The Click of a Pebble

by Barbara Spencer

  Rue had never managed to experience this, mown down before he had tasted the sublime. But he, Yöst, he only had to wait a while and all that splendour would be his by right.

  At the bottom of the hill, merging streets fanned out into a square, the buildings on either side both taller and narrower than their counterparts at the top of the hill, with the living quarters for the proprietor and his family set among the rooftops. Framed by flower beds, the autumnal plantings of begonia and dahlia created an explosion of bright colour, against the drab stonework of the buildings. On its farthest edge, a wide esplanade ran along the seafront without interruption, apart from the heavy wooden gates that led to the harbour. With the fishing fleet at sea, these were usually left open, allowing a strong smell of rancid fish to filter through into the town.

  Yöst stopped by an open doorway, a painted sign bearing an image of a ham hock and a bottle of wine, suspended from a wrought-iron bracket, identified the shop as a grocer’s. Without it, he would have walked straight past, its front step cluttered with nets full of kindling, while its interior was as dark as a sunset after the sun has departed. Inside, shelving on both walls reduced the narrow space still further, with boxes of dried goods, apricots and raisins and dates, littering the floor in front of the counter. An invasive odour of turpentine stung the air, making Yöst’s nose twitch uncomfortably, and he identified a row of tins standing next to bottles of methylated spirits, at the far end of the cavernous space.

  The shop was busy, its customers, all women, chatting amiably as they waited to be served. In front of him in the queue, a woman was berating the shopkeeper about some ham she had bought the previous week, complaining its edges were curled up and dry. ‘And no cracked eggs today, either,’ she admonished.

  The informality of the scene and its light-hearted gossip made Yöst wonder if these women were even aware of the tragic events on the island. Remembering the carnage, most of the men would have been splattered with blood. Surely, that couldn’t have passed unnoticed?

  ‘Next,’ the grocer called impatiently.

  Clutching a box of powdered milk, Yöst hurried back up the hill, passing a cart heaped with green beans and curly kale, both the marrow and zucchini small from lack of rain. The women had grown vegetables on the island and it had been their job, his and the other boys, to keep them watered. He winced, remembering how often he’d not bothered, preferring to swim and climb trees.

  Suddenly dizzy, he stopped and bent over, wishing above all things for Zeus to send him back, back to when his grandmother was alive, and for him to be able to do it all again. ‘It would be different this time, I swear,’ he whispered within the silence of his own mind.

  ‘You okay, mate?’ Someone touched his arm; a boy’s hand, elegant, his fingers long and tapering, his nails clean and unbitten. Yöst felt his gaze drawn upwards to meet dark eyes over a hooked nose.

  ‘I forgot the oranges,’ he said, a sense of breathlessness as if he’d been running, overriding his painful recriminations.

  ‘We have oranges.’ The boy gave him a sombre, almost doleful smile. Of a similar size and age to Yöst, he seemed older, the comely limbs of childhood no longer present. Finely built, with high cheekbones, he presented passers-by with a melancholy countenance.

  Yöst returned the smile, searching for a reply. A girl, much the same size as Zande, sat beneath the cart, her hair unkempt, sucking juice out of a half orange. ‘That your sister?’

  She peeped up at him and stuck out her tongue.

  ‘Yes, worse luck.’ The boy’s voice changed, its pitch rising. ‘You cheeky beggar! Stick your tongue out at a customer again and I’ll cut it off. Sisters, eh! How many oranges can I sell you? They’re good mind.’ He picked one up, holding it out for inspection.

  Yöst checked the price, counting his change from the milk powder. ‘I’ve enough for a dozen. Make sure they’re firm. My aunt will make me bring them back if they’re soft.’ The boy spun the orange globe in the air. ‘In that case,’

  he said with a friendly grin, ‘I’ll drop in a couple of real soft ones on top then you’ll have to come back.’

  His sister stared up at that, and poked her brother’s leg. She stuck her head out between the wheels, her smile gap-toothed. ‘Pa says we can eat the soft ones. I’m eating one right now.’

  ‘I dunno. She’ll never be any good on the stall,’ he grumbled and winked at Yöst. ‘Talks too much, that’s her trouble. I’ve got three sisters at home just like her,’ he continued resuming his downcast tone. ‘And a couple of cousins. Still, she’s right. Anythin’ gone over or left at the end of the day, we eat, and glad of it too. There,’ he kicked her foot. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘I know you. We went to the same school.’

  The boy’s hand jerked, and the orange he’d been holding fell to the ground. He bent down and scooped it up, quickly replacing it on top of the pile. ‘Shush, not so loud. I left.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘Told me pa I’d learned all they could teach me. A dozen you said.’ He picked up a paper sack. ‘Thought I recognised you. So why you not there?’

  Yöst hesitated watching the boy select another orange, spin it on his fingers to test its firmness before placing it in the paper bag, his expression one of friendly enquiry, nothing dissembling about it at all. ‘I had to stay home and care for my brother and sister.’

  ‘So what are you doing out here in the street, talkin’ to me?’ Spotting Yöst’s discomfort, he grinned, the dark melancholy wiped away, his eyes sparkling, brilliant and full of mischief. ‘No need to take on so, I’m only makin’ conversation. Pa says if you make conversation, customers will always buy a bit extra.’

  Yöst relaxed. ‘You won’t get much out of me. I’ve only got a few cents left and you won’t get rich on that.’ Noticing a fruit he didn’t recognise, ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Pears! Where’ve you been livin’? These are special, these are.’ He winked a second time. ‘That’s salesman’s talk. Pa taught it to me. He says you have to act the part. Still, it’s the truth. We only ever get a few pears on the cart; mostly they go to make brandy. Pa gets a good price for them at the factory.’

  He took out a penknife, cutting a slice and handing it to Yöst. He took a bite, juice dribbling down his chin. ‘Good?’

  Yöst nodded.

  Still clutching the knife in his hand, the boy leaned forward over the stall. ‘It weren’t true what I said before, about learnin’ all school could teach me. I can read and write … sort of. Thing was, at school it don’t pay to be different. That bastard of a priest used to beat me black and blue whenever he took a fancy.’ Yöst’s hand crept across his mouth to stop himself speaking out. Mistaking the gesture, he boy added, ‘You’ll be safe enough as long as you know the answers. You fit right in. Me! As if being a gypsy ain’t bad enough.’

  Even while listening intently to the boy, Yöst found his hearing taking flight, as if on guard, interpreting conversations from every part of the street. Random phrases and sounds swept in and out of his consciousness, before being dismissed as unimportant: stallholders crying their wares, people talking about the weather and the wicked price of flour; while ladies, their voices sharply indignant, argued about which shop sold the freshest bread or bacon. Across the road, a horse whinnied, protesting at the weight of the cart it was dragging uphill. Above it all, the wind made its presence felt, gusting noisily and rattling metal shop signs. Without warning, a voice slithered through the rumbustious exchanges clear as a bell. A voice Yöst recognised from school … the priest, his dulcet tones scalding his senses. Twisting round, he caught sight of a white cross stark against the blackness of a cloak and felt it beckoning to him.

  ‘Barefoot, you say. How tragic. We must find the child and offer help.’

  The gypsy boy caught the conversation also. His gaze sought Yöst’s, its merriment wiped away, his air now one of fear, his cheeks blanched white reliving the agony of a cane landing on his flesh. Grabbing Yöst by the
hand, next moment they were both under the cart, crouched down between its wheels.

  ‘Mind the stall,’ he hissed to his sister. Obediently, she stood up, standing shyly on the pavement, her small frame partially eclipsed by the spokes of the back wheel.

  ‘He’ll be easy to spot. He had black skin. Never seen a blackamoor before.’

  ‘How very unusual,’ the priest’s tone, the sibilant softness of a reptile.

  Yöst buried his face in his hands, a flashing image of Zande’s mother streaking across his vision. Taller than other women on the island, she had possessed the whitest and most even of teeth. He remembered her laughing, whether at a pair of squabbling crows, their beaks agape in protest, or a squirrel scurrying haphazardly over the ground, unable to recall where it had stashed its food store, or Zande splashing helplessly in shallow water pretending to be a fish. For she and her child, the days had been full of merriment. And her nights? Born carinatae, she had the ability to soar into the heavens and celebrate the celeste with the cobs. None of that had saved her; struck down, even as she got Zande to safety. Tatania’s mother too; in begging for her life, she had spoken the truth. She hadn’t been part of the clan … a wife, a lover maybe, nevertheless an outsider … an onlooker, not a real part, a child of Zeus. Even that hadn’t saved her.

  ‘He was with a man,’ the woman’s voice continued relentlessly. ‘Not his father; this man was too old. I’ve seen him about. That’s what decided me to tell you, Monseigneur. It didn’t look natural.’

  ‘You were correct to do so, Madame. Strangers in our small town; if it is anyone’s business it is mine.’

  He pressed his hands against his ears as footsteps on the pavement reverberated loudly, recalling the hammer blows that had struck his friends to the ground. And the little girl’s mother! He would never forget her scream, the name of her child spoken on a final outward breath. He shivered and felt a comforting arm around his shoulders.

  ‘He ain’t talkin’ about you, is he?’ the boy whispered, his lips against Yöst’s ear. ‘You look like you’re goin’ to puke. In any case, you ain’t black. You’re darkish like me. Swarthy. Nothin’ that a good wash won’t cure, me ma says.’

  Yöst bit his lip, undecided. ‘It’s my brother,’ he blurted out, keeping his voice low. ‘And he’s not black, not really. Promise you won’t tell.’

  ‘You want to see me behind?’

  Yöst tried to rummage up a grin and failed miserably, his entire being centred on reaching Zande before the priest did.

  The boy, his colour restored to normal, elbowed him playfully. ‘Pa, when he saw me behind, said it was the same as Ma’s pinafore, red and blue all over. He won’t be sending me sisters to school, not in a hurry, anyway. Said I can learn ’em to read. You ever goin’ back to school or not?’

  ‘Not. I wanted to before but—’ I shouldn’t have left them; Yöst’s thoughts rebuked him sternly.

  ‘You go right on listenin’ to them buts,’ the boy advised with a scowl. He opened his hand, showing Yöst the knife. ‘One of these days someone will stick him, you mark my words; and risk the fires of hell. While he was beating me, he used to recite words from the Holy Book, sayin’ as only those with true repentance would ever see the kingdom of God.’

  With his fists clenched into tight knots of fear, Yöst watched the swirling cloak approach the cart where he was hiding, a pair of shiny black shoes clipping the pavement below its voluminous folds. Surprisingly for such a tall man, the priest possessed small feet. They paused next to the cart.

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Yöst caught the clink of a coin. ‘No doubt, you will be in church on Sunday. I will mention your charity towards this unfortunate child in my blessing.’

  As if it were the period marking the end of a sentence, the black folds of the priest’s cloak swirled and swept across the road before vanishing from sight.

  Yöst unclenched his fists. ‘I have to go.’ He climbed onto his knees, shuffling awkwardly backwards onto the pavement, and stood up.

  ‘You don’t want them pears?’ The boy cautiously followed, ducking down so he couldn’t be seen from the opposite side of the road. ‘Here, have this one, anyway,’ and shoved the cut fruit into the paper sack on top of the oranges. ‘I’m Rico.’

  ‘Yöst.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Yöst didn’t reply. He stretched out his hand and Rico clasped it in his.

  ‘Good luck. I’m here most days,’ he called out, his attention fastened on Yöst as he raced up the hill.

  9

  Remembering that someone running along a crowded pavement would undoubtedly elicit loud-voiced condemnation, Yöst slowed, anxious not to draw attention to himself. Mme Meijer had not gone far, chatting with one of the stallholders whom she obviously knew well, her basket half-full of beans and tomatoes, a bunch of carrots poking from one corner. As Yöst approached, he heard her laugh ring out.

  ‘Madame Meijer,’ he tugged her arm.

  ‘Ah! You have bought the oranges I asked for. Good boy. Thank you, Ramon, it’s always a pleasure doing business with you.’ She bobbed her head and, dropping her purse into her basket, stepped away from the stall.

  ‘Did you manage to buy the milk powder? Yes, I see you did.’ Noticing his white face, ‘What is it, has something happened? But, first, child, please pull your face straight.’ She dropped her voice, speaking softly. ‘People in this town lead such mundane lives, they are always on the lookout for a piece of gossip to spice up their dullness, and will notice anything out of the ordinary.’ She took the box of milk powder, tucking it under the tomatoes. Slipping her arm into his, she walked slowly up the street.

  ‘Yöst?’ she said, her tone casual.

  The muscles of Yöst’s face felt frozen. ‘The priest is here, in the street,’ he gabbled, his voice weak with fear. ‘I heard a woman talking to him about Zande. I saw her before, the day we arrived. Monsieur Meijer was carrying Zande and she came out of the cheese shop. I didn’t think much about it, not then … I was so cold and miserable, I didn’t pay her any attention. He’s there now… the other side of the road. The shop doorway.’ Mme Meijer swung round and he felt her arm quiver in his.

  Yöst tugged at her coat sleeve. ‘I have to take Zande away. He’ll come, I know he will. I can’t explain it,’ his voice cracked, but sometimes I sense things happening.’ Realising his panicky gesture might attract attention, he hastily stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘I know he will, and he won’t stop. Never,’ he added, remembering the pleas for mercy that had fallen on deaf ears.

  Just then, a tram began its slow journey up the hill, the driver’s bell adding its discordant clamour to the hullabaloo of the street sellers, making it almost impossible to be heard. ‘Quick. The tram will hide you. Take the path by the cheese shop. At the top, first left past a row of houses will bring you out onto the steps. Warn my husband. I’ll follow as quickly as I can. I need to speak to someone first.’

  Yöst bit at his lip, his eyes pleading, speaking for him.

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to Zande or you. Remember the hiding place?’ He nodded. ‘I am sure they won’t, however, if by some remote chance they do come to the house, you can hide in there.’ ‘He will. I know it,’ he repeated stubbornly.

  Mme Meijer gave him a push. ‘Go.’

  Shielded by the tram, Yöst obediently slipped across the road and into the cobbled alley, passing within a couple of metres of the priest, in conversation with the proprietor of the cheese shop. Despite Mme Meijer’s reassurance, that the boy in the beret didn’t resemble the ragamuffin child from the island in the slightest, he trod softly across the pavement, convinced if he made the slightest sound the priest would glance up and spot him.

  Too narrow for anything other than a bicycle, the cobblestone alley angled steeply upwards flanked by tall buildings, their coloured walls cracked and shabby, and daubed with water stains. Beneath his feet, rain-drenched winters had left the cobblestones loose, with weeds sprouting fro
m the cracks. Anxious not to trip, Yöst fixed his attention on the ground, hurrying past vine-covered garden walls, from which bunches of black grapes drooped down off woody stems.

  Emerging at the far end, he stopped to catch his breath, sensing the wind fresher and laden with salt. Very different from the enclosed atmosphere of the alley, here houses were set back from the roadway and their colour-washed walls were stain free. Tall and elegant, with sparkling windows and gables, they were surrounded by lavish ornamental gardens, with tall shade-trees that brushed against their rooftops, whenever the wind blew.

  He broke into a run again as the houses fell away, catching sight of the steps directly in front of him, with their view down to the harbour with its massive sea walls. For Yöst, those concrete structures designed to withstand the fiercest of tides were a familiar sight, the women rowing past on their way to the factory where most had worked, leaving Yöst to walk back into the town alone. With the bulk of the fleet at sea, only those boats in need of repair remained tied up, their black hulls never motionless, shifting and swaying, as if wanting to escape their mooring and put to sea with their fellows. On the dockside, tiny stick-like figures scarcely bigger than ants scurried to and fro.

  Drawn to the memory of his childhood, when the proximity of the harbour had proved an unceasing fascination rather than something to be feared, he watched a flock of seagulls circle low in search of scraps of broken fish, their white wings as busy as their beaks that were screaming a barrage of insults. In a very few years, he would be able to join their flight, no longer tied to the earth. As carinatae this was how he would view the world – from high up.

  Beyond the docks lay those streets and houses he had once known well. In stormy weather, waves had washed up against their back doorstep, once or twice entering uninvited and swamping the ground floor. Even now, after an absence of several years, the houses appeared no different; the long parade of dwellings as unkempt and untidy as pigs in mire, having scarcely a lick of paint between them. Only in years when the oceans were in a bountiful mood, and yielded a substantial harvest, did roofs get repaired and doors painted. At other times, with rewards less than generous, there was little coin to spare once the landlord had taken his due and food bought for the table. Anything over accompanied the fishermen to the local hostelry. There, even a few cents proved sufficient for a small glass of wine or a beaker of cheap spirits, with which to celebrate a safe voyage, or perhaps, more importantly, their present liberty from the hazards of a life spent at sea. Even in bad times, when rent fell behind, the family forced to exist on scrapings or someone else’s goodwill, the weekly dose of oblivion was deemed sacrosanct.