An Octopus in My Ouzo

by Jennifer Barclay

  I am embarrassed and try to pretend I knew what he wanted all along. I should have noticed: ena skini is a rope, mia skini is a tent. But now Stephanos wants a knife to cut the rope. I'm not sure if I should let him, as Stelios probably needs that rope and surely the hammock is fine without it… Although with his tattoos and early-morning Amstel, Stephanos doesn't look like the sort of man you'd cross, I say it's perhaps not a good idea. He leaves and I hope I've not done something wrong.

  Fifteen minutes later, he's back – with a rope from home. He ties it to the tree next to the hammock so that Irinna can swing herself back and forth. He sits down to watch the sea with another beer, and then Irinna joins him and they play chess together. I ask if everything's OK.

  'Afou pino bira, eimeh kala,' he says. I drink beer, therefore I'm fine.

  It's quiet, so I read. There's a brief power cut, but thankfully no one needs a toasted sandwich or frappé coffee.

  Over the next week, Stephanos will become a familiar and welcome face around the kantina, always friendly and good-humoured; he likes this spot. And slowly, tourists begin to arrive. Some, in addition to wanting a sandwich or a cold drink, are interested in information about places to see, and I love talking to them. So many are keen walkers and make the most of the trails. I'm chatting to a retired couple who live in Boston and are island-hopping for six weeks, when the bus pulls up and a gang of the high school kids troop off towards the volleyball net. I hear shouts of 'It's burning!' as they run barefoot on the hot sand. I know them all now, care about them. Soon a few come up to the kantina.

  'Yeia sas kyria!' Hello, miss! Just as I'll always care about them, they'll always address me with respect, even if instead of marching them through grammar points, I am now making them sausage sandwiches. I feel funny asking if they want ketchup or mayonesa, but for them it is perfectly normal, having grown up in a place where people do a bit of everything, where someone working for the council may also work as a waiter – perhaps it's because the council workers aren't being paid, but people are who they are, not what they do.

  It's good to see the kids relaxing together as always. It must be hard for them to lose that close group of friends when they leave the island. They are polite and open and resourceful – a credit to Tilos, and a mark of the success of small island life. They reinforce the idea that this is a good place to bring up children. Now that I'm no longer helping them with their English, I have a little free time and feel lucky to do something else that takes me away from my desk and gives me a point of connection with people.

  Nectarios, a local honey-maker – you couldn't make up a better name – stops off in his truck to grab a frozen bottle of water. He's helped Stelios a lot recently and gave us a big jar of honey for nothing, so I say I don't want any money from him but he insists.

  A woman from Ioannina in northern Greece who's staying on the beach for a few weeks comes by at midmorning for her kafedaki – she uses the affectionate diminutive form, which shows you how much she likes her Greek coffee. She tells me carefully how she drinks it, with very specific instructions about the water/ coffee/sugar ratio. I've learned to mix the deeply aromatic powdery coffee and sugar into the water in the little long-handled pot, the briki, stir slowly as it heats over the flame, then leave it until it is just about to foam at the edges. Though later Stelios' friend Stratos tells me the only way to make a Greek coffee is 'with love'.

  One of our regular customers, a woman in a long dress and floppy hat, is in fact secretary to Alexis Tsipras, leader of the left-wing opposition party, Syriza. In the second elections in June, a coalition was formed. Enough people voted for the right-wing Nea Dimokratia that the new government could try to meet Europe's bailout terms; but Syriza got a massive show of support, increased even from May. It feels as if they are waiting in the wings.

  'How can you be here now?' I ask her.

  'I told Alexis I must go to Tilos for the month of June, as I do every year.' I've seen her sitting on the beach just looking at the sea, perfectly peaceful. 'He understands.'

  On the summer solstice, as I reach the village in the evening, sheep come hurtling and clattering down the road, making me laugh. Invited for a birthday celebration with an international group of neighbours, I think that I am now enjoying more of life than I have before, that I have a fuller life, through a mixture of luck and determination.

  While Stelios continues fishing in the mornings, I open the kantina for him. If there's no one around, I jump in the sea to wake up and then work at a table in the shade. The woman who comes for her kafedaki is still asking for infinitesimal improvements on the way I make her coffee. Is it possible Greeks take their coffees a wee bit too seriously? There again, I grew up in an England in which you were grateful for a drinkable coffee; an England into which Starbucks arrived as a sort of emergency Beverages Sans Frontières; we don't have a tradition of 'English coffee' and perhaps it's just as well I'm learning to make elliniko, Greek coffee.

  A Swedish couple arrive by bus from Livadia every morning, swim and sun themselves at their favourite spot right at the edge of the sea for a couple of hours then come to take a couple of Mythos beers back to the beach and fall asleep. They are blissfully content having a swathe of beach to themselves and cold beer a few steps away. This is the joy of the kantina. There's also a young couple from Athens camping on the beach for a week of 'recharge', living cheaply and simply on coffees and sandwiches. Yes, there's 'the crisis' in the economy, but we've still got to have fun.

  A regular visitor from Athens called Stephanos is in his seventies, thin as a rake and deeply tanned. He sets up camp at the end of the beach for a few months every year, building a pebble floor for his dining room, improvising a kitchen in the tree branches, cycling up to the farm for vegetables. Stelios takes me to meet him and he feeds us revithosoupa, chickpea soup with onions and garlic.

  The kantina doesn't serve traditional Greek food – but the prices are good and it's quick and laid back. If it were my kantina, I'd want paper cups only (no polystyrene), fresh juices, fresh fruit cocktails… But Stelios says that's not what people want. Paper cups wouldn't keep your frappé coffee cold in the heat of summer, so everyone would complain. When I ask if he's costed things to determine how much he needs to charge to make a profit, he thinks I'm being absurd. I ask why he can't order food and drinks more cheaply from Rhodes rather than through the local suppliers. But with only one boat a day, he explains, you need someone reliable who will deliver things quickly when you need them. His cousin brings bits and pieces over from Rhodes – backgammon boards and pagokipseles, plastic bags for making ice in the freezer at home in the absence of an ice machine.

  When Stelios roars up on the motorbike to take over, I have a long swim, and then if it's a weekday I drive back home for my working day proper; with the time difference, I'm back at home just around the hour people in the UK are checking their emails. Most people at Eristos have no idea that I have a serious job, though some do ask how I'm lucky enough to live here. When I don't have to rush back, I spend the afternoon reading, going for long swims and lying on the sand.

  One Saturday Stelios calls to say he'll be held up on the fishing boat for a while, as they've caught lots of fish and lobsters, and because they were fishing deep they've got lots of cleaning to do. So I handle the lunchtime rush. I look out from the hatch of the kantina and see all the seats full, people enjoying themselves. It's a satisfying sight.

  Locals also use the kantina. Eleftheria's husband brings their son and lets him play on the beach while he sits with friends. One morning I arrive to open and see a very recognisable car belonging to another local man parked nearby. The car's owner emerges from a tent that I know isn't his, and buys two coffees with a smile on his face.

  Some afternoons, the chairs are filled with guys playing backgammon. A shy young Greek couple sit romantically entwined in the hammock. A young boy asks if he can get his mum's ice packs from our freezer; campers charge their phones. A guy with dreadloc
ks asks if his girlfriend can set up a stall selling hand-made jewellery; fine if they are customers, says Stelios. Another camper fashions us some ashtrays out of empty beer cans. Erikos and Angeliki walk by with their little dog on its lead, carrying bamboo for the walls of the shelter they always build; they are dedicated naturists, sleep out under the stars, and even the dog is vegetarian.

  Beyond the kantina, the beach is clothing-optional. An older couple sit on little deck chairs under yellow umbrellas with their picnic cool bag and their drinks holders, and you could almost imagine a tartan blanket and thermos, except that it's nearly 40ºC and they are both completely naked. Beautifully toned young people with all-over tans step glistening out of the water and make their way up the scorching sand. I start to feel overdressed if I walk down to the end of the beach in a bikini.

  Gradually as July progresses, the long stretch of beach – which in spring was empty, the tamarisk trees broken by winter storms (we won't tell the tourists about the dead turtle) – is transformed. The bus drops people off in ones and twos with their backpacks. Twice a week the big ferry from Athens brings families and groups of friends in 4X4s. Campers hang their Indian-print sheets in the trees for shade, string up their hammocks, build shelters out of palm fronds and plant solar-powered lights in the sand, looking out for scorpions. Antonis, who has long silvery hair and runs the communal bar on the beach with its pirate flag sticking out of the sand, has been coming for over twenty summers and can't imagine life without it.

  I am camping, too, but in comfort at home, as usual. When it gets too hot indoors, I go out to the cool of the garden under the moon and the stars, and sleep in my tent on soft quilts until I wake with the bees at six. After a couple of hours at home, I drive to Eristos with ice cubes, stopping quickly to buy three kilos of tomatoes and one of peppers.

  'Oreia kopella simera!' says Michalis at the farm, surprised to see me in a dress with my hair up and lipstick on. The kantina is becoming a bit of a show, and it's more fun when I'm dressed up.

  Continuing down the road, I pass a few campers out for a walk, and they wave and shout 'Yeia sou, Jennifer!' Much as I usually love my quiet life, it's fun to be doing this, to be part of it. The free watermelon that Michalis gave me graces the counter, and I think it might be nice to cut up watermelon and offer it to customers. There's nothing quite like the sweet tang of watermelon straight from the fridge to cool you down on a hot day.

  Sundays are different, I learn: Greeks wake up with a coffee and cheese and ham toastie mid-morning, then chill for a while. A young man pads down the sand to get a frappé and tost for his girlfriend, who's still in the tent. 'We drank a lot last night,' he admits. I'm worried I'm not making the frappés very well, but he says they look fine. The preferred amount of sugar and Nescafé – for Greeks, instant granulated coffee (as opposed to real Greek coffee) is always this brand and is referred to as 'Nes' – has to be added from the start, along with a small amount of water; then you must froth it just the right amount before topping up with ice, cold water and milk if desired. I must concentrate hard to understand people's specific instructions in Greek.

  I'm rather impressed that Stelios is actually remembering all the things he needs to buy for the kantina, even if he still constantly forgets where he's left his mobile phone. He dashes about to pick up food, rings the supplier to restock the drinks fridge. He seems to have evolved quite naturally into a businessman. He tackles everything in a rather stressful way, with the same air of urgency and chaos that I've become accustomed to by now, but he's flourishing in his new role as kantina owner, the capitalist on the hippie beach. It's great fun to watch him charm customers, speaking in English with a heavy accent.

  'The hamburgers are home-made!' he says, as they peruse the menu. I cast him a quick glance as he turns to light the gas burner for the grill. He says quietly in Greek to me, grinning, 'Well, they are, they're home-made by the butcher's wife…'

  The free camping is a hit this year, not surprisingly; people keep coming to ask us if there's anywhere else to camp, as most spots are taken. There's no longer a quiet end of the beach. And the quiet times at the kantina get shorter. One Sunday, we actually run out of hamburgers after a dozen Belgian performance artist types descend upon us. I watch one of them, a pale-skinned girl with red hair, doing handstands and cartwheels by the edge of the sea.

  The standard of conversation is raised when a large group of language and literature students arrives; young Greek people love spending time in a big group, a parea. Another group of less serious students arrives and halfnaked girls drape themselves across their boyfriends. Stelios cuts away part of a watermelon and fills it with souma for them to drink through straws. The students tell me I'm the most smiley person they've seen on the island, which makes me happy. I'm not so smiley the next morning when I arrive to open up and find their stuff everywhere: empty cigarette packets, the odd shoe, and one of the young girls sprawled out in the hammock. She remains fast asleep until mid-morning, blissfully unaware of tattooed Stephanos sitting next to her playing chess with his daughter.

  Stelios puts a halt to fishing for the summer and stays late at the kantina; I open up for him in the mornings, stomping around and cursing the mess of beer cans and cigarette butts. We cross paths briefly and swap notes. We have no time to cook for ourselves, so we eat kantina sandwiches. Sometimes I return to the kantina in the late afternoon when we have a beer with customers.

  'I have gossip!' says Stelios.

  Someone's wife is involved with another man. I'm shocked and amused when I hear the details, as all the parties involved are well over sixty and fairly earthy farmer types.

  'Sorry, I shouldn't laugh,' I say, 'it's serious…'

  'And funny,' grins Stelios.

  So much for the quiet life on a little island.

  Chapter 20

  Rat on a Hot Tin Can

  I've joined the ranks of islanders who spend all summer running around for work; I watch tanned, relaxed holidaymakers strolling down the road to Eristos, when I am whizzing past in my dust-coloured car.

  Occasionally I think of offering someone a ride, out of habit, then wonder whether they'd really want to get in. The car stinks from ferrying home bin bags full of empty drinks cans for recycling, a concession Stelios made to me after I complained about the amount of rubbish we were creating. He set up recycling bins and he figures we can find a way to get it all transported to Rhodes at the end of the summer, so for now we're piling the bags in the empty building next door to our house. In the heat, it doesn't take long for a beer can to stink. Thank goodness we can leave the car windows permanently down.

  There are usually one or two people waiting when I arrive in the morning to clear up the kantina and open at nine. So in late July, the busiest week when people come for the festival of Ayios Panteleimon, I leave home early, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet before the customers arrive. As I drive up at eight, I see to my dismay that already half a dozen people are sitting around waiting for their coffees. Turns out they had a big night and they're ready for a few special sandwiches as well – omelette and sausage with all the trimmings, and fresh juices. The only thing to do is laugh and get on with it.

  Stelios agreed finally that it was a good idea to offer fresh juice and we commandeered our cheap juice machine from home, although it has to be cleaned after each use so as not to attract flies and ants. It also means I have to buy crates of oranges, in addition to dashing about with ice cubes (hurrying so they don't melt), bottles of water and 5-kilo bags of tomatoes.

  People congregate each morning for their coffee with its little variations; I've learned that for Greek people there's not just 'medium' and 'sweet' coffee but also 'medium towards sweet' and 'medium towards bitter'. Occasionally, when I can't quite catch what someone is saying and they roll their eyes, exasperated at my incomprehension, I've felt 'medium towards bitter'. But there are plenty of other people who tell me that I am always smiling, which never fails to make my day.
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  When Stelios arrives, we rarely have time for a quiet catch-up of news: it's a question of pointing out the outstanding orders in the book and working together while I pass on any messages. By the middle of the day, when we've got the toaster and gas burners going inside the small metal box that is the kantina, it's like a sauna. Then I escape, walk straight across the sand and plunge into beautiful blue sea. It makes me more relaxed when I go back to my computer – gives my life balance. And something different happens every day as people come and go. One day the bay is dominated by three huge boats, apparently belonging to a Russian aluminium tycoon – I wonder if he wants our recycling?

  One evening, I come home in the dark and at the corner of the house see an animal's eyes caught in the headlights – a little animal sitting on top of the fence, it seems. After I park the car, close the gate and walk up the steps to the front door, I shine the light from my mobile towards the fence and there it is: a rat with a long tail, perched precariously on the wire and not budging. Bizarre, but I don't even have time to dwell on it. I feel a bit dazed and caught in the headlights myself.

  August is hectic, and Stelios usually works until the early hours. He takes me for dinner at Eristos Beach Hotel, the lovely family-run hotel set among lush gardens. The taverna has some of my favourite food, moussaka and stuffed vegetables, gemista. Hippocrates, the grandfather who busies himself with growing fruit and vegetables and olives although he's in his eighties, gives me a handful of ripe figs, and it's only then I remember that it's fig season. Because I've barely had time for walks, I haven't been brought to a halt by the heavenly aroma from the trees and reached up for the warm fruit. Driving down the dusty track to home, I realise I'm not going to get any if I don't do it now, so it's a question of hit and run – stop the car and leave the engine running while I grab a few figs off the tree, and eat them straight away.