An Octopus in My Ouzo

by Jennifer Barclay

  My stereo sits on the counter of the kantina and people sift through the pile of my old CDs balanced on top to find something they want to put on. One day I'm looking for something when the teetering pile starts collapsing, and in my effort to save them falling into the sand, I clip the open CD holder and break the mechanism. It could be a disaster, but Mitsos spends the afternoon fixing it – no problem. It's a supportive community. Eighteen-year-old Eleonora has exams coming up in September but people have been helping her study: there are computer programmers and several physics teachers among the campers.

  This year, I've enjoyed the company of the younger campers. Michalis, in his early teens, shows up sometime in the course of the morning and sits on a barstool to wait for his chocolate frappé or tost with Nutella – new additions to the menu that Eleonora and I came up with. Another young teenager, Ory, has been ill for most of the summer so sighs a lot, but tries to be cheerful. Tiny Orpheas usually has a very serious face as he lists the ingredients he wants on his sandwich; I see him with a cute smile on his elfin face, walking round and round the kantina first in one direction and then the other… Casting a spell, I wonder? Yes, they watched Harry Potter last night.

  An angelic-looking little Italian boy called Rodolfo, about three years old, comes to the kantina daily with his parents for lunch. He speaks at me in Italian until his mother explains I don't understand. Apparently he's always telling his mother she's beautiful (which she is). 'Don't change!' I say. His father often ends the meal with a glass of souma, poured from a water bottle. One day Rodolfo perches on one of the stools in front of the kantina, dwarfed by a huge motorbike helmet, takes one look at a water bottle and asks if it's souma. Oh dear, we may have corrupted him…

  Of course, there's still the occasional rude person to deal with. Precious Anastasia asks me to make tea for her for free using her own tea leaves, looks incredulous when I say I don't have a tea strainer, and demands a plate and knife and fork so she can eat her own fruit among the other customers before she sets up her jewellery stand. She spends an entire euro at the kantina on a bottle of water in return – then the next day hassles me for hot water for her tea while I'm making coffees for people who ordered them first and will be paying. I ignore her. Stelios has this year given me carte blanche.

  For the summer, Stelios and I don't really have a conversation that doesn't revolve around the kantina – about picking up some oranges, paying a supplier, washing the hammock, bringing some new music… He still worries about it, but I look around and see relaxed, happy, interesting people enjoying themselves, and I assure him he must be getting something right.

  And my Greek is a little improved this year (though Stelios' friend Stratos says it's still not very good). I'm more confident, anyway. When things are busy, I smile and use a phrase I heard someone in Rhodes say once, 'Ena leptaki!' One little moment.

  At dusk, Lisa and I walk back home, where there are welcome warm breezes. I have a shower, some simple food, and sit peacefully, making up a poster for the kantina to advertise the ice cream, as Stelios asked. When he comes home, I hear his hiccups first. He barges in the door, almost trapping Lisa's head in it by mistake. I laugh and ask him what happened – he admits he's been drinking souma since early evening. Like many Greeks, he's not much of a drinker, so when he's spending long hours imbibing alcohol to keep customers company, he doesn't handle it well. I mention a message someone asked me to pass on, and he starts shouting, thinking I'm accusing him of something. Lisa cowers outside.

  'The things I have to put up with,' he slurs. 'I reckon I'll be going to stay in the tent again…'

  Tents seem to be a running theme in our relationship. He disappears back to his tent next to the kantina. Next morning, he arrives home again, sober, head aching, asking what happened exactly and asking for forgiveness. It's dangerous stuff, that souma.

  When in early August we run the souvlaki stand at the festival at Harkadio Cave, it only takes three of us – one of Stelios' friends is a master of barbecuing souvlaki and works with him on that while I do the drinks and cash again. This year, I can keep up a bit more with the frenzy when everyone's demanding their dinner, even when we run out of water and bags and can't see a thing when it gets dark. I wrote myself a cheat-sheet multiplication table for totting up souvlaki prices, and there are hardly any exasperated customers. I'm learning. A simple achievement like this can be very rewarding. Working in an esoteric field that means little to most people, at home on your own, it's refreshing for a change to be judged on your ability to satisfy a crowd of hungry customers.

  As I pull on my wellies to go to the field and feed the chickens one morning, I wonder yet again why they still haven't produced any eggs. I've researched online and bought a book to see if the coop needs any additions, and tried improvising perches for them using old bits of wood. I wondered if they might be sick, as they've been losing a lot of feathers, especially one of them – but as Stelios advised, it is August and pretty hot.

  I reckon Grigori, whose farm I pass by every day, might be a good person to talk to. So I ask him if he wouldn't mind coming to have a look at the chickens when he has time. He stops off while driving by and strides across the field. He then scans the six of them quickly, and announces: 'Jennifer, you've got five cockerels.'

  Apparently, when chickens are small it's hard to tell if they're male or female, and since ours are different breeds, they're different sizes anyway.

  'But why's the one hen not laid any eggs?' asks Stelios when I tell him.

  'Well,' I suggest, laughing, 'she's probably quite tired…'

  A few days later, I'm recounting the story of the cockerels to a group of friends who've been camping next to the kantina and are taking the ferry back to Athens. We're sitting in Omonia, the restaurant off the square in Livadia.

  'I don't think you could do it,' says Irini. She doesn't think I'm up to slaughtering a cockerel.

  'Neither do I,' says Stelios, but with a glint in his eye, knowing that the one thing likely to make me kill a chicken is being told I look like someone who can't.

  Chapter 30

  Learning to Live Small and Think Big

  I'm off at 7 p.m. to do the slaughtering, the sfaximo, or at least to help while my Albanian neighbour Bubuque shows me how.

  I decide to start with the weakest two cockerels, which have twisted legs. Bubuque grabs the first by the wings. I am usually squeamish; I used to hate butchers' shops and faint sometimes at the sight of my own blood. But the skilled, quiet way Bubuque goes about this business is fascinating. She stretches the cockerel out; holds its legs down with her feet; with one hand on its upper body to stop it thrashing around, she cuts through the neck, blood gushes out on to the ground, and immediately it's not a living thing but meat. She snaps off the feet at the joints. I grab the second bird. Bubuque's daughter, back from university, has brought out a bowl of boiling water, and the slaughtered birds get submerged in the water to loosen up the feathers. We talk for a few minutes while we wait. Bubuque learned from watching her mother, she says, and has been able to slaughter chickens since she was a teenager. I ask her daughter if she could do this. She shyly shakes her head.

  The feathers come out easily. To remove any last stragglers, she lights some pieces of paper and burns them off. Then comes the tricky part – removing the insides to make it good and safe to eat. There are little bits to cut off, parts to remove for eating, parts for the cat. The hard-looking round stomach is peeled away leaving a ball of undigested corn that the other chickens can eat – no point in wasting it. I'm full of admiration. I'm amazed not to feel queasy, though it does feel odd later cutting meat off the carcass, which is still slightly warm. The fresh meat is tough, but I boil up the rest of it the next day and it makes a heavenly soup, with our own potatoes, some black-eyed peas, onions and courgette. It's another step towards a wilder life, that's for sure. And another fear has been met head-on, so to speak, and overcome.

  Unfortunately, I start to grow
fond of our remaining useless cockerels, and poor Bubuque, who lives next door to our horafi, has to listen to their racket. They are now huge and stand waiting for me when I arrive to feed them, climbing all over the coop and the table that I left for them when I was trying to give them something to perch or roost on. But, as Stelios says, our chicken coop or kotetsi is now like Big Brother – who will get voted out next?

  Lisa, our eight-month-old resident comedy canine, is in heat and rather popular with male dogs, especially with a young pup currently staying in a tent right next door to the kantina. So now I can no longer take her to the beach in the mornings. Her boy next door leaps up when he sees our dusty red car, and looks at me with sad, accusing eyes when he sees Lisa's not in it. At home, then, Lisa has become almost nocturnal, sleeping all through the hot day and waking up ready to play as soon as the sun starts going down – a challenge if I've had a long day. I've had to take her for her walks in the early evening to beaches with few people to disturb and no dogs – easy to find on Tilos at any time of the year except August.

  'Why don't you take her to Lethra?' asks Stelios one day. At first it seems a crazy idea to go for a long walk as I'm utterly exhausted. Stelios is, too – he's had to work even longer hours at the kantina this year to make it pay. In the afternoons he lies in the hammock and when someone wants something, he tells them to help themselves and put the money in the box.

  But I haven't been to Lethra for ages, and had forgotten what a stunningly beautiful path it is. We pass sheer rock faces where goats climb nonchalantly. Lisa runs ahead, legs, ears, tail and tongue all flying in different directions. As we trot down the path at 6.30 p.m., everyone is leaving. One couple I know stop and comment on my T-shirt with its heart motif, and kiss me on both cheeks. Lisa leaps up at the sight of Maria, an Athenian teacher who's been at the kantina every morning all summer (a coffee with one spoon of coffee and two sugars, and a sandwich with omelette, cheese, tomato, salt and oregano). Lethra is in shadow when we reach the sea and it feels like dusk is coming, but it's beautiful for a swim, and as we walk back, there's sunlight on the tops of the hills, and the moon in the sky. I'm getting very fit from these longer walks. I drive back across the island and catch the sun again before it goes down over Ayios Andonis. Back at home, the sky is soon dark blue, and the lights of the village and castle come on, silver and gold.

  Inspired by that glimpse of the sun going down, another late afternoon I drive to Ayios Andonis and walk half an hour to swim at Plaka. On the way back, all I can think of is the food at Elpida restaurant. I like this place near the old windmill because it's right on the sea, which can be rough and tempestuous with a north wind blowing, and Sotiris, the owner, catches his own fish. I also like the hand-scrawled sign whose words don't quite fit on the lines ('Spaghetti with Lob/ster'). Sotiris allows me to sit at the edge of the terrace with Lisa tied to the tree next to my table, and I order food and a cold beer. With the waves rolling in, I can't think of a better way to end the day. Looking back towards Plaka, the promontory and little island offshore and, further away, the island of Nisyros, are different shades of soft grey. The sun starts to set in a glory of gold and orange and pink as I take my first bite of fried calamari with tzatziki. It's the most romantic spot for a dinner for two: Lisa and me. Love is… giving your partner the last piece of calamari.

  As always in the last weeks of summer, music is continually going around in my head with all the festivals. On the full moon, we have live music at the kantina, with two of the campers who are professional musicians playing rembetika for everyone for free. We turn off the lights and sit on the sand listening to timeless songs, the sea burnished with moonlight.

  All of our friends from Eristos are at the festival of Panayia Kamariani the next night. Ela Stelio! Pameh! Let's go! People are pulling me along to dance with them, and we are on our feet for hours, having fun. I show some Italians how to hold their arms for the sousta, not crossed but open, just as I was shown three years ago. Suddenly, in mid-flow, there's a power cut. But the music continues. Since there are no amplifiers, people sing along to the songs. The musicians move into the middle of the circle so everyone can hear. Since yesterday was a full moon, there's strong moonlight. It occurs to me that this is how it might have been in the old days. Sons dance with mothers, fathers with daughters.

  I now know some of the words to the songs and understand some of the jokes when the singers work in improvised rhymes referring to the men leading the dance – now I have a better idea who people are. Again, I feel happy and at home. I cringe when I think of my first awkward steps when learning to dance, but gradually I know more and aim for better posture and smoother steps, and can enjoy it. I've still only scratched the surface of life on the island, but I feel I know more. I take home a stick of souvlaki for Lisa. Stelios goes back to close the kantina then sends me a message saying it's full of people – the after party – so he stays, and I almost wish I was there.

  At the Koupa a couple of nights later, I realise that knowing more people can be dangerous. When I go to buy a beer at the kafeneion, where as usual the older men are 'warming up', Nikos Taxijis along with Stelios' uncle Pantelis and Fotis invite me up to dance with them right there. It's a little embarrassing, but Nikos can be very forceful when it comes to dancing. Then, once the proper dancing in the square begins, Pantelis insists on pulling me to the front of a dance that I don't know well, and it turns out he doesn't know it very well either. I fluff it completely since there's no one to follow, and am sent back to the end of the line again. But, however humiliating it is, I don't mind: it was nice to be asked.

  Although I take pains to point out to people that I didn't move to Tilos because of Stelios, and I've sometimes resented being known just as the kopella, the girlfriend, Stelios has of course been a major part of my putting down roots here – in more ways than one, thanks to the horafi. It's added stress at times, because as the girlfriend of a local, I've been expected to do things in a particular way. But, thanks to him, I've become more connected to the island. And it's been good to help him with his own business.

  Gradually the sea daffodils come out on Eristos beach, ragged white wildflowers that emerge from the sand at the end of the summer.

  'Khronia polla!' says Stelios, lying down and hugging me when he arrives home towards dawn. 'Do you believe it's two years?'

  It's amazing to think of all the things we've done and people we've met this season. I'm incredibly tired, but tanned and toned from dog walking. In the end, I'm glad I didn't have a job for the past month and have been able to enjoy life more.

  I have managed to escape from that full-time job thing. I've left it behind. The years no longer fly by. Like many people in full-time jobs, I used to wonder where the year went. Now, it's hard to believe I've done so much within the space of just twelve months. Life has slowed down at the same time as it's speeded up: I do more and time passes slowly. Breaking the rules of a conventional life is scary at times, but I can't imagine going back; I'd rather scrape together a living in a more fulfilling way if I can. My life has so much freedom. There's so much in the world to see and do and learn and try. It's about learning to live small and think big.

  One day, a man I know from the village who works with goats, Antonis, asks if I will help him to find a buyer or new tenant for a house his wife owns in the village, by taking some photos and posting them online. I like having time to help out the people around me like this. His wife takes me to see the place – it's just a little higher up the hillside from the supermarket, above a tiny chapel that I've always thought lovely. The house is basic but functional – the kind of large, practical space I like, with a lot of outdoor areas. She opens up a room downstairs at the front, a self-contained studio, draws back the shutters and there's a view over the chapel right across the valley, to the elephant cave and the hills. I wonder… I wonder if I've found myself an office for my new way of working – my own space to think and work in uninterrupted, with my things spread ou
t around me, a room of my own?

  Chapter 31

  Small Worlds

  In the mornings, I sit and watch the sun creep down the mountains. We have a couple of days of humidity when clouds gather over the bay and the hilltops, and cause the electricity wires to fizz. There are sandy spaces under the trees again, the sea smooth and denim blue. The visitors from northern Europe come back. Most of the dogs that came with campers have gone, and Lisa can return to the beach. She sniffs around to see what's been happening, her fluffy feather boa of a tail waving in the air. Then she sits and stares at the people having lunch at the kantina, hoping that by the power of the mind she can remove food from human hands into a canine mouth. It often works, especially with people who have a dog back home that they're missing. She is a very well-loved dog.

  Once again, I've seen too little of Anna this summer. She was stuck in London until July, back in the black-pencilskirt-and-heels routine, watching the Tilos webcam and listening to Greek radio. She did lure me down to Livadia for a few nights out once she arrived, but she's also been away sailing and doing a lot of socialising, and taking the dance classes a lot more seriously than I have. We resolve to walk to the beach at Tholos in a few weeks – much more pleasant once the weather cools off – and in the meantime to go to the last festival of the year together.