by Sara Alexi
Irini calms herself before she continues. She feels a little dizzy.
‘I just sat at the empty table. I knew but I also needed to know. So when she came back in about half an hour later, I asked her where Mama and Baba were and she said that it would be just me and her now.’ Irini’s eyes rest on the sea. The images are as clear as if it were happening right now.
‘What do you mean?’ She heard her own words, the squeal of the sound that was her voice, but she refused to let any tears fall in front of Yiayia.
‘A car accident. Fatal.’ That was it. That was all Yiayia said. This was her son they were talking about, and that was all she said. ‘Now you can start by making a salad,’ Yiayia commanded. Irini turned away from her and looked at the wilted, unwashed vegetables on the table that Mama had brought in the day before.
This house that she grew up in was no more than a few storage rooms that her mother had whitewashed and tried to make home with curtains that were too mean in fabric to close on the inside. Outside, with empty cans and old, split buckets filled with soil and planted with flowers, she had created the illusion of domesticity. Irini’s enduring image is of her mother toiling every day without rest, before she got up and after she went to bed. The sun beating down upon her bent back, her face the colour of a chestnut as she stood, dry and creased into a smile. As Irini grew older and her school days got longer, there was less time spent at home with only Yiayia, and life seemed easier for it.
There had also been an added element of excitement coming home from school, as Mama would be back from whichever market they had been to. She would be in the fields and when Irini came walking up the track, she would call her to come over and once close enough, wrap her in a hug and cover her head with kisses. She smelt of soil. Mama would ask her what she had learned that day and as Irini talked, she continued her work, her face glowing with pride.
Wet soil smelt best, after the rain. But the smell of dry, dusty soil was also good when mixed with the faint traces of Mama’s sweat and her own unique personal odour.
The day Irini learnt of her mother’s death, the soil was wet.
‘Salad,’ Yiayia commanded. But as she said it, a car drove up the track and came to a halt. It was one of the other stall holders, come to offer his respects. Then another car and another, and slowly the house began to fill with strangers. The level of talking grew as new people came in. Arrangements were being made; a funeral director arrived. With stiff limbs, Irini walked out of the storage room that they used as the kitchen and into the next room, which was her parents’ bedroom. From a nail in the wall, she unhooked her mama’s housecoat that she used to protect her clothes as best she could when she worked in the field. Slipping her arms through the sleeves, it engulfed her, but she pulled it tightly around her waist and fashioned a belt from some green twine.
‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’ Yiayia thundered. She hadn’t noticed her come in.
‘If they are dead, who will till the soil, grow the vegetables, go to the laiki to make the money to pay the rent?’ Irini asked, her voice quiet, everything on hold, nothing showing, nothing leaking, closed up.
Yiayia was not able to answer.
Within six months, most of the crops had failed. It was too much work for one person and Yiayia’s eyes grew more vacant and she took to wandering off, so much of Irini’s day was spent finding her and bringing her back.
The other problem she faced was how to get the produce to the markets. The traders who had shown so much sympathy initially were kind enough to come to her to buy what she had. But their compassion seemed to melt away when it came to haggling about the price. Before the year was out, the rent was so much in arrears that they were given notice.
The day the owner came to tell them that they needed to think about finding alternative accommodations, a strange look passed over Yiayia’s face. Once the landlord was gone, she suggested that Irini go to bed early and after years of habitual conforming, she complied. When she woke the next day, Yiayia’s coat and handbag where gone. There was no sign of the old lady either.
Sam opens his eyes as she finishes her story. With his head tipped back, he was looking through them half-closed. Crossing her hands across her chest does nothing to make her feel less exposed. What could he say to make what happened to her feel any better? She is now not sure why she has laid herself so open.
Unsure what to do, she does nothing. He continues to look at her through slitted eyes. His lips twitch. He is going to speak.
‘They loved you.’ His voice is soft and he says it like it is something so special, so precious, everything else should be eclipsed by this fact. Irini cannot meet his eye, but her arms drop from across her chest and she has a strange sensation of safety. Her breathing, which was shallow, now becomes even and deep. The sea’s blue around them seems to have lightened. The slight wind is creating more movement on the surface, which increases the sparkle.
‘Do you have family?’ she asks. But the openness that was there the moment before closes. His eyes are still green but they look only out. There is no invitation in. His mouth is a thin line.
Chapter 8
Captain Yorgos stands in the middle of the room. The port police station is on the first floor over a taverna in one of the grand old houses that face the harbour. The floor is of worn unpolished parquet. The shutters are all thrown open on three sides of the large room, giving a magnificent panoramic view of the bay. The floor space has been divided up into offices with pine partitions which have framed windows above waist height. The plaster walls at the back of the room crumble with age and the solid wooden desks, Yorgos happens to notice, all have folded cardboard wedges under one leg, presumably to stop their rocking on the time-warped floor.
Young men in white short-sleeved shirts are rushing about with a nervous energy that makes him dizzy, and he looks around for a seat.
‘Ah Yorgos. No good, no good.’ Commander Demosthenes puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his hand. ‘Come, let’s go into my office.’ With his hand remaining on Yorgos’ shoulder, he leads the way to a cubicle in the far corner that is slightly bigger than the rest. The sun streams through the open windows and casts stripy shadows through a shutter that has blown closed. The head of the port police indicates a seat for Yorgos and pushes the shutter open again. Some insect with dangling legs flies in through one window and out through another. Commander Demosthenes sits in the chair behind his desk and swivels to face Yorgos.
‘Right, so who is on board? We have been in touch with an Irini. Is there anyone else?’ Yorgos has never seen Demosthenes anything but jovial over coffee. This serious man in front of him is a stranger but as he speaks, the reality that his yacht has been taken begins to sink in, along with the ramifications.
‘Do you think my insurance will cover this?’ Yorgos asks.
‘No idea. Let’s see if we can get it back in one piece, shall we? Who is this Irini, and who else could be on board?’
The yacht captain stares out through the open window across the bay. He had six Swiss tourists lined up for today and they have already paid a deposit. Will he have to pay that back?
‘No chance of getting her back by ten, then?’ he asks with a grin, but his stomach has sunk inside him. Without Artemis, it will be a hard season and even harder winter trying to survive and make the remaining yacht seaworthy for the following year with only half his income.
The port police commander looks back blankly.
‘Irini is from the village. She arrived alone this morning, but some days in the past, she has come with her little boy. She cleans the boats.’
‘Okay. You know her surname?’
‘No. But she is married to Marina’s son. Marina with the corner shop.’
Demosthenes does not pause to thank him. Without a word, he is on his feet and out of the office, shouting for people to find Marina and her son. ‘Find out if the child is at home or on the boat.’ Someone retorts that Marina’s son is Petta and t
hat Marina’s eldest daughter is Eleni and she is in the port police on Orino Island. Someone replies, ‘One of ours,’ and the activity and the noise seem to grow.
Captain Yorgos puts a hand to his pocket for his cigarettes but finds he must have left his lighter with his coffee in the square. This Irini, he hopes she will keep his boat safe. He should have stayed, at least with him there, the outcome would not be at the whim of some pirate. He would have stood up to him. No doubt this woman is cowering in one of the cabins crying whilst his yacht is being sailed away to, well, to where exactly?
‘I’ve got Petta the husband on line two, Captain,’ calls a young man in a white shirt. Yorgos begins to stand but on seeing Demosthenes’ broad-shouldered body cross the room, he sits again. It is the other captain they want. He looks at his oil-stained hands, his split nails and then straightens his sagging t-shirt over his rounded belly.
‘Well, I am very glad your son is with you. Yes, yes, we will do everything we can to keep Irini safe.’ There is a pause. Demosthenes looks through the partition glass and offers a thumbs up. Yorgos manages a smile. Six clients. It is not often he gets six in one day, each paying the day rate. He will lose it all. Six of them.
‘Well that’s good at least.’ Demosthenes shuts the door behind him to keep the noise out. ‘The child is at home. But I think they are all coming here. They do that, you know, on the rare occasions that a boat is lost or there’s a storm. No matter how much we tell them that there is nothing they can do but wait, they want to be here, as if that will make a difference.’ He lights a cigarette and offers Yorgos one. Yorgos notices that Demosthenes’ hands are clean and his nails manicured.
‘Well, I suppose the same applies to me,’ Yorgos declares and stands. His legs hurt every time the blood moves through them. Standing is as bad as walking sometimes.
‘No, no, it is good to have you here. Sit down and I will get someone to make you a coffee.’
The coffee takes its time but it arrives before Irini’s family. Yorgos knows them immediately from their worried faces. The man is tall and broad and his face looks like it is unused to frowning, the laugher lines around his eyes indented more than the lines on his forehead. These villagers have it easy: just sit around and the oranges grow themselves. Even sends his wife out to work, so what sort of man is he?
The woman behind him, now she looks like she has worked all her life. The sort of woman who wears black for years but this woman has on a blue dress. Unusual. Her footwear is predictable: shapeless black lace ups.
The child in her arms looks like the man.
There is a general gathering of people around them. Soothing noises to the child and woman and low tones to the man. The family begin a barrage of questions: who else is on board, do they know who the pirate is, what are they going to do about it, when will they act? Demosthenes answers as best he can, tries to comfort them but, it seems, he does not lie. Their questions go on and on until they run out of steam and they deflate.
Captain Yorgos looks away, out of the window, as Demosthenes leads the family of three to his office. He should go. Make his excuses and leave.
‘Captain Yorgos, this is Petta, Marina, and little Angelos.’ The commander ruffles the sleepy child’s head. ‘Do you people want some coffee? It will be a long wait, I am afraid. The powers that be have taken an interest, which often delays action. But please,’ his hand extends and rests gently on the woman’s shoulder, ‘that is only a good thing.’ No one seems to want coffee and the commander leaves them alone.
‘I was just leaving, actually.’ Yorgos screws up his eyes in anticipation of the pain as he takes hold of the chair’s armrests to lever himself up.
‘Please Captain Yorgos, do you know anything more that we haven’t been told? Do you know this man that has taken Irini? Has this sort of thing ever happened before?’ The woman in blue puts her hand on his arm. The child wriggles from her grasp and goes to his baba.
The woman, what was her name? Marina, that’s it. She has a kind face and eyes, which look as if they could dance with joy under different circumstances. Good figure too, strong legs.
‘How will she sit still? She has so much energy, she likes to be doing something all the time.’ Petta begins talking about Irini but his voice quivers and fades, the tears in his eyes spill over, and he picks up his boy and hugs him, burying his own face in the child’s hair.
A silence pervades the room. Marina and her son become as statues; even the boy is still. It feels difficult to stand up and walk out, so Captain Yorgos continues to sit where he is, wiggling his toes to keep some circulation going.
Chapter 9
‘Oh my goodness, what’s that?’ Irini points to the sea behind Sam. He turns, winces, puts his hand to his side and then swivels on his seat. The flat water is broken into a thousand white caps, each reflecting a piece of the sun. It takes a moment to even see the fish.
‘Flying fish!’ Irini’s voice is high-pitched.
Sam stands to get a better look, only to step back into Irini, who puts her hands on his hips to stop him falling back onto her. Staring at the winged creatures, neither of them move, dazzled by the light reflecting colours off the breaks in the water and the wings of the fish.
Thlap. Sam’s head turns to look towards the bow. A fish has misjudged and lays flapping and gawping on the deck under the boom. Thlap. Another one by the cockpit, its tail wiggling from side to side in a frantic attempt to become airborne again.
‘Oh, Poor things.’ Irini grabs the one in the cockpit and tries to throw it overboard but the fins open again, the tail thrashes, and it slithers back onto the deck.
Sam’s hand on her shoulder jerks her back as she goes to grab the fish again.
‘What?’ she demands.
His face is so close to her, she can see the individual hairs of his beard just emerging through his skin, the open pores around his nose, which eyelashes are stuck together, the pattern in his irises. She can hear the rhythm of his breathing.
Another fish lands.
Irini blinks and he’s no longer close. He is rooting in his bag by the helm. Something flashes a reflection in the sun. His actions are all swift, nominal, without warning. One stride takes him back to her, a knife pointing to her stomach.
‘Why?’ she squeals and backs out of the cockpit and under the boom. Continuing his course, he doesn’t even acknowledge her and with a stab and a pull, the fish wiggles wildly and then lies still.
Her mouth is open. It is not that she has not seen a fish killed before, but it is the minimalism of his movements that shocks. Already he is on the other fish by the boom and then one on the side deck, throwing each fish back into the cockpit as he progresses.
The flapping and the skimming of the fish in the water around the boat stops and after the rush of movement, everything seems very still.
‘You can cook?’ Sam asks.
‘If there’s oil, we can fry them.’ Irini realises she just called them we!
‘Dry cook them if there isn’t.’ He swiftly cuts off a fin and studies it as he splays it out into a wing before throwing it overboard, and the rest of the fins follow in quick succession along with their guts. His dexterity surpasses that of any fisherman she has watched and she wonders about his origins. The four fish lay in the cockpit amongst blood and scales. The deck is dotted with patches of blood.
As she fries, she can hear the radio hiss. The ridiculousness of her situation occurs to her - she is frying fish for a pirate on a boat she cannot sail, waiting to be rescued! Could life be any more uncertain, unpredictable? Petta will be wondering where she is by now. Oh Panagia, what if he goes down to the port and sees that the boat is gone? What will he think? He will be beside himself, frantic. Maybe she should contact the port police and tell them to let him know that she’s alright. Just bobbing along, frying fish!
The fish is beginning to brown. She turns it over, sprinkles on a little oregano that she finds in a cupboard.
But the thoughts
of Petta will not go. Her chest tightens and she stabs at the fish with her spatula. She has a steady, stable life full of love and proper beds and a place she can call home and, if Petta isn’t enough of a blessing, she has a child. So precious. Her whole life is so incredibly precious and all thrown into jeopardy just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. From that point of view, life was a lot easier when she had nothing. When she had nothing, there was nothing to lose.
Stathoula – how kind it was of her – took her in straight from the funeral, no questions asked, gave her a bed with springs and sheets. That smell of clean was blissful, and even today she uses the same washing powder Stathoula used then to remind her of that day. She gave her three meals a day, stability, love, and clean sheets. Stathoula gave life value; she gave her value, and that brought Petta.
To find love was to grow strong, stronger than she ever imagined she could feel. With Petta, she can do anything. But to find that love is also to know fear. Not the fear of Yiayia losing her temper and bringing out the wooden spoon, or the fear of some angry guy on the street wanting money or food or something more. That was all just physical, momentary. No, to know love has also brought the fear of losing that love. An unimaginable loss that drains away hope, and beyond that, there is nothing but darkness and despair. It is always hope that dies first.
The fish are almost burnt. She snatches them from the stove.
‘Agamo…’ She leaves the end of the swear word unfinished. Scraping the skin off gets rid of most of the burnt bits and once slid onto a plate, they look presentable. From the cabin at the front, she takes another water bottle but realises she will have to confess to the whole stash if she takes another on deck. It was a six pack. They have drunk one. She will take another up and leave three in plain view, pretend there were only five in the first place.