by Sara Alexi
‘How’s it feeling?’ Mitsos asks.
‘Bad.’ Theo takes his hand from the sink and holds it up in the light to see. There is a large scarlet area. Already, a blister is forming on the back, with a white impression of the metal arm of the burner on his palm.
‘That’s you done for a couple of days,’ Mitsos says, sympathy in his voice.
The chatting has begun again at a low level across the kafeneio. Yanni is still standing, staring.
Theo pushes past him.
‘Manoli, I am just walking Theo home,’ Mitsos says as he passes his table, one hand behind Theo as if ready to catch him.
Theo’s mama is sitting at the table outside the front door, peeling potatoes, when they arrive.
‘What have you done?’ She stands abruptly and shrieks the words in panic. Mitsos and Theo smile at the extreme reaction. Mitsos leaves them to it with a half wave.
‘Did you run it under cold water?’ Dimitra asks and goes inside. Theo follows. The place is in perfect order. Each morning when he and Baba leave, there are dirty dishes, clothes strewn, and newspapers half-read. Every evening, the table is clear, the chairs pushed in, the day bed tidied, the smell of food cooking: roast tomatoes, onions. The pictures of his grandparents from both sides hang on the wall next to the fridge. The walls are a pale blue, the fire grate black, and smoke stains curl up the chimney breast. It has not changed in his lifetime. It is familiar, safe, home. Dimitra rummages in the fridge, bringing out a tray of ice cubes which she punches out into a big jug of water.
‘Sit, put your hand in there and don’t take it out until the pain stops. How did it happen?’
Theo looks in her plain, kind face to see tears forming. ‘I am fine, Mama. Don’t worry.’ He smiles and says this kindly, but his hand throbs in the water, so he tries to pull it out.
‘No you don’t.’ Dimitra pushes it back in. ‘What happened?’
‘Doesn’t matter. I just burnt myself on the stove.’
‘My poor baby.’ She sits next to him, stroking aside the front of his mop of hair, which has fallen limp over his eyes.
It takes a good hour for the throbbing to subside to such a level that he can get up and walk about a bit. During this time, his mama has made him a sandwich and a cold coffee and has popped to the kiosk and back to get him a bar of chocolate and a packet of painkillers. Theo leaves the chocolate in its wrapper but takes two of the painkillers.
He walks once around the room but he is exhausted with the emotion and the pain. His mama is ironing now and watching him, asking every two minutes if he needs anything.
‘Oh, I forgot.’ She puts down the iron and leaves the room momentarily. ‘This came for you.’ She hands him a white envelope with a smile of relief at finally being able to do something for him.
‘Thank you, Mama. Who’s it from?’ Theo takes the envelope with his good hand and turns it over, but there is no return address. It has an American stamp. ‘America! It must be Damianos.’ His hand forgotten in the moment, he begins to tear the envelope open but winces. His mama is by his side in a flash, a knife in hand, opening it for him, taking out the single sheaf which she hands to him, unfolded.
Chapter 2
Age 40 Years, 5 Months, 7 Days
New York,
USA
Hey Theo,
I trust you are well and everything remains unchanged in the village (like it has for the last hundred years, eh my friend?)
America is amazing, you just would not believe.
New York has buildings so high they make you dizzy to look at and the girls have skin as white as your coffee cups.
My Aunt had a room ready for me when I arrived and I have work in my uncle’s shop but do you know what they asked? Why had I waited until I was forty to come!
The men here, they say, leave home in their twenties, married or not! There are so many tavernas or ‘diners’ as they call them, and many places to have your clothes cleaned. You only need a family for company.
I am saving to open my own taverna. The only decent food here is my own and my aunt’s. When I am successful you must come and make coffee for my customers.
I trust Cosmo delivered this letter—at least he is good for something! Tell him he would hate it here, the life is too fast for his lazy nature…
All the best, my friend
Damianos.
P.S. They Americans call me Damian. I cannot get used to it and have ignored many people by accident!
Theo turns the page hoping for more on the back, but there is none.
‘What does he say?’ his mama asks.
‘He says American boys leave home in their twenties.’
‘No! Surely not, without a wife?’
‘Without a wife, Mama.’ Theo puts the paper on the table and holds the wrist of his throbbing hand.
‘That’s not good.’ She sniffs her contempt as she folds the pillowcase she has just ironed. ‘Put your hand back in the water.’
Theo pulls the jug towards him. The wooden table rocks on the uneven floor. His baba laid a vinyl floor covering a couple of years before, straight on top of the stone flags. When first laid, it was smooth and flat. But when Theo put his weight on it, there were springy air pockets where the stones were uneven. After one August, with the temperatures reaching the upper thirties, it moulded to the contours as they walked on it and the pattern distorted. But his mama maintains it is easier to keep clean than the stones.
Holding the jug with his good hand, he pushes the table away from him a fraction with his feet until it stops rocking.
‘Mama,’ he begins, then hesitates. He has said it all before.
‘Please Theo, no. He may not show it, but your baba needs you.’
‘He does not need me. This burn …’ He picks his hand out of the water, examining the even blister that has formed across the back of it. His palm is not as bad as he initially thought. ‘He did it.’
‘That is a terrible thing to say!’ Dimitra puts down the iron abruptly and stares at him.
‘But it is true. He does not like the way I work. He interferes and this time, it resulted in the coffee spilling all over me.’
‘An accident.’ She selects and lays flat another pillowcase.
‘You know what he is like.’ The throbbing is easing. His hand is numb with cold.
‘He is getting old, Theo. We both are. Your brother and sisters have their own families, their own work, their own lives. It is down to you; it is your duty.’
‘Exactly. Their own lives, Mama. So am I to be denied mine?’
‘No one is denying you anything.’ The steam hisses under the iron.
‘Not denied anything! Mama, I work in his shadow every day. He denies me my manhood.’
‘That is a very unkind and unfair thing to say, Theo.’ His mama’s voice adopts a familiar scolding tone. ‘Only you will inherit. He has given you everything.’
Theo reads over the letter again. He pulls his hand out of the water to look at the blister.
‘You’d best be careful for what you wish. Sometimes, you don’t always get what you hoped for.’
‘What are you wishing for, Stathis?’ Cosmo’s baba asks.
‘Not me, young Theo here. He wants to go to Athens, make his own way.’
‘Shh, keep your voice down. He’ll hear you,’ Theo frantically hisses and looks around to see how far away his baba is. But he is outside serving one of the men sitting across in the square in the bright but watery sunshine. The majority of customers are still huddled inside, their tables pulled around the pot-bellied wood-burning stove, the black chimney of which emanates heat all the way to the ceiling before turning at right angles and snaking out through a hole in the wall. Brown stains on the paintwork follow its route. Just above head height, a ring has been bolted to the flue from which thin metal rods jut out at right angles, to support drying tea-towels over the rising heat. Below, someone has put a handful of chestnuts to roast on the stove’s flat top and they hiss and c
rack open, their sweet smell mixing with the coffee and smoke.
Theo, behind the counter, uses one hand to spoon in the coffee and the same to stir. His bad hand is bandaged and in a sling around his neck. His halo of hair bobs as he moves.
‘He’s going to know if you go, Theo.’ Stathis grins.
‘Who wants to go to Athens?’ Thanasis the donkey breeder calls from the nearest table.
‘Shh,’ Theo hisses across the room. His baba is thankfully taking his time with the people outside.
‘Athens? A noisy, pollution-filled hellhole if you ask me,’ another voice cries, followed by the sound of rolling dice. ‘Double six, you lucky devil …’
‘Ah, that depends. My son went, he made a fortune, owns a fast food shop, married a rich girl, four beautiful sons,’ another says.
‘Yes, and how often do they come down to this tiny village to see you, eh? Athens does that to people: turns their heads, changes them,’ comes a reply.
‘So it should. That’s progress. It is us who are lost in the old ways.’
‘Take a look around you, Theo. The people here have known you since you were born. We are all like family.’ Stathis’ crinkly old face breaks into a smile. ‘If there is anything you need, someone will have it. If you are lonely, someone will talk. If you are hungry, someone will set a place for you. Do not belittle what you have already. There are things right here in the village that you will not find in Athens.’
‘Quiet. He is coming.’ Theo can hear the desperation in his own voice. The kafeneio falls silent. Yannis walks in, looks around.
‘What? What’s going on?’ he demands.
The last customer leaves and Yanni starts to bring in the tables and chairs from outside.
‘You are not going, so that is that,’ Yanni begins.
‘You cannot stop me.’ Theo rinses the briki, roughly dries it with one hand, and hangs it on its hook on the wall.
‘It would break your mama’s heart.’ Yanni closes one of the glass doors, waving to Vasso, who is closing up the kiosk for the night. He sits wearily, with a sigh, and eyes the last of the glasses and coffee cups that need collecting and washing up.
‘Baba, go home. I’ll finish up,’ Theo says. His baba waves the idea away but when he stands, the colour drains from his face. ‘Go on, go,’ Theo repeats and then watches as the old man crosses the square. There is no spring in his step, his age is showing. If Theo stays, that will be him one day, his time on earth nearly done without having even begun to live.
‘Goodnight!’ Vasso calls as she walks past the kafeneio on her way home, the kiosk secured for the night.
‘Oh yes, goodnight, Vasso,’ Theo calls back.
Putting the last of the coffee cups to drain, he chings open the till and takes out the notes, cramming them into the leather wallet they keep under the counter for the purpose and then stuffs that, in turn, into his pocket to take home. His baba has a place at home, a secret drawer in the back of his wardrobe. He keeps the money there till Monday, when he makes his weekly trip to the bank.
Theo locks the tall glass doors and pockets the cold key. The village is silent. A million stars are visible, the Milky Way smearing the black, a single street light doing little to eclipse the glory above. Theo throws his head back and stares. The vastness of space serves to remind him of the size of his village. A dot on the planet, unsubstantial, irrelevant, and unnoticeable. If he were looking down from the moon, it would be invisible, not like New York or Athens, both a glow of industry, a hive of activity, a place a man can make a mark.
There is no haste in his step as he passes the kiosk, turns up past the bakery and into the winding streets behind. They live near Vasso, but she takes a different route, past the church. The way Theo goes takes longer, passes more houses. He looks in the lit windows on his way, taking in familiar faces in domestic situations, a fascinating glimpse into married life. A life he wanted but has so far has missed out on.
In his teenage years, the girls showed some interest—shy glances, whispers behind hands. He can recall the feeling even now. Back then, his chest puffed out, his mass of frizzy curls left unchecked, growing long. As the kafeneio owner’s son, he was the best prospect in the village and, although it shames him now, he behaved like he knew it. He expected the girls to come to him, and he grew more and more aloof when they didn’t. Before he wised up, all the fair ones were taken and only the not-so-fair were left. The arrogance of youth led him to believe he could do better and so he remained alone, proud. As time passed, even the not-so-fair became fair in his eyes, their curves more inviting, but by now, these girls too were taken, by peers he thought were not the marrying kind and even those he thought no one could love. Even Manolis was married.
It came as a shock when he realised that his contemporaries, both male and female, were all settled. Sitting behind shuttered windows with children—now teenagers—of their own and wives to caress, dogs by the hearth, beds to share, ears to pour their worries into, curled up in the early hours of the morning when the demons come to torment, implanting their insecurities and whispering their horrors of the dark emptiness of life, its pitiful pointlessness, and all the other hope-destroying thoughts that they stir.
Theo shakes his head, driving away these thoughts.
Passing another window, he sees Cosmo inside in the bright light, sitting with his hands in front of him, his mother’s wool looped across them as she winds it into a ball. He can hear the drone of her incessant chatter but cannot make out individual words. Cosmo’s face is blank, lifeless. He will always be single. And so will Theo if he does not take action.
On the corner is one of the few street lights. He stops and takes out the leather wallet. It has been a good day. The cold days bring more orders of hot coffee with ouzo and brandy. It has been a very good day.
He bites his upper lip. It would be dishonest, wrong. But then again, would it? He has earned it just as much as his baba. If he were paid a steady wage, he would have all this and more. A steady wage for the past twenty years? He does a rough sum in his head. He could have built a house with that sort of money. Why have they never done that? They own the kafeneio, but their house, they rent. How foolish his baba has been. They could have bought a plot of land and built something that would be his own one day.
‘Stupid old man.’ The words come out through closed teeth. Tearing at the wad of cash, he takes a good handful and stuffs it into his shirt pocket, puts the remainder back in the wallet, and stomps home to a dark house; his mama and baba are in bed.
Throwing the wallet on the side, he pours himself a brandy. He has a rule: he never drinks at work. When he first started to work, he saw that such a rule was necessary. He likes a drink, but at work, it is constantly available—and often offered by the customers. It could become uncontrollable in no time.
The brandy is nectar, scorching down his throat. The second just as good.
The morning air is clear and crisp, the clouds have gone, and the sky is a sheet of azure blue. A woman is swilling her front steps with a bucket of water. Vasso is taking down the shutters from her kiosk, a cockerel is crowing, and dogs are barking. One runs across the square. Theo puts his hand in his pocket and wraps his fingers around the wad of cash. They won’t miss it. It is his rightful pay, and when he is gone, there will be one less mouth to feed. Besides, they make more than they spend, especially with his free labour, so it is only fair, really.
The bus stops and Theo pulls at the concertina doors to make them open.
‘Kick the bottom as you pull,’ the bus driver says.
Theo has taken the bus to Saros, and even once as far as Corinth, but further than that is foreign ground. His stomach turns over as he stares out at the orange trees which litter the plain, all the way down to the sea behind them. So much of him does not want to leave, but something is driving him, compelling him to make this journey, as if he has no choice. He closes his eyes and slumbers, and when he opens them again, the landscape does not seeme
d to have changed much. Through the windows on the other side of the bus, he thinks he can see the sea, but curtains are drawn and sleeping bodies are slumped against the glass and Theo cannot be sure. His eyes close again, time passes, as does the distance: the fields blurring to one, the villages becoming more insignificant with each that they rumble through. Theo drifts in and out of sleep to make the distance pass and to try and quell his misgivings. When the bus begins to climb, Theo’s seat judders as the driver changes to a low gear, their progress slow until they reach the top. He opens an eye and lifts the curtain a fraction to see the road begin to drop. A new valley is revealed, a grey mass of buildings in the distance which may or may not be Athens.
One of his legs starts to jiggle. The downward twists and turns have an uncomfortable effect on his stomach so he closes his eyes, wishing the journey over.
Someone kicks his legs in passing. He wakes with a snort and hastily looks around, peering out of the windows, seeing nothing but buildings, no patches of sky visible.
‘This Athens?’ he calls to the driver. Someone behind him chuckles.
‘What stop did you want?’ The driver asks.
‘Athens.’ Theo stands and hangs onto the hand rail.
‘You’ve missed Syntagma Square, Central Athens. Do you want the next stop; shall I drop you here?’ The bus slows, the gears grinding, and they shudder to a standstill.
‘Thanks,’ Theo says.
A couple of tourists with backpacks wait on the pavement for Theo to descend.
‘I thought this bus was due on the hour,’ the man says in English to the driver, who glances at his watch.
‘It is only ten past, I am early by Greek standards.’ The driver chuckles to himself. ‘You want to get on or not?’ He rolls his eyes at Theo. Time in Greece has a different quality, less urgent, more fluid. It is not possible to rush in the summer heat and it becomes ingrained in your bones, an easy pace that makes life so much more pleasant.