by Sara Alexi
He twists his head to an angle, his hair crackling with static on the nylon pillowcase. One of the cracks, from this angle, could be the outline of a woman.
He thinks of Tasia again. Her kafeneio will probably be open. The damp, dark trees framing the cavern of light in between the grey, wet buildings. The warmth inside steaming the windows. Her fresh face coming alive in a smile as he opens the door.
Baba never closes their kafeneio in the village for anything. The farmers need to know it is there, a bolt hole from family life, a male domain, a sanctuary. You cannot close a sanctuary.
She could be his sanctuary.
But if he takes a taxi in this weather, it will be hard to make it appear casual. And she might not even be there, it might only be her baba. He would have to order a cup of gritty coffee, sit trying to swallow, passing the time till he could leave so his true quest would not be obvious.
And even if she is there, could he tell her how he has been, tell her what he is doing? What could he possibly say about his black eye that would not cause alarm? If he cannot be honest with her, what is the point of going? Somehow, he has associated her more with the village than with Athens, and she now feels more like a part of his past life than of this present one. The corners of his mouth twitch downward.
He can find no joy; the world is flat, colourless and void. His breathing is shallow, his body has no life.
Swinging his legs off the bed, he touches his eye to see if it is any less tender. It is healing but still aches.
‘The truth is, Theo, you are alone, and the reason you are alone is …’ He struggles to give it a name.
His stomach turns as he ponders the nameless feeling. In the village, he never felt this way. Ever.
‘And along with this feeling, what have you got?’ He slops his feet to the hall. ‘You have two things. You drink like a fish and you have handfuls of cash. You don’t even have the guts to count it to see if your dream is achievable.’
He stands, looking down at the wooden steps. Fluff has collected in the corner where the marble floor meets the wood. It moves gently in an unfelt breeze. He can see no reason to make another move. He has nowhere to go, nothing to do. He may as well just stand there. His guts hang heavily inside him, his legs like weights, arms dangling lifelessly. If he moves, he is worried it will be to the kitchen, to the end cupboard. His gaze becomes a stare.
Even Tasia, stuck working with her baba, has a dream, an interest to cling to. A piece of land, her own olive groves, living in the country. He can see her there, combing down the olives onto a sheet laid on the floor, him up a ladder, reaching the top branches. The green-black fruit raining down to the earth, landing softly. Autumn’s gentle colours flattering her dress and hair. The sun just going down over the horizon, turning the colours soft. Across their land, her beautiful laugh ringing like a song.
Theo breaks his gaze. There is no pleasure in his dreams.
‘What is the point of dreams?’ he asks the empty apartment. The sound of the rain is the only answer. No dog barks, no one cries. Just the rain.
‘Okay.’ He stands tall and shakes his mop of hair. ‘Do it!’ he commands. ‘Just do it.’ And with these words, he kicks the bottom step open and draws out all the money.
After the first few days as manager, the need to skim a third of the takings started to become a chore. Just another task to accomplish each day. But a dirty chore, one that he almost resented. One he had no pride in. What kept him going was the vague notion of running his own bar, but it is not something he really wants—rather, it is a lie to keep him going, give meaning to his days, give a sense of purpose. It will take time to save enough for his own bar. But he has no idea how long, has not made any real calculations or estimates. He doesn’t really want to know how long it will be. How long he will be living in such a dark place. Best to just keep going, day by day with no thoughts.
In the small hours of the morning, after a long night of stale smoke, dim, grim half-light, loud, grinding aggressive music, dirty glasses and ripping off customers with fake Black Label, vodka, and Drambuie, the stash started to grow its own personality. Some days, it stared back at him, offering meaning to the endless lonely days, the promise of an end to his present life, the hope of a different future. Other days, it accused him, letting him know that no matter who he was dealing with in the bar, no matter what the level of the morals around him was, taking the money was plainly and simply stealing.
But without it, he will always be just a bar man, consigned to the company of the people the bar attracts—the confirmed old drunks, the cocky young men they once were, and the hard-faced girls with their tight skirts and slack morals. He will make no mark in life otherwise, but instead will be just another of the faceless masses in Athens, a victim of the city.
But on the worst of the bad nights, after his tumbler has been filled and drained and filled again on the low shelf behind the bar, out of sight, the cash that he stuffed into his pockets would mock him, taunting, daring him to count the years ahead of him that would be spent here, serving people he was beginning to despise, before there would be enough to fulfil his dream. This was the thought that stopped him from counting, that made not knowing better than knowing. Whether the dream really was something he desired was another thought altogether, and one that he would not contemplate, at least not yet. But, today, now, with the cut on his eye still throbbing and his loneliness eating him inside, the bottle of whiskey calling him, his torment demands action.
Shuffling the money into stacks, he sits on the bottom step to count it, building the piles up in neat round numbers, putting off knowing the total. Some of the notes have blood on them and he twice loses count, wondering if they will still be legal tender and whether he can wash them. Finally, he is surrounded by a circle of paper towers, and he sits up and points to each in turn, adding up as he goes until he has a final figure.
It is a great deal of money to have lying about the house.
But it is not even vaguely close to the amount he would need to acquire a bar of his own, based on prices he has seen in the paper.
‘There you have it, Theo. Enough to give you trouble, maybe get your legs broken, but not enough to give you independence.’ Fear creeps upon him to mix with the disappointment and frustration. Dimitri in his long black coat, bat in hand, down a dark, wet alley. Jimmy behind him, his crutches glinting in the moonlight, laughing and patting the arm of the empty wheelchair next to him. Waiting.
Theo takes a deep breath.
He tells himself he has grown crafty and cunning, more than Jimmy ever was. There will be no wheelchair for him.
He has bought a money belt, so his pockets no longer bulge. He makes the day’s take vary so Dimitri never knows what to expect, and he keeps the girls on longer than Jimmy did, but not long enough so that they can get wise. And he never accuses them of stealing. Instead, he lets them go when he feels they have started to get comfortable, insisting to Dimitri that a change of face will keep the customers coming. He keeps a glass by the till marked tips in case he is ever seen pocketing money.
And he never lets his guard down, never has a full conversation with any of the girls who work with him. He cannot trust himself not to let something slip if he relaxes. So he remains alone, aloof, and it adds to the isolation he feels in Athens.
Makis looks at him with narrowed eyes, slaps him on the back every now and again, or suddenly shakes him by the hand as if to acknowledge his devious ways. Nothing specific is said, but Theo wonders what he knows, what he has seen, and he hates this more than anything.
Without Makis’ awakening, he could pretend nothing was happening. Makis’ behaviour draws his actions to his own attention. Theo tries to name the feeling, the nameless weight that permeates his limbs, that these days draws him back to the tumbler of relief. A word comes.
‘Shame.’ He finds the name and says it out loud, without energy, without emotion. His head drops to his chest. All his energy leaves him. He stares at the lifeless piles o
f paper, some signed in his own blood, and his mind becomes blank.
Her crying slowly seeps in past his self-mortification. At first, it is a low murmur, and soon it builds to heart-tearing sobs. Here in the hall, he is directly over their room, the murmurs almost words here, the sounds more clear. Theo stands in anger, he does not need her self-pitying on top of his own worries. He raises his foot to stamp on the floor, shut her up. But his foot remains in mid-air. Marinos’ voice, a patient balm of honey-drenched words, seeps over her tears. Marinos is a proud man. He may live under a house like a rat and wear a suit that has been given to him, but he has no reason to be ashamed. His daily mission to soothe his wife and support his son keeps his head held high.
Theo tries to remember the last time he did something kind without an ulterior motive. His foot lowers gently to the ground. Was it the tip he left Tasia? The advice he gave Mitsos about Manolis’ fishing plans? Filling Bob’s bowl from the tap?
A wheezing sound from the back of his throat mimics laughter. If those were his last acts of kindness, no wonder he is miserable. He deserves nothing better.
Marinos’ muffled words are not doing the job today, and Aikaterina’s sobs keep coming.
Maybe he should start afresh. Skim off less and less from the Diamond Rock Cafe over the next week or so and then quit, let them find a new manager. The thought of this brings relief, and distances him from Jimmy.
And then what? The summer is ending; there will be no work on offer down at the beach bars. And besides, he would just be working for another boss, tossing bottles for another man’s pocket. Where is the future in that?
At least he should be kind. He can start being kind to the girls he works with. That will do no harm. And stop drinking. That is not helping. Then, maybe, he can look people who matter in the eye.
Aikaterina sounds uncontrollable. Marinos is talking fast and louder, but even he is crying now.
Theo looks at the money. If it is not enough to get his own bar, there is no point in having it. He could fill his rooms with things, comforts, stuff, but where is the joy in that?
He wanders back into his bedroom and opens the window to smell the rain, the leaves on the trees shiny with the wet, dipping to the rhythm of the raindrops. Aikaterina’s sodden rugs hang heavy over the fence, their colours darkened. The concrete floor in the rooms below will be cold with no carpet down. In this damp weather, it must be a miserable hole to be in.
Margarita’s mama comes splashing round the corner with an umbrella held high, her free arm pumping, a sour expression on her face.
‘Shut that racket up, you hear me, no one wants to hear your troubles. Shut up.’ She bangs on the door.
Theo’s eyebrows raise, pulling on the cut over his eye, and he winces, dropping back into his room, out of sight. He tenderly touches his brow and looks at his fingers. No blood. That’s good.
The old lady bangs on the door again. ‘Do you hear me? Shut up your self-pitying racket.’
What does this woman know about suffering, living in her own house and playing queen over these people, the rent money rolling in each week to live on? The gas under his anger ignites.
‘Shut up, else you are out.’ she screams.
Theo stands tall and leans out of his window, his mouth open to give this woman a piece of his mind. But Marinos has opened the door.
‘We have news. Her mother is unwell.’ He says it politely but firmly, drawing a line.
‘Is that my problem?’ The old lady huffs.
‘She would like to go to her.’
‘Well, whatever it is she wants, tell her to do it quietly.’ The old lady starts her shuffle through the puddles to her own home. ‘If I hear any more, you are out,’ she calls as she turns the corner, but there is no great power in the threat; she is playing the role of a bully.
An energy rises in Theo’s chest. He struggles to contain his emotion, which is powerful, beyond his control, compelling him to act. He slams the window closed, muttering ‘witch’ several times under his breath as he gathers himself together, yanking on clothes, forcing on shoes.
Before he knows it, he is down the steps, two at a time. ‘Nasty old hag.’ His rage energises him, lifts him.
But he does not turn right to bang on the old nag’s door. He turns left, splashes around the corner.
Marinos’ door is shut.
He bangs on it as loudly as the old lady did.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ Marinos says from behind the door, but in a resigned voice, without malice. ‘I am really sorry …’ he starts, but stops abruptly when he sees Theo. ‘Oh, Mr Theo. I am so sorry. I hope we have not disturbed you. Ah, you have cut your eye. Can I help?’
‘Disturbed is the right word,’ Theo snaps, his rage seeping into his words.
‘You are getting wet. Come in, come in. Aikaterina will see to your eye.’
Theo ducks down the corridor to the one room. Marinos’ wife is sitting with her feet tucked up on the bed, wiping away tears with her skirt. She mutters, ‘Sorry,’ as he enters.
Marinos squeezes past Theo and takes the bedding off the chair and bundles it on the bed.
‘Please sit,’ Marinos encourages. ‘We are so very sorry if you have been disturbed. But my wife …’
‘Yes, I heard. Your Mama is unwell.’ It starts fresh tears but they fall silently. She does not look at him.
‘As you can imagine, she wants to go to her; so does Markos. If we could afford to go, we would have gone already, but I get a day’s labour, maybe two, and the old woman demands me back the day after. She makes it impossible to hold a steady job, make a living.’ He colours, bites on his top lip, and looks at the boards on the bed. Crockery on one. A nearly empty tin of Greek coffee, a packet of sugar, and an onion on the other. Three toy cars lined up in between the two, one with a wheel missing.
‘Can I offer you a coffee?’ Marinos reaches down between Theo’s legs. He shifts them to the side quickly. Marinos takes the pan from under his seat.
‘No. No coffee, thank you.’
There is a pause which no one knows how to fill.
‘Here.’ Theo stands and takes a paper bag out of his pocket. It is one of the bags the bakery uses, that his bread came in yesterday, and he tosses it on the bed. ‘I must go.’ He stands to push past Marinos.
‘Mr Theo, it is very kind of you, but we cannot take your food.’
Marinos’ goodness, his decency, makes Theo feel even worse about himself.
‘Let me by, please.’ He waits for Marinos to move. Marinos picks up the paper bag from the bed.
‘Mr Theo,’ he begins, but as his fingers explore the packet, a frown crosses his forehead. ‘Mr Theo?’ But Theo hurries down the corridor, out into the open air. He runs to his steps and climbs them faster than he descended them, slamming his door behind him.
Sitting on the top step in his hall, he does not feel as he imagined he would. If anything, he feels worse. Below, he can hear excited whispers and then Marinos says something and Aikaterina laughs. Her laugh is the sound of pure relief, a laugh that is much younger than she looks.
Theo nods. He did the right thing. He pushes the remainder of his money—the majority—back into its place and closes the wooden front. His tears fall silently. The laughter below continues and then a door bangs, quick feet down the path and silence.
Half an hour later, Theo carves some bread and slices some tomatoes. With his rough meal in his hands, ready to eat, he is interrupted by an insistent tapping at the front door. He reluctantly puts down his food, brushes his hands together, and then down his shirt. The clock on the kitchen wall tells him it is not long before mesimeri, siesta time, when people sleep in the heat of the afternoon, and an unusual time to be knocking on anyone’s door.
Chapter 16
Age 41 Years, 1 Month, 22 Days
Markos flings himself enthusiastically at Theo’s legs and grips him in a bear hug, and it is all that Theo can do to remain standing. The boy looks up at him with such
light in his eyes, Theo cannot help but smile.
‘Mr Theo, you are a very good man,’ he says in a voice with none of the regional bias of his parents.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Mr Theo, you are a very good man.’ Aikaterina stands in his doorway with her hair combed, wearing clothes that are almost smart and that reveal she has a waist. It was her persistent tapping that roused him and made him open his door against his will, allowing Markos to shoot in like a rabbit and unselfconsciously attach himself to Theo’s legs.
‘Mr Theo.’ Marinos holds out his hand to shake. Theo cannot refuse and after they have shaken, Theo offers his hand to Aikaterina, who takes it tentatively. Her hand is rough and calloused, and Theo grips it warmly.
‘We have brought some beer. We will not waste what you have so kindly given us, but we wanted to make a gesture to thank you.’ Marinos’ voice gains strength as he speaks.
‘And cards,’ Markos adds. He releases his bear hug and takes a pack of dog-eared cars from his pocket. ‘We always celebrate with cards.’
‘Really, this is not necessary,’ Theo protests.
‘Is it not? So we are to go home and tell our village of your kindness and then tell them we did nothing to thank you? Mr Theo, you know this is not possible.’ Marinos takes a bottle opener from his pocket and hands Theo a beer. Markos is dealing cards on the table on the balcony.
‘And of course, we will repay you as soon as we can, every drachma.’
‘You know what I think? I think Mr Theo is scared you will beat him, Markos.’ Aikaterina laughs, sounding and looking carefree and younger.
Markos’ head jerks up from his dealing, wide eyed, but relaxes into a grin when he sees his mother is laughing. The humour is gentle, reminiscent of the village.
The tension in Theo’s face and neck, a response to this early-morning intrusion, begins to relax. He lets his head drop back and with his eyes closed, he gives a little laugh. Twice, he has felt like he belonged in this city. The first time was when he was at Helena and Timotheos’ with their island accents and their good food, and this very moment is the second time with this family’s Northern drawl and easy humour. It’s been a long way to travel to feel that he is back at home.