by Sara Alexi
Theo is not sure what to say or do. He takes his hand from her shoulder and shakes his head. With no warning, Aikaterina lets go of the broom handle and runs down the stairs, crying. The broom falls over and slides down a couple of steps. The dog barks as she speeds past him, and Theo hears the slam of the door downstairs.
Bob the dog appears at the bottom of the steps and looks up at Theo.
A car drives past.
‘Stupid,’ Theo chastises himself. ‘Just stupid. Will you never learn?’ He lets himself into his rooms and pours a drink from the bottle on the chimney-breast. After a couple, he feels a little better, pours a third and, nursing this, he steps down into the hall. The five steps are wooden and the face plate of the bottom one, he has discovered, is loose. He prizes one end and it pivots open on the remaining nail.
He finishes his drink. The cash looks so much more spread out in the recess than it did flat under the sofa cushion. One night, coming in particularly late with more cash than usual, he bundled it into its hiding place without counting it. In his smugness of the drunken moment, he felt that he was unstoppable and the money would grow quickly. After a couple more days, with a few guesses at the potential value of his swag, he stopped even trying to reckon how much was there.
He was on his way to getting his own bar, he just didn’t know how quickly. He has given up on the idea of working down at the beach place. There, he would get a manager’s wage, if he is lucky, which is alright, but it would assure that he would always be working for someone else. Whereas at the rate he is amassing wealth, he will be his own boss one day.
Another drink, and the bottle is more or less empty, discarded along with the new tin of coffee. He runs his hands through the cash, grabs a handful, and throws it above his head and sprawls by the bottom step on the cool marble of the hall floor. It flitters down, some landing on his hair, some on his legs, spreading across the floor. He drains his glass and pours another.
‘You, my friend, have cracked Athens, and soon you will make your mark.’ He raises his glass to toast his success. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Most of the whiskey goes in his mouth. He rubs his hand down his chin and his shirt, but it will stain. It is time to get more shirts anyway. Pulling it off, he staggers to his feet and flings it into the bathroom sink to run cold water on it.
‘Later,’ he tells it and stumbles back into the hall, stepping on the money, which is spread all over the floor. He chuckles.
‘Yes, my friend, we have figured it out. The only way to play this city game is to live like the city people.’ His words slur. ‘No yiayia will ever rob me of five weeks’ rent again. I can outsmart the best of them.’ But the smile drops from his face as a faded image of Tasia surfaces in his mind’s eye.
He looks down at his own legs and slaps one thigh, testing its strength. ‘And no one will have my legs for it,’ he slurs. ‘Poor Jimmy. But it is not as if I took the bat and put him in a wheelchair myself, is it? How was I to know how much you were taking? Jimmy, my friend, wherever you are, here’s to you. No hard feelings.’ He takes his drink, but his glass is empty. He reaches for the bottle but misjudges the distance and falls up the steps. His head hits the wall.
‘Owww.’ He winces loudly but grabs the bottle to pour another drink all the same. ‘To you, Jimmy.’ He holds his glass up and wipes the sweat, stopping it from running into his eyes. The whiskey burns down his throat.
It takes a moment to work out what the red is on his hand. He blinks something away, then tentatively touches his forehead again. His fingers come away with fresh blood, not sweat after all. It doesn’t hurt that much, and besides, it is nothing compared to the beating Jimmy took. He sits on the bottom step and then, forgetting his head, with a big grin, he leans forward, scooping an armful of money to his chest. He rocks sideways and closes his eyes, a smile on his lips. He didn’t get enough sleep again last night.
His eyes flicker open to an unusual cool. It also seems dark. Stiffly pushing himself up onto one elbow, he grimaces. The outside of his head hurts as much as the inside. One eye is sealed shut. He rubs crusts from his lashes and flakes of dried blood come away. He looks around at all the money, some of it with blood-stained fingerprints. Using the wall to help him to his feet, he kicks the money back under the stairs and when every note is in, he pushes the board home.
His shirt is still sitting in the sink soaking, which begs the question of what he will wear to work this evening. He should have bought two. He looks up the stairs and across the main room to the balcony, where the sky has clouded over. When August turned to September, Marinos, clipping the hedges at the time, wished him ‘Kalo Ximona’, a good winter. Now it is October, and this is the first sign of the weather changing. But even with the sky overcast, the temperature continues to be perfect.
Hastily washing and rinsing his shirt, he hangs it over the bath. It is a couple of hours until evening. It might be dry in time.
Supporting his aching head, he looks in the mirror.
‘Oh God!’ he exclaims. There is a diagonal gash over one eye. The area under the cut has swollen and is coming up in a bruise. Dramatically, the blood has somehow run over one eye, across his nose, and over his other eye. Some of his hair is stiff and black where blood has congealed.
Once his face is swilled, he appraises the situation again.
‘No one will notice in that dark hellhole,’ he mutters to himself and takes his shirt, which is still dripping, out to the balcony.
‘Coffee.’ Heading for the kitchen, he is comforted by his own voice. ‘I need coffee,’ he repeats. ‘Coffee, coffee, coffee.’
As he is just about to give up searching for the coffee, he spots the tin sitting on the steps next to the bottle of whiskey.
Back in the kitchen, he puts the bottle at the back of the deepest cupboard and closes the door emphatically. Levering open the lid of the coffee tin, he breathes deeply, enjoying the aroma, and is transported back to the kafeneio in the village. Stathis talking to Cosmo’s baba, Cosmo sitting on one of the high stools in front of him. The metal-framed glass doors are open wide, the sun flooding in. From his table in the square, Manolis’ loud voice drowning out Mitsos’. The older men, four to a table, arguing politics. His own baba running around joining in the conversations, keeping everyone happy.
There is the Theo who was, standing behind the counter. He looks the same—the same greying halo of hair, same flared trousers, same soft eyes, same easy smile. But that Theo was a fool. That Theo was a victim.
That Theo no longer exists.
He exhales, his eyes downcast.
The other people do still exist, though, and it hits Theo how much he misses Mitsos and Cosmo. He misses Stathis. He misses his mama. Perhaps he even misses baba. He sighs.
He watches the bubbles rise to the surface in the briki, raises and lowers the pan, and watches them form again and again.
At least the old Theo didn’t have to drink whiskey to cope.
He pours the frothy coffee from a height into his cup, watches the bubbles glistening.
That Theo walked with a bounce in his step.
He rinses the briki.
That was the Theo who could look Tasia in the face. Her image forms, but she seems a long way away, misty, a thing of the past.
The coffee done, he takes the small cup up to the main room.
The sofa in front of the fireplace, his salvaged table and chair on the balcony are still all the furnishings in the place and the rooms feel lifeless, stark. No table to invite people to eat with him. No comfortable chairs in which guests could drink their coffee.
Here in Athens, he lives worse than any villager. He has no rugs, no pictures, no television, no cushions, no company.
In the village, by comparison, he lived like a king.
It starts to rain.
He sits and watches the drops on the window panes as he nurses his aching head.
Day turns to evening. The rain gets harder.
When it is time to go to wor
k, he pulls on his damp shirt and runs out to shelter under the tree and hails a taxi. The taxi driver laughs as he gets in; the rain has broken the monotony of his work. His cab is full of smoke and the radio is tuned to a station playing traditional bouzouki music. Strings of worry beads hang from the rear-view mirror and there are pictures of his children in brass frames stuck to the dashboard, either side of an icon.
‘At least the rain will cool things off.’ He sounds jolly. The wipers only just clear a view of the road with each swish, and he drives slowly. The spray from the wheels raises like a bow wave, parting the water that has turned the road into a river. The storm drains they pass are banked up with leaves, creating a swirl in the flow but not clearing the deluge. The noise of the rain on the taxi roof is tremendous.
‘Happens every year.’ The taxi driver’s eyebrows rise and lower in animation. ‘They put off clearing the drains and then rain washes down from the surrounding hills and they wonder why the whole of Athens comes to a standstill.’ He slows down to take a corner where the water is crashing against the curb. ‘All right for us taxis though, being diesel, the only cars that will keep going when the water gets this high.’ He pauses his talk to light a cigarette. ‘You must be going somewhere important to be out in this?’ He glances at Theo.
Theo is in no mood to hear his own voice. He grunts an unintelligible answer. He is glad his bad eye cannot be seen by the driver or else that would open up a whole line of questions he is not in the mood to discuss.
‘Look, there’s another poor sod stuck.’ The taxi steers around a stationary car in the middle of the road, the bonnet up, the driver with his coat over his head while staring into the workings.
The driver takes the corner into the bar’s road gently.
‘Here’ll do,’ Theo growls.
The street has been washed clean of serviettes, beer cans, and cigarette ends. Braving the rain in his damp shirt, he begins to open the shutters. Until now, it hasn’t occurred to him to wonder whether anyone will venture out to the bars in this downpour, but having made the journey himself, it suddenly seems very unlikely there will be any customers. None of the staff are there, and there is no activity in any of the adjacent bars. The only sign of life is an old car driving very slowly down the street. It pulls up alongside Theo. The window rolls down and the driver calls out to him through the downpour. It’s Dimitri.
‘Close up again. No one will come out in this.’ The car drives away, the water from the wheels creating arches of spray on either side.
Theo lets the shutter in his hand bang shut. His immediate thought is of the money he will lose if the bar doesn’t open and he doesn’t work tonight. But as his stash of money is growing and his outgoings are modest, it will not make a difference.
A night off, he can’t remember when he last had a night off, and suddenly the thought makes him feel tired. He is used to working long hours and days on end—the kafeneio opens every day, but the work here is draining in a way that serving at the kafeneio is not, even though the hours are no longer. It is Athens that is draining, the grime and sleaze of the bar. He fixes his mind on the money under the stairs and makes for the main road to hail a taxi home. By the time he gets to the corner, he is soaked to the skin and the taxis that pass are taken, their tail lights reflecting dully off the surface water. He is halfway home by the time one stops and lets him in. Theo is grateful that at least the weather is still reasonably warm.
As evening draws in, the air has a chill in it and Theo wishes he had wood for the fire, or a television—something to offer some comfort, companionship. The flat suddenly seems very large and empty. Closing the balcony window, he sits on the sofa, huddled up next to the empty grate with a sheet around him. His clothes drip into the bath and the rain continues to drum on the windows.
The monkey puzzle tree turns black against the yellowing sky and Theo falls asleep where he is.
When he wakes, he has a stiff neck and he stretches. The sun is lighting up the windows in the house opposite and the monkey puzzle tree is once again green, the sky blue.
His clothes are still damp, but half an hour over the railing of the metal stairs at the back, where the sun hits in the morning, will see them dry. He unlocks the back door but hesitates to open it. Margarita’s mama is out the back, shouting.
‘You must have left it open or he would not have gone.’
‘Well, we didn’t,’ Aikaterina’s tone is sharp, indignant.
‘Don’t you raise your tone to me,’ the old woman shrieks.
‘Well, don’t accuse us. He has probably been stolen.’
‘Stolen, are you of sound mind? Who would steal a dog?’ The woman’s tone is derisive.
‘Who? I don’t know who, but they do. They steal them and then sell them to other people in another part of the city,’ Aikaterina shouts.
‘Who? Who would do such a thing?’ The old woman’s voice quivers.
‘Gypsies. Poor people. I don’t know.’
Theo picks at the flaking paint around the window in the back door. It will be sad if Bob has gone.
‘You are just saying this to upset me,’ the old woman says, but the power in her voice has diminished.
‘That’s a nasty thing to say,’ Aikaterina rejoins.
‘Come, come.’ Marinos’ voice joins in, a soothing balm. ‘We will look for the dog. We can do no more.’
‘Well, you’d better.’ The old woman has fire in her words again. Her footsteps fade, a slither of thin-soled slipper.
‘Help me bring the rugs out, Marinos. The sun can air them.’ Aikaterina’s voice is soft and low. A few seconds later, she adds, ‘I miss the dog back in the village, Marinos.’
‘I know, my love. I miss him, too.’
Theo stops picking at the paint and throws his damp clothes over his bare shoulder. He’ll make a coffee before he hangs them out.
The sun streams through the window and Theo opens it, enjoying the feel of it on his face. The sweltering heat of summer has passed, and the cicadas have gone wherever they go in winter. Theo wonders if they die when summer passes. Their absence leaves a silence which is broken by the intermittent calling of the cockerel and a dull rumble of distant cars.
‘You think it will rain again?’ Marinos’ voice asks below the window.
‘For sure. Look at those clouds gathering over there. This evening for sure but maybe sooner; you remember how the clouds gather over the hill behind the church back home.’
‘Don’t think of home, my sweet. You’ll only make yourself sad.’ Marinos’ voice is so soft, Theo can only just make out the words.
‘I could not be any sadder,’ Aikaterina replies.
‘Please, my love, you must think of Marko. He is getting an Athens education.’
‘But what is that worth if he never sees his aunts and his uncles and his grandparents and his cousins and lives like a rat under a house?’ Theo hears her sniff.
‘Come, come, Aikaterina. Don’t cry.’
‘I cannot help it. Since I got sick, I no longer have the strength to be strong.’ And she starts to cry in earnest, but it turns into a cough from deep in her lungs.
Theo thinks of his own aunts and uncles and cousins, people he has known all his life. How different his world would be if just one of them were here with him to share his journey now.
The thought is soon replaced by an image of the money under the stairs, and he is glad that they are not here to witness that. Better to do this alone, at least until he is established. They would not understand. They are villagers, and he is more like an Athenian now.
He fills the briki pan with water and sets it on the stove. Taking a match, he lights the gas. Sugar, coffee, patience.
It seems to take a long time to come to the boil, and he stares, unfocussed, into the flames as he waits.
Pouring into his cup, he watches the bubbles glisten.
‘A coin for every bubble,’ Theo whispers the old wives tale and watches the larger ones pop.
Age 41 Years, 1 Month, 21 Days
With his clothes still wet, Theo stays in all morning and then falls asleep on his bed after a drawn out mid-morning snack of bread and yoghurt on the balcony. The sky is mottled with clouds, the sun bravely battling, and he has no desire to be out anyway. A damp smell of ozone hangs in the air.
He wakes, curled up on his side, to find the rain steadily streaming down the bedroom window. The job at the Diamond Rock Cafe has never filled him with joy, and what novelty there was fades as each night passes. But the thought of not going tonight fills him with dread, of the endless hours that will creep by, the time ticking so slowly in the isolation of his rooms, reminding him of the emptiness of his newly established existence. He wishes to speak to no one, but the thought of being alone is more than he can bear. Except maybe Tasia in the kafeneio, but he does not know if he can face her as he is. There is a pulse in his head, an ache in his chest. It would be a relief to think he were coming down with something, but he knows he is not.
The cupboard nearest the window in the kitchen beckons. The temptation of its promise of false solace, the amber liquid sings to him.
He twists onto his back.
There are six cracks in the white ceiling of his bedroom. Three of these radiate from the same point, and all have been painted over. Someone at some point put energy into these rooms. Lived life here, contributed.
Why has he not been back to see Eleni and Timotheos at the bakery, at least? They were easy-going people. She was glad to feed him, he was glad to reminisce. They could have been just a little company, now and again, no need to get embroiled. To visit them now would seem strange, after the weeks that have passed.
He could just say he has been busy. It’s not a lie.
But then, in this rain, their shop will not be open. Do they even live there, behind, or above? The table they ate at was marble and is probably where they knead the dough. There were no other signs of domestic life.