by Sara Alexi
Aikaterina knocks her bottle of beer against his.
‘Yia mas!’ she cries.
‘Yia sas,’ Marinos hastens to knock bottles with Theo, drinking to his health alone.
‘Yia mas,’ Theo corrects, drinking to everyone’s health.
Markos pulls on his father’s baggy pinstriped jacket. Marinos ruffles his hair.
‘The boy’s keen to play.’
Theo lifts the table inside so they can use the sofa as well as the chair, and Markos perches on the raised hearth of the fireplace. The game begins seriously enough but soon dissolves in a fit of giggles as Aikaterina cheats, but blatantly, so the boy can catch her out.
When the beers have gone, Theo retrieves his bottle of whiskey. Aikaterina goes for glasses and a dish of olives. They drink and they play some more, but no one gets drunk. As Aikaterina and Marinos relax, they confide to Theo that they originally came down from the village because Aikaterina needed a minor operation.
‘Nothing immediately serious or urgent, but the doctor in the village said we must not ignore it, and he recommended a specialist here, in Athens.’
They gathered together enough money for the journey, but at the first appointment the doctor demanded a fakelo before he would do the surgery.
‘As if they are not paid enough,’ Theo agrees.
Marinos shrugs. ‘Where would we find that kind of money?’
‘They have no compassion; he said no fakelo, no operation. So we used the money for our return journey to look around, thinking we would stay and earn the money we needed,’ Aikaterina explains, as if her pride depends on Theo’s understanding.
‘When we were offered this place for free, we thought it was a gift from God,’ Marinos adds sadly.
‘So you see, Mr Theo, you have made it possible not only for us to return home, but also for the operation. You see what a good man you are?’
‘It shows more what bad men the doctors are.’
After a while, Markos yawns and Aikaterina declares he needs his siesta. Theo sees them out. They all shake hands, but just as he is closing the door, Aikaterina hugs him and whispers in his ear.
‘We will leave for the hospital as soon as we can, and from there, we will go straight back home. We will always be indebted to your goodness. And we will pay you back.’ She kisses him on both cheeks as he protests that the money is a gift and there is no need.
The room feels—for once—full of life, even after they have gone. They have left the cards scattered across the table, a few on the floor and a couple just sticking out from under the sofa cushion where Aikaterina was hiding them. The glasses she brought up from her own house are lined up on the mantelpiece. She will not be needing them now. Beer bottles are lined up on the floor.
Theo feels like his old self.
Evening approaches, but Theo can find no incentive to go to work, he feels like a changed man, his old self. It will spoil his joy, change his mood to go to the bar. But he has not sunk so low that he would leave without giving Dimitri warning, so he finds himself walking the streets to work, looking at the sky and wondering if they have seen the last of the rain for the time being. This evening, he has a bounce in his step. Tomorrow, he decides, he will go to see Tasia, declare that his thoughts are never far from her, officially ask to court her.
As he opens up, one of the shutters falls off; the hinge has rusted. He lays it alongside the building, making a mental note to tell Dimitri. The acrid smell of stale smoke hits him afresh every day. Opening all the windows does not seem to help.
He pours a whole bottle of bleach under the floor where the keg swills in slops behind the small bar, but it makes little difference. If anything, he has just added to the pungency.
The usual customers arrive in their usual order.
The first couple of hours before Makis arrives to turn on the music are always more pleasant. Phaedon comes in quite early and sits at the main bar, by the till.
‘How are you doing, Theo?’ he asks.
‘Good, you?’
‘I have a problem. Get me a whiskey and one for yourself.’
Theo takes two glasses but puts one back.
‘There you go. I’ll not have one just now.’ Theo takes the money and gives the change.
Phaedon raises one eyebrow and takes a sip, smacking his lips together as it goes down.
‘So what’s your problem?’ Theo picks up a tea towel and starts drying glasses, amused by the situation. The bartenders in films are always pictured drying glasses, listening to tales of woe.
‘You’re a village boy, right?’ Phaedon asks.
‘Yes. you?’ Theo thinks of Tasia. Should he go with flowers and state his intention boldly?
‘Yes, me too. From Evia originally. I have six brothers. Second youngest, knew my place, learnt the hard way.’
Maybe he should ask her baba if he can court her. It sounds old-fashioned, but he seems like an old-fashioned man.
‘Tell me, Theo. What do you think of Dimitri?’
‘Dimitri? He’s the boss. You want another?’
Phaedon pushes his glass across. ‘Yes, he is the boss, but what sort of man do you think he is?’
Theo pours. ‘I don’t think it’s my place …’
‘Cut the crap, Theo. What do you think of him?’
Theo tries to assess Phaedon. Dimitri has left clear instructions not to charge him, but he insists on paying. Could he be the police? It doesn’t quite fit.
‘Why do you want to know?’ A regular has come in. Theo draws him a beer, exchanges it for money, and it all goes in the till. A decision has been made, to increase the take, day by day, until he no longer has to lie and steal.
‘I think the best way to judge a man is to see how he treats the people in a lower social position than his own. So for a boss, that is his workers. So how do you find him?’
‘I don’t feel I know him at all. He deals with business and that’s it.’ It seems safe enough to state facts; no one can argue with those. His opinion, on the other hand, is far more inflammatory. And in his present frame of mind, the last thing he wants to focus on is Dimitri, the bar, or anything to do with it.
‘And your opinion?’ Phaedon insists.
The simplest way to sum up Dimitri would be to call him a bully. A dishonest bully, conning people with his cheap liquor, and a thug, judging by Jimmy’s treatment. But then he also seems to be paying Makis after he himself was threatened, so presumably there is a hierarchy in the shady world he occupies. Strictly from a business point of view, he keeps the bar running and turns over a reasonable profit, so perhaps he can be described as a good businessman, although Theo would hesitate to go that far.
The bottom line is he is he has rogue written through him to his core. He is sleazy and untrustworthy.
‘Runs the place all right. We all get paid.’
‘Theo, you are in a position to put him in a good place for a while, or you can pull the rug out from under his feet.’
They gaze long and hard at each other.
‘Who are you?’ Theo asks.
‘Sensible question. I own this place. Dimitri is my tenant.’
Theo’s jaw drops open and he pauses, a glass in one hand, cloth in the other.
‘You can close your mouth. His tenancy is coming up for renewal, and I have heard a few things that don’t thrill me. You remember poor Jimmy? He was not a bad boy. Anyway, I wanted an honest opinion.’
It has never occurred to Theo that these bars are rented. Dimitri is paying the rent and does not notice he is only getting two-thirds of the takings. When Jimmy was manger, he was, presumably, making a profit on half. One quiet word from Theo and Dimitri could be out, leaving the place open for someone new to come in.
Phaedon remains seated by the till, but the whole of the interior of the bar starts to take on a lighter hue; the walls and ceiling become white. Ribbons are strung from a central glitter ball across to the bars and the music is subtle, playing gently in the background.
The mob turn into a cultured crowd, chatting politely, sipping from tall glasses. With the money he would make running this place, he would furnish his flat with real furniture, bought from a shop, have Tasia and her family over to dinner. He could buy a car, drive to the village on the weekends. He would go into work early in the evening to make sure everything was alright and turn up at the end for the takings and to pay everyone. In the new bar, there are no leather jackets in sight, the girls wear shimmering satin flares in bright colours, and Damianos strides in, arm in arm with Mitsos, to drink his health. Suspended in a net up in the ceiling, a thousand balloons ready to fall. All he has to do is tell the truth about Dimitri and the bar could be his.
The balloons above fade into a high ceiling, the white walls take on a cream hue, the floor fills with circular tables, and Phaedon become his own baba, giving him orders. The DJ console has become the stove, and the only music playing is the noise of the village life. The bar is no different to the kafeneio, just a change of location and fewer people he knows. Fewer people who care about him.
‘… if it’s not too much trouble.’ Phaedon pushes his glass at him.
‘Oh sorry. Yes.’ Theo pours a refill.
Chapter 17
Age 41 Years, 1 Month, 23 Days
The next morning, the sky is a bright blue, the birds are singing in the trees, the little girl in the new house opposite is running about on the balcony, squealing her happy sounds. Theo spares a thought for Bob the dog. He misses his bark and hopes that he is with new owners who care for him.
The sun caresses through the spiky branches of the monkey puzzle tree as he sits on his balcony. The pines hiss a little melody in their very top branches. His morning coffee is perfect.
‘Palyatzis, palyatzis,’ A plaintive cry rings through the street. It’s a Gypsy, collecting scrap metal, old clothes, anything that can be sold on in the flea market in the centre of Athens. His horse’s hooves clop slowly as it pulls the cart. Theo wonders if they come around before dawn, making choice pickings from all that is thrown out.
He blows across the coffee to cool it a little.
‘Palyatzis.’ The call is louder now, the sounds of the horse’s hooves at the end of the lane.
It is early yet, but soon he will set out to visit Tasia, buy a new shirt on the way, take flowers. Be open and honest. Court her.
‘You can take this lot.’ The harsh tones of Maragrita’s mama cuts through the beauty of the morning.
The rag and bone man calls to his horse and pulls gently on the reins. In his cart, he has the base of an iron bed and a metal bath with a hole in the bottom.
‘What do you have, lady?’ His clean white shirt highlights his dark colouring.
‘Everything those ungrateful peasants left behind.’ Her shrill voice cracks the still air.
‘Funny feeling in the air today, don’t you think?’ the Gypsy observes, stretching.
‘Funny people is what I think. You give them everything, a house for free, and they are still not grateful. Wanted to go home, back to their peasant ways. But how did they afford it, that’s what I would like to know?’
The Gypsy sniffs the air. ‘There’s something,’ he says.
‘Stole it. That’s what I think. How else would they suddenly have enough to just get up and leave? One minute, stealing dog food to eat and the next travelling right across Greece. Maybe it was them that stole my dog and sold it.’ She stops to take a breath as if the thought is a new one.
The pine trees creak louder.
‘Definitely something in the air,’ the Gypsy repeats. ‘Right, what do you want me to take?’
‘Here, I’ll show you. Ungrateful dog-stealing peasants,’ she mutters as she walks, their footsteps fading around the corner.
A flash of colour and the Gypsy queen next door is on the roof, a basket of washing on her hip, today she has three children following her and at the back of the line, the baby—who is now almost independent. How can she have so many children all so young? Even if she has one every nine months, and if that is the case, then why is she not pregnant now? Or maybe she is.
‘Good morning. How are you?’ Theo has not felt this social for weeks.
She smiles her reply.
‘Great day to hang your washing. Not a cloud in the sky today.’ Theo looks up.
The Gypsy looks up, but she returns his gaze with a frown.
‘You think it will rain?’ Theo asks, surprised.
He puts his coffee down, but the table rocks. He steadies it. It keeps rocking. He suddenly feels dizzy and grips the arm of his chair to stand. His legs are like jelly. The Gypsy girl looks at him, wide eyes. The children scream. Theo widens his stance.
‘Earthquake!’ he shouts.
The Gypsy has fallen. The three children shriek. The baby cries. Someone over the road yells. The horse whinnies and rears, its harness jangling.
The whole balcony becomes liquid, but Theo’s eyes are on the children. The building they are on is vibrating; the cracks in the roof visibly widen. The Gypsy woman on the floor is trying to stand.
Theo grips the balcony railing, inches along towards them. The Gypsy’s eyes are wide, staring. The children are still screaming, the baby crying. A man’s gruff voice comes from somewhere, and a screech from below. He glimpses Margarita’s mama in the shade of the monkey puzzle tree. The Gypsy man is running to his horse. Theo climbs the balcony railing.
‘No!’ the Gypsy queen shouts at him. The children beckon him with wide, streaming eyes. Their opens mouths scream. The sound of terror. He edges on the outside of the railing. Closer to the flat roof, the horror stricken children. The handrail buckles, a shrill screech of grinding metal as it rasps free from the pillars. There is no choice. Theo leaps as the railing breaks loose. His hair flying behind him. Wind rushing into his face. Fearing he will fall short. Eyes squeezed closed. His hand hits first, elbows buckling. Chin and chest smear against concrete. He lands prone, his feet over the edge. The flat roof of the old house is shaking alarmingly.
His eyes open face to face with the Gypsy. Time slows. He notices with perfect clarity that a quarter of one of her irises is green, her lips a perfect bow.
‘The children,’ she bawls. Theo is up on his knees but stands, only to fall. He tries again. Grabs the queen by her arm. Hauls her to the top of the spiral staircase. Puts her hand on the handrail and pushes her. They must get off this roof. The house will collapse.
The children grab at his trouser legs. He lifts the baby, but the tremors gather momentum and he can no longer stand. Sitting at the top of the steps, he grasps the infant to his chest. The children he urges down in front of him, shuffling one step at a time. He wraps their tiny fingers around the uprights, shouts at them to hold on. They need to hurry. The place is collapsing, kicking up clouds of brick dust. One child reaches the bottom.
‘The road. Run for the road,’ Theo commands. Two of the children disappear into the dark. The staircase enters the house at the back through a tiny courtyard cluttered with a tin bath, plant pots, and brooms. One child sits in shock, hysterical.
Theo grabs this child, mounts him on his hip, arm around him to keep him there. Inside the house is lightless. He scrabbles his way past unseen furniture. Dust clogs his breathing, drying his eyes. He heads for the strip of light, hoping it will bring him to the alley, the road.
The street is full of people clinging to each other. Some praying, some crying, most standing, looking dazed. The horse is still shying, rearing, the Gypsy rag and bone man trying to keep control, struggling to stop it bolting with the scrap metal cart. A big man lies in the road, the Gypsy queen pulling at him.
‘Get up,’ she shouts, and the man groans. Theo pushes the children toward her.
‘Mama,’ the Gypsy girl shouts above the wailing crowd and whining horse, the whites of her eyes growing large.
‘Where?’ Theo asks. She points to the hovel. Bits of the roof edge are falling to the ground. Dust plumes out the window. Theo cannot tell
if the earthquake has stopped or not. The building is moving, but it could just be collapsing. His legs still feel like jelly. Adrenaline surges through this body.
Theo turns to run to the house.
‘Don’t be a fool!’ Margarita’s mama’s voice scolds over the sound of the horse’s whinnying. The Gypsy gripping its bridle. A baby cries. A child shrieks.
Theo runs, pauses at the door, but there is no light. Into the dark he stumbles, where the air is thick with brick dust. He kicks something hard, steps on it, over it.
‘Mama,’ he calls. What else should he call?
A creak of wood, dust sprinkles onto his hair. Silence. The earthquake has stopped, but the building still groans.
‘Mama.’ He hears a rustle and with his hand on the wall, he makes slow progress through the doorway. A squeak, and a rat runs over his feet. Hopping and kicking, he feels through the door. A moan.
‘Mama?’ He feels his way, trying to pinpoint the sounds and comes up against a mound of something soft. Clothes. Another mound. This one is warm, and it coughs. Feeling her shape, Theo lifts the lady and hurries to leave. The old lady shouts something, but her tongue is foreign to him. Roma, the language of the Gypsies.
The dust falls more rapidly. The creaking of wood increases. Theo staggers to the door into the daylight. Someone runs to help him. The rag and bone man takes the old lady from his arms. The Gypsy queen thanks him over and over. The man she was pulling at sits dazed in the road, blood running from a cut in his hair, a line of children behind him, wide-eyed.
Theo turns his head just in time to see the roof of the hovel slip sideways, and the whole building crashes down into the alley. A cloud of dust rises from the rubble and the people in the street cough and turn away. The old Gypsy woman repeats her Roma words.
‘Was there someone left?’ Theo asks, his voice loud.