by Sara Alexi
“Wow, he sounds like a treasure.”
“He also seems like a pretty nice guy too. Quiet, a bit shy perhaps, compassionate, but he has his pride, sometimes too much.”
“I like men that are proud, a little bit arrogant, that whole masculine, caveman thing. So is anything brewing or can I come over and grab him for myself?”
“He’s an illegal Pakistani immigrant.”
“So?”
“So he is married.”
“Ahh, so if he wasn’t married, would anything be brewing?”
“Michelle, sometimes you think the whole world thinks like you.”
“Let me get this straight. You have a strong, determined guy who gets on with life, who, even though he does your house work without being asked, maintains his pride, and you don’t know if something would be brewing if he wasn’t married. I must deduce you have heatstroke, Juliet.”
“He is shorter than me.”
“Good reason, that and the married thing. Stay clear.”
“Have you got anything to actually say to me or have you just rung to annoy me?”
“Just to annoy you.”
The silence that follows indicates neither of them knows what to say.
“So is he there now?”
“No, he didn’t show up today.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Yesterday I kind of let rip at him. I felt he was in my way or something, but we made up and in the end it was nice. But I think I must have done something more than I thought. Anyway, he is not here.”
“Ahh. That sounds a shame. Why did you let rip again?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it. OK?”
“Are you expecting him tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I’ll just have to wait and see if he turns up. If he doesn’t, I was wondering if I should go to the village square and see if he is waiting for work there. I don’t know what I would say to him.”
“How about, ‘Please come home, you are the best house boy I have ever had.’” Michelle seems to find it as funny as Thomas did. Juliet smiles, laughs a little even.
Their conversation draws to a natural conclusion. Juliet finds the wine in the kitchen and pours herself a glass.
As if timed for maximum effect, the bottle is empty. The next town’s supermarket will be closed by now. Juliet looks through the glass at her sitting room encased in emerald. The peeling paint and years of wear are unnoticeable through her meridian telescope, but Juliet is not cheered up. She picks at the label. It looks familiar. Marina comes to mind, and there in her mental background of cigarette cartons and shepherd crooks, she sees the wine bottle label, a row of them, top shelf, by the plastic flowers.
Invigorated, Juliet pulls on her trainers and sets off, even though it is late, to the corner shop.
Chapter 7
“And, thank goodness, she has not met anyone new. I did not want her to meet American boy. I have no problem with American boys but if she married an American boy she would live in America! So now she is home, where a daughter belongs. I can pray for her to meet a nice boy, just like I pray for her big sister to meet a nice boy.” Marina, with a nod, breaks off her conversation with a lady dressed in black, who smells of sheep dung and who nods in return and leaves. The waiting dog outside yelps at joy of being reunited with his dung-smelling mistress, and the two head out of the village towards the hills.
“Hello, Tzuliet.” Marina struggles with the pronunciation.
“Hello, Marina. Could I have a bottle of that wine, please? The one on the top shelf next to the flowers.”
Marina comes from behind the counter, her weight impeding at the beginning but helping the momentum as she gets going. She waddles toward the entrance and starts to take beer bottles out of a crate by the door, bending from the hips.
“Oh, are you busy? Shall I come back?” Juliet is not sure what to make of Marina’s actions.
“Why you come back? I am getting your wine now.” She continues to unload the crate, one bottle following the next until it is empty. She pauses for breath. After turning the crate over, she pushes it with her foot behind the counter and, using the counter-top as support, steps onto the crate to reach the wine.
“Oh, I would have been happy to have got it for you.”
Marina waves a dismissal. After the exertion of reaching the wine, she sits down and puts her feet up on the crate. “You will be going to church tonight?”
Juliet is about to ask why but the decorated candles around the shop tell her that Terrance’s talk of English Easter has confused her. It is Saturday, midnight Mass. Tomorrow is Greek Easter. She becomes alert.
“Yes, of course.” Juliet chooses the least decorated candle within arm’s reach.
An ember spits out from the fireplace. It is the call to action Juliet needs to raise herself from the comfort of the wine, cat, and comfy chair. She pats the ember into the rug before she flicks the rug by its edge to bounce the ember back onto the fire.
Once up on her feet, the spectacle of the Greek midnight Mass calls her to the village square in front of the church. She makes a quick search for her candle. It is a Barbie candle complete in its box with a Barbie badge, pink ribbons, and a Barbie plastic drip catcher. Juliet strips the candle of its adornment, gives the ribbons to the cat to play with, stuffs her feet into her permanently laced-up trainers, grabs her coat and sets off.
Closing her gate behind her, she can see her neighbours down the lane, the elderly walking at a somber pace, the young ones running around in the excitement. Juliet keeps her distance but is pleased to be able to observe. The excitement of the new culture takes Juliet into a world of undiscovered possibilities. She is alone and grinning.
As the lane end joins the main street of the village, people migrate from all directions towards the church. Each person carries an unlit candle ready for the moment of resurrection, the light of Christ. Each carries a hope for the year to come, following the end of Lent. Each wishes for the health of their family, with a bit of happiness thrown in, the lit candle carried all the way home as something to wish upon.
As Juliet nears the church, the street fills from every direction until they reach the square as one, brought together by an alliance of belief.
The church is full to overflowing, the wide, approaching steps a dense amalgamation of families, friends, and farming staff. A tingle of expectancy oscillates through the waiting throng. People coming and going, some have obviously been there for the duration, shifting from foot to foot. The microphoned singing drone of the ‘psaltis’ - cantor - sends the words and prayers reverberating in the church entrance, echoing off buildings, seeking out every street and lane, and seeping into every corner of the surrounding orange groves. Rising and lowering, the nasal intone increases tempo and urgency until, finally, finally, Christ has arisen. Kali Anastasi, Good Resurrection.
The collective energy in the square increases. Children run around before being pulled to attention, and then the hush as the first light appears from the church doorway. Candle to candle, the light of Christ passes to the waiting crowd and the murmur, ‘Christ is risen’ on the giving and ‘He surely is’ on the receiving. The flame passes from neighbour to friend, to child, to worker. The flickering candles fan outward from the door, each candle lights two or more behind it, the square pinpricked with dancing light, the beginnings of a ripple effect which will spread out through the village.
Juliet is offered a light with the words, “Christos Anesti,” Christ is risen.
“Alithos Anesti.” In truth he is risen, Juliet responds.
For the elderly people of the village, there is reverence, quiet excitement, the end of forty days of fasting. The days without meat are over. The candles must be carried all the way home without blowing out to give luck for the year to come. Above the door, on the frame, the smoke from the candle will be used to make the sign of the cross, a blackened smear renewing last year’s cross. The children know that behind these doors of thei
r respective homes a feast awaits them, and they are pulling on coats, ready for food and the game of cracking eggs that have been dyed red. There may even be a present or two.
There is life everywhere, young and old brimming with joy. Latecomers hurry with their candles, greeted by all; early leavers are flecks of twinkling light in the distance. The village is united.
Juliet thrills in her participation and cups her candle to ensure it stays lit. She wants the luck and would like to renew the cross on her house, simply because it is hers and she can if she wants to. She positions herself back from the main throng so she can watch without being drawn in. She is on the outer edge of the crowd, but senses someone behind her. She turns and wishes them a Good Rising, holding her candle out to offer a light.
Juliet looks in the dark for a candle at waist height, but there is no candle. Instead, there are hands in pockets. She looks to the face of this non-believer. It is Aaman.
“Oh, hello. Isn’t it amazing?” Juliet looks over the sea of candles, which now flicker their way home, dispersing slowly to each corner of the village, a bobbing orange glow surrounded by laughter, colourful plasma coursing through the veins of the village from the heart.
“It is interesting.”
“Have you been in the church to see? Come on, let’s go over where it’s a bit more central. We’ll be able to look in from over there.”
Juliet pulls at Aaman’s sleeve. He yields easily, and they wiggle their way through the crowd. The people are thinning out now, but there is a dense clump around the church door and there are many still inside, talking, praying, kissing icons. But a few feet away from the door, the square has empty patches. There’s a woman with her arm around a beautiful little girl, who in turn, holds the hand of an energetic little boy a year or two older.
“Where is your father now?” the woman rhetorically asks as the boy breaks free. “Spiro, stop running with that candle. You will fall.”
“Nai, Mama.” Yes, Mum.
“I am going to go and look for him. Stay here, Spiro. Be good and stay with Vasso.” Vasso begins to cry. The mother bends her knees. Her skirt is too tight, so she pulls it down as it rides up before wiping her daughter’s eyes and giving her a hug.
“I won’t be a minute, Vasso. Spiro will look after you. There are so many people in the church, you wouldn’t like it. I won’t be a minute, I will just get Baba, OK.” Vasso nods and her shiny, well-brushed, waist-length curls bob. Spiro runs back and dutifully holds her hand, but as soon as his mother’s back is turned, he is running again, round and round, through the crowds.
Juliet peers into the church at the gold gleaming above the throng of people, on the walls, and hanging from the ceiling. Whispered prayers merge alongside laughter and back slapping. The church seems to belong to the people rather than the people belonging to the church. They are so tightly packed, they shuffle as one, as if boiling, centres of calm and edges that break away in little flurries. Some shuffle to be nearer the altar. Others form a queue up to a glass case that contains a painted icon. A lady at the front of the queue genuflects before the glass, crosses herself and then kisses it. She crosses herself three times before stepping aside for the next person to repeat giving the honour. Some of them with lifeless eyes perform the ritual and once complete, they break away unaffected. Others have tears in their eyes and reach for lace-edged handkerchiefs.
Some women wear tight dresses and short skirts, their makeup heavily applied, the heels high. There is no subtlety in the adornment. Juliet reflects that there is something very sacrilegious in their sense of occasion. The men are in suits, leather jackets, or shirts, but all wear loafers. They smoke outside.
A brush past Juliet’s legs brings her back to consciousness. Spiro runs around her and Aaman until they smile. He then, suddenly, stands still behind his sister, little Vasso. Spiro’s candle catches Juliet’s attention.
Everything changes. Anticipation slows time. Horror brings action. Juliet jumps towards Spiro. The mother runs. Vasso screams. The candle flares. People shout. Vasso’s hair burns. Tip to crown. Fizzing, spitting. Aaman pushes. Juliet staggers. Aaman lays his hand on the girl’s head, in one motion runs his hands down the hair, taking the oxygen, removing the burning, killing the fear. Juliet breathes again.
As fast as it happened, it is finished. The mother encloses her toddler in her arms and inspects the outer layer of hair that is singed away. Spiro is left alone with his inner conscience; no words could be louder. The crowd’s momentary tension dispels. Vasso is offered a sweet. One old lady, the same height as Spiro, takes hold of his arm, speaking quickly and emphasising her words with tugs on his sleeve. Spiro cries.
Aaman looks around to find Juliet shaking. He supports her to a wall and holds her steady. He is not surprised by her reaction. He is calm.
“You must breathe,” Aaman says. “Take one breath and then let it out. Good, take another. You are all right. There is no need to fear. It has happen, it has finished. The girl is all right.”
The mother of the toddler comes towards them, unsure, reticent. She looks at Aaman before asking Juliet to thank him for her and then turns back to her children. Aaman understands but he is not interested; his attention is not taken from Juliet.
Juliet gently rubs her arm; Aaman lays his hand on top of hers to stop the motion and then just as gently takes his hand away. Juliet is crying, no sound, the feelings too deep. Even the tears have trouble surfacing.
“You can tell me if you like.” The tears affect Aaman. He wishes he was bigger, not knowing if or how this would affect what he could do for Juliet in this moment. He is sitting, turned towards her. His knee touches hers. Juliet looks at him with soulful eyes.
“I was six years old. In my room, Dad was out. It was a bungalow. No stairs,” she adds to help Aaman understand. “Mum is watching TV and I am meant to be sleeping. In a room at the back, past the bathroom. But something feels wrong so I call her. ‘Mummy?’ She doesn’t answer. She often doesn’t answer me. But I know something is wrong so I call again. ‘Mummy.’ When I call her ‘Mummy,’ if she answers, she would say, ‘Yes, by some major error in my life!’ Always ‘By some major error in my life.’ She is not the kindest of mothers. She is not a bad mother, she just didn’t seem to have any interest in me. I think she found children boring back then and it grew into habit. That, and some weird jealousy about me and Dad. But I had grown used to her by the age of six.” Juliet explains that she had actually thought she could be no other way until she saw her talking to one of the girls in her class at school. She was kind and gentle with her and even gave her a bit of a half hug. Which had hurt her.
“But, anyway, I was calling her this time she didn’t answer at all. I could hear her laughing watching TV. I called really loud. She answered ‘Yes, by some major error …’ But she was laughing at the TV and never finished her sentence. I watched the light coming from the TV across the hall floor. I could make out the shapes of people moving. I wished Dad was home. He was great. But only Mum was there and Mum didn’t come. So I went back to bed. I said to myself that if she was laughing, then everything must be fine. I curled up with my little teddy."
“The next thing I knew, Dad was picking me up but not kindly. I screeched and reached for little Emily Bear, but Dad ignored me.” Juliet relates the struggle to be released, but her dad’s hand pressure pushing against her head had only increased. “He ran from the bedroom. I was frightened because Dad had always been kind and loving and now he had suddenly turned into being like Mum. He was holding me too tight. My nose was against his chest but with one eye, as he opened the door, I could see the corridor was on fire.” Juliet breathes fast. Aaman strokes her back and makes soothing noises.
“I realised that if I left Emily she would burn so I reached out again and tried to scream, but Dad pressed my face harder into his chest and ran. When we got outside he put me down. I felt very hot and funny. He looked even funnier as he had only half a head of hair. I couldn’t say anyt
hing because something hurt. He started stripping my pyjamas off me. But they were nylon and they had melted onto my skin. I was screaming then. I thought I was screaming for Emily Bear, but now I wonder if I was screaming in pain. He sat me on his knee and hugged me tight, all except my arm, until the ambulance came.”
“Your mother?”
“Ah yes, her. She had got out when my dad came home. I don’t remember her being with me after Dad got me out. The fire was started by my mum’s candles in the bathroom. She liked to have candles when she bathed. It was a combination of candles, tissues, and towels."
Juliet looks over to the church, now all but deserted. The doors are still open and the occasional smell of incense in the air mixes with the evening’s warmth, sickly sweet.
“I was in hospital for a while. I remember Dad visiting me every day. My dad’s dead now. Mum may have visited, but I don’t remember. I hated her then. I thought if she had listened to me, Emily Bear would not have been burnt along with the house.
“There was a nurse who was so kind to me. I can remember wishing that she was my mum. She bought me a small bear and said the bear had a new body but inside it was all Emily, all I had to do was give her enough love and I would see for myself.” Juliet exhales and looks at Aaman. He senses she is nervous with this disclosure.
Aaman sits quietly. He is gathering words in English. He begins by stroking her scarred arm. But the words do not come. Juliet waits. They stand in unison and begin a slow walk, kicking small pieces of gravel. They pass a pomegranate tree and Aaman picks a flower and hands it to Juliet. She twirls it between her fingers. She looks back to where they had been sitting, her candle left behind extinguished. In a few yards they reach a bench. Aaman sits down and Juliet follows, putting the flower on the bench next to her.