police, this is Artemis. Come in.’ Irini feels nervous about using the radio now that Sam is not stuck at the helm.
‘Artemis, we hear you. Everything okay? Over.’
She looks up through the hatch. Sam is sitting with his eyes shut. She returns to the radio. ‘Yes. Over,’ she replies. A long breath escapes through her nose, her free hand rubbing her temples, her chin sinks to her chest.
‘We have two boats following you. We will not approach with speed, as we wish to keep the situation as calm as we can. Is everything alright at the moment? Over.’
‘Yes. He is calm, but we have no water. Over.’ Irini looks towards the hatch. She knows he cannot hear her but still, it feels that talking out loud is a risk and besides, he could come down at any moment. She should never have mentioned the autopilot.
‘Rini, Captain Yorgos is here with us. He says there is drinking water under the bunk in the rear guest cabin. Being thirsty may drive him into port, so keep it to yourself if you can.’