by Tobias Hill
The tears were wet on Nessie’s face. The thread in her lips was coming loose. Her mouth moved against its ligatures.
He shook his dream-head at her. His daughter was trying to tell him something. She lay as she always did in sleep, one hand curled in her hair. Her mother’s arms held her away from him. He leaned down to make out her words. The crude threads brushed against his ear. Her hand crept into his like a thing seeking shelter.
You haven’t gone wrong, Ben. You haven’t left us. One day you will, she said, and her voice was not her own. But not yet.
He began to count the time in shifts. His world narrowed to that of the kitchen and the front of house. The raised forestage and the treacherous step. The flare of incendiary fat. The thutter and blurt of meat. The steel pans gilded with oil. The fish as green as celadon, as dull-bright as lead, as pink as grazed flesh. The rare laughter of the Albanians. A gallon jar of cucumbers, broken in the kitchen yard, the pickles shrivelled in the sun like the cadavers of lizards. The neat sheaves of scallions. White tiles grooved with chicken blood. The gutters full of guts. The drunks crowing in the street beyond, the whole dark night their oyster.
When he had arrived at the grill Nikos had been skiing with friends in the mountains. It was a while before Ben met him. His father was a heavy man, lazily pugnacious in the old photos above the bar, mellowed and gone to fat after decades in the business. Nikos was different. He was clever, the first of the family to go to a top-notch university. He had a busy look, his eyes never settling long. He was lean as tenderloin. He did not drink. He enjoyed hash, Ben observed, and sex, if he was to be believed. Occasionally he would come back to the grill with a girl in tow, but he was unkind to them, with a coldness Ben hated, and perfunctory with his cousins, Demi and Chara. He exercised at an international hotel gym near Constitution Square where he could meet foreign women. He carried no apparent trace of muscle. Kostandin said he was stronger than he looked, and said it as if he knew it.
Once, while Kostandin was teaching him how to gut squid–drawing the calyx from each soft body like a glass pen from a well of ink–the Albanian told him a story of Nikos. When he was seventeen, the boy had gone to watch a football match with friends, and afterwards had been caught up in a fight with three Englishmen. He had not been hurt, but a friend had taken a cut to the hand, which required stitches.
Somehow, by the evening, Nikos had discovered where the men were staying. He had gone to the hotel alone. The men had been in the restaurant. It went without saying (Kostandin said) that they were drunk as rags. Nikos had walked up to their table and had congratulated them on the victory of their team. He had taken a pair of bikers’ gauntlets out of the bag he carried, and still smiling, had put them on: then he had reached into the bag again and had taken out a motorcycle chain. He had flogged the nearest man with the chain. In trying to defend himself the man’s hand had been partially severed. He had almost died from the loss of blood.
It had taken a number of people to drag Nikos off. The man had taken out a civil suit which the Adamidis family had settled privately. Nikos himself had been released from prison a week before his eighteenth birthday, a model first offender with time reduced for good behaviour.
In summer, by his own account, he would cruise the city for female tourists, who were always eager to ride first his Honda and then Nikos himself. In winter, though, the fishing seemed poor. More often than not he would come back to Metamorphosis before midnight, pallid and sullen, to eat what little he wished for, to stare at his father’s foreign workers, sometimes to talk with them.
–So you’re an Englishman?
–Yes.
–I like Englishmen.
–Really.
–Really. You know what your grandfathers did for my grandmothers?
Saturday night, ten to nine. The evening rush about to begin. Nikos prowling by the yardside door. He was smoking–hash, always hash, never leaf–the joint held out into the clean night air. It was something he would do on the premises only if his parents were away. Occasionally he would punctuate his talk by pointing the joint into the kitchen, sometimes at the workers, sometimes at the intangible force of his own words, and the acrid spice would linger, mixing with the other smells of the place.
–You don’t know? You English are so funny. Always forgetting your own past. You freed us from the Nazis! You and the Americans too. Isn’t that great? Don’t you think I’m grateful?
–Sure you are.
Better not to talk too much, with a boy like Nikos. Better not to listen much, and to talk less.
–I’ll tell you, I’m not grateful. My grandmother is grateful–there you have your gratitude. But my grandmother is a peasant. Me, I study my history. I know what the English did firstly, for my country and secondly, to my country. You helped us and then you tried to control us. I don’t want to be rude, but we are all men here, right? So let me be plain. You told us to bend over and take it like ladyboys. You became capitalist interferers, then arselicking war criminals, no better than the Americans themselves. Oh, you earned our gratitude, but then you spent it as though it would last forever. Like the Guns and Roses song–nothing lasts forever. Right? You still walk around like we are all friends, but you only remember the good times. You forget that you gave us the Colonels. You gave us those monsters, but you don’t remember that. Do you even know what I’m talking about? You still come to see us, but you are like old idiot guests who forget the names of their hosts. And so many of you! You go sniffing around our country like dogs running after dogs. What is wrong with you all? Is England so nasty that you all come here to escape? Well, I understand, my country is beautiful, no doubt about it. All the foreigners love Greece. They all want a piece of us. They buy their little places on the islands with the pools they never use. But you English…well, I hope you don’t come expecting favours. My grandmothers already gave thanks to your grandfathers. You won’t get any victory parade out of me.
Other nights it would be the Albanians he would bait. For a long time he didn’t speak to Florent, but he would talk to Kostandin and Modest. Sometimes he would be amiable, chatting with them, picking over the last night’s sports, but he could turn on them suddenly. Kostandin held little interest for him. Modest was his favourite, Modest with the kicked-dog eyes. With him, most of all, the talk could take on a dangerous edge.
Burnt Thursday was the day of meat, the Carnival, a last excess before the seven weeks of Lent. The meat grill opened early and went on serving until first light. Mrs Adamidis worked the front of house with the girls while her husband threw himself back into the old routines of his kitchen, stripped down to an AGED TO PERFECTION T-shirt, driving the rest of them on with promises of extra cash, then when the promises were no longer believable, with cold beer and brandies and cigarettes. The next morning Ben slept until eleven, the Albanians leaving him to it. It was Chara and Demi who finally came up for him, stopping at the threshold of the men’s room to tease him down.
They were eating, the four of them, in the lull after lunch, the kitchen scrubbed and ready for the evening. There was rice, a bowl of greens, and more goat rib-chops than they could stomach. Nikos had come in early, bringing a chair and a newspaper to sit in the warm. The ovens had retained their heat all day. They had all been talking, the five of them almost at ease. When the meal was finished they cleared and made coffee. It was a quiet day, and in the afternoon there was never enough work to make the time pass.
–So, Englishman. How are you today?
Nikos was stretching his legs out by the ovens, still dressed in his bike leathers. –Not working too hard, I see. Me, I was hard at it all night. You don’t believe me? Two German girls. Both of them wanted to sleep with me, so I did my best for them.
–How did you know?
–How? Because they said so.
–They spoke Greek?
–German. German comes from the Greek, it’s no problem for me. I know what they were talking about. Some things don’t need language
. Are you making fun of me?
–No.
–That’s good. So tell me, are you married?
Already the conversation had gone on too long. He was not wearing his ring. He held up his bare hand in reply. Nikos gave a grunt of acknowledgement.
–So you are a bachelor like me. A free man, searching the world for adventure. When you set out from Ithaca, pray that the way is long, full of knowledge and adventure. You know this? Greek poetry.
–I don’t really like poetry.
–You don’t like our Greek poetry? Why do you come here, then, I wonder? No, I can guess. Your English girls, they are just like the Germans. That blonde hair is so pretty at a distance, but get up close, ouch! You find they don’t take no care of themselves. So you come to the only country where you can find real beauty. What about you? Albanian boy.
They both looked up, Modest at the washing-up sink, Florent leaning with a cigarette in the doorway to the kitchen yard. Only Kostandin went on working, his head down as he boned a rabbit. Already he was almost done with it, the last of the meat coming away in nuggets and knots.
–Yes, you. What’s your name again?
–Modest, Modest said. He was the youngest of them. Nineteen was the age he had offered Ben when they had met, but he seemed much younger.
–You’re married, I bet. You’ve got the look. To an Albanian girl?
–Yes. Modest turned back to the sink, his hands weighing dishes in the grey water. From where he stood, Ben could see him smile.
The quiet returned and held. Already it was getting dark outside. It was turning out to be a nice evening, peaceful, when Nikos wasn’t talking. A blackbird started up. If he didn’t listen too hard–if he half-closed his ears–it was almost intelligible, expectant, the syllables falling into words.
You’re late you’re late you’re late hurryup! hurryup! hurryup!
–Her name is Flutura, Modest said into the birdsong, and Ben’s heart fell.
–Is what?
–Flutura.
Nikos laughed. –My God, what the hell kind of name is that?
–It means butterfly. Kostandin spoke without looking up from his work. His voice spread the smile across Modest’s face. In the doorway, Florent laughed.
–Because she dance like a butterfly, he said, and his brother began to giggle. Florent was bigger and older than his brother. His frame blocked out the illumination from the streetlight beyond the yard.
–Well, I’m happy for you. You’re a lucky man, eh?
–Lucky. Modest nodded and shrugged. –I miss my wife.
–But it’s lucky for you that you found an Albanian girl. Lucky for her too, yes?
–Yes?
–You know why?
–No?
Even in the last daylight, Ben could see the blush creeping across Modest’s face. As if he had already been slapped down. Kostandin’s features were unreadable in the diffused shadow of the extraction fan.
–Because no woman except an Albanian would let you nuzzle between her legs. And no man except an Albanian would want to do her the service. Don’t you think so?
No one answered. After a moment Nikos began to talk about something else, the basketball, the lottery, meaningless things. In the doorway Florent stirred. Kostandin and Modest both turned to watch him. Only when he dropped his cigarette into the yard, stepping down to put it out with his foot, turning his back to the men in the kitchen, did the other Albanians look away.
–Trouble, Kostandin said. They were alone, the night’s work finished, the grill cleaned for the thousandth time, ready for the next day’s custom. They sat in the park drinking beers still cold from the chill cabinet. It had become their habit, the empty park a cure for insomnia, the small theft of beer an equalising freedom. The brothers were always asleep on their feet by the time the kitchen was scoured down, but Ben slept less readily himself, even tired to the bone. The adrenaline took time to ebb out of him. Kostandin was the same. Often they were too exhausted to talk and would do nothing but drink, side by side on the bench by the park clock tower. Some nights Ben would teach the older man English, other times Kostandin would correct his Greek.
–What did you say?
–I said, there is going to be trouble.
–Because of Nikos?
–Because of Florent! I don’t say it is easy for anyone, Kostandin said, But for him it is hard.
–Being here?
–Being here. Having to listen to foolish talk.
He dangled a Mythos in both hands. His head drooped over it. His voice was so tired that Ben was sure they must both fall asleep, one from talking, the other from listening.
–A brave man would turn the other cheek.
–Isn’t he?
He tried to picture Florent. He could imagine nothing of him but his silhouette in the kitchen door. –He seems brave.
–How would you know? No, he isn’t brave, he’s too young to be brave. He’s as bad as the crazy Greek boy.
–How do you mean?
–He got into problems at home. Modest told me. Something in their village. I don’t know what so don’t ask me. Some things are unforgivable, whatever the priests say. Whatever this thing is, it is bad enough he has to leave the village. He is the head of the family, so the family comes with him. Anyway, the old folks are dead, it is only him and two little sisters and Modest and Flutura left, it is not so hard to leave. Florent finds somewhere for them a long way from home, down near the Greek border. A new town they are building, so there is plenty of work. Then the town is finished and suddenly there is no work. So the boys come here.
He tipped the bottle back, trying to listen. His thoughts moving with narcotic slowness, the beer sweet and cool as rain.
–And what do they find here? Shit work, shit money, and a boy with no heart who wants to spill blood.
–It’s just talk. He’s just having fun, he won’t do anything.
–Just talk! If you think that then you shouldn’t talk about talk. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
–I know what I’m talking about. I have to listen to enough of it from Nikos.
Beside him Kostandin laughed and sighed in the dark.
–Listen, you don’t know. I’m not talking about Nikos. These boys are new in Athens. Where they come from no one would talk that way about a man’s wife to his face. They grew up in a village in the mountains. They are Ghegs. The Ghegs are very proud people. Up there people take care what they say about their neighbours. They don’t even talk to strangers. They know that talk is dangerous. Florent is an old-fashioned young man. He loves his family. He has looked after them, maybe not so well, it’s true. Maybe he wants to do better now. He is the eldest son. You have little brothers, sisters?
–I’m the youngest.
–That’s nice, everyone loves the youngest. So in Albania it’s a big deal to be the oldest. When the old man dies you look after the family. Kostandin tapped his chest. –I was the oldest, too, but in the cities it’s not so serious. For Florent it’s serious.
–What’s going to happen?
–I told you. Trouble.
–Does Adamidis know?
–No.
–You could tell him.
–So could you.
He looked sideways at Kostandin. Outlined in the dark, the man’s head was no longer quite human. It became that of a mule, the shape of it was so long, the bones of his cheeks and sockets so habitually mournful.
–Better to leave it. What happens happens. And afterwards they round us up and we all go home.
–Come on, it’s not that bad. Nothing’s happened yet, he said, but Kostandin shook his head, and for a while they sat in silence.
The nights were getting warmer. Through the clouds and the haze he could make out the moon and a scattering of stars. A plane crawled between them. He tried to imagine himself back into that distance, but it seemed as remote as England itself. Beside him Kostandin hawked and spat.
–What time
does it say up there?
He looked from the sky to the stack of the clocktower. –Past three.
–Late.
–You want to go back?
–Not really.
–Maybe we could find somewhere else to drink.
–Maybe. We have no money.
–That’s true.
Silence again.
–Maybe I’ll go home anyway. You should come. There’s a bus to Vlora tomorrow. The beer is cheaper. You can go dig holes in Apollonia. Find some treasure. What keeps you here?
Nothing, he thought numbly, and said finally, –Nothing.
–Nothing. Maybe the Greek boy will learn when to stop talking, Kostandin said, and stood up to go.
He thought of the times Emine had cooked for him, as he now cooked for strangers. She had not done so often. She had a generous spirit, but in that she had always held back a part of herself; a talent. It was something she had chosen to distrust before they had ever met: she had made up her mind that cooking for a man would be offensive to her. Her mother had cooked for her father for years, she had told him once, and look, they had hated one another anyway, so what was the point?
Better to learn something useful, she had said. Like how to earn our daily bread in the first place. And kissed him, to draw out the sting.
She had kept her ability to herself, as if it were a weakness. Only once had she let it show before they moved in together. He had been staying at her place, and his brother had come to visit. She had never met his family and had been anxious to impress. She had made coq au vin, the real thing, hunting down a cockerel through an enamoured butcher at the Covered Market, working on it all through one afternoon.
He had helped her peel away the wrappings of bloodied newspaper. The cockerel had been an ugly thing, red-crested, with a great pale bloom of chest and massive scarred claws, black-scaled, reptilian, made for fighting as much as digging. Its blood, heart and liver had been set aside for Emine in a canopic polystyrene cup. He had not liked the look of the claws, but the final meal had been so good he had been speechless, and Ted had laughed at them both.