The Illegal Gardener (The Greek Village Series Book 1)

by Sara Alexi

  I stayed in Sialkot for a month before I returned home. I did this because I wanted to be sure that I had the job and that I was not going to be sacked for not being good enough. I also did this because each day that I worked I could feel my confidence growing and I wanted to go home a confident man, not a man who had last been seen as an illegal immigrant. I also needed some time on my own to be back in Pakistan.

  When I decided I could go back to my village I felt very nervous. Many things could have happened. I feared my grandparents could have died, or my mother could be unwell. Many things I thought as I took the bus to near our village. The last part must be walked and so I entered the village on foot.

  The first person Aaman sees is his grandfather. He looks like he is walking along the street for no reason. He looks up at Aaman from a distance and squints at him. It takes him a full minute to recognise Aaman. Aaman savours the sight, then his grandfather drops his stick and tries to run. Aaman runs too and catches grandfather as his legs wobble. They hug, grandfather’s hands patting Aaman’s back. Aaman has tears running down his cheeks, grandfather is talking so quickly he is making no sense. They pull away and look at each other and hug again.

  “I thought I would never see you again,” is the only thing Aaman can hear him say clearly. But Aaman is making noise too, he is laughing and asking how grandma is, how Ma is, how Father is, are the oxen OK, has anything changed?

  They are such a noise that grandmother and Ma come out of the house to see what all the fuss is. Ma drops the bowl she is drying and runs to Aaman, her soft, brightly coloured clothes fluttering. She cries and hugs Aaman so tightly he cannot breathe. She kisses him all over his face and head and hands.

  “I thought you were dead!” she wails, new tears upon old. Aaman strokes her hair and makes calming noises. His grandma has hold of his other hand, she is kissing it and rubbing it against her soft, chestnut skin.

  “Where's father?” Aaman finally asks.

  “He’s in the corner field I will go and get him.” Grandfather sets off, swinging his stick, a bounce in his step.

  The women hug him some more until Aaman asks, “Where is Saabira?”

  He looks to the house and sees her peering from the door. He puts his hand out to her. She hesitates and then comes running into his arms.

  “I was afraid that you did not want me anymore.”

  He takes her face in his hand and looks into her eyes for a long time.

  “Hello, Saabira, I have come back to you.” Aaman pulls her to him as she sobs.

  Whilst Aaman hugs Saabira, a neighbour comes out to see what the fuss is and screams when she sees Aaman. That causes several other faces to appear and soon people are flocking from all directions, slapping him on the back, asking him questions about Iran, Greece, Italy, and Spain.

  There is such a great commotion that Aaman does not find space to tell his family about his job in Sialkot. His father comes next and barges through everyone to greet Aaman. He hugs him so tightly, Aaman is impressed by his strength for his age.

  The sun is beating down on them, and Aaman’s mother suggests they all go in the house. The room quickly fills as more and more people hear of his return and come to wish him welcome.

  The questions never stop. Neighbours bring food, and the welcome becomes a party. No one asks about the money for the harvester, they are all just pleased to see him home.

  The whole weekend is much talking and telling of the tales of his journey to Greece and back. Children stand wide eyed, gasping at the dangerous parts and cheering at his accomplishments. Saabira sits by his side, never losing physical contact.

  By Sunday evening, Aaman is exhausted, but people still come to visit and everyone is still very excited. He tells his family that he must go to bed early as he must leave very early in the morning. This produces looks of horror from his mother and Saabira who cling to him all the more.

  The room is still full of visiting neighbours and there is so much noise that his Ma and Saabira cannot hear him. Aaman stands up and quietens the room. He then announces to everyone that he has a job at Sialkot as a programmer which is received in a deathly hush as no one quite understands. He, Aaman, is a farm boy. Aaman then tells the tale of Juliet; it becomes unreal in the telling. Before he reaches the end of the tale, more neighbours arrive and want to hear from the beginning. The younger ones ask him to tell it again as well, they enjoyed it so much the first time. So Aaman starts the tale again, and Juliet disappears from reality into the word of folklore.

  Not a sound is made as he tells his tale. When it culminates with the offer of several jobs in Lahore, and then him taking one in Sialkot, his mother screams and cries tears of happiness afresh, and his father and grandfather can be seen to grow a few inches, their heads are held so high. Saabira glows with pride. One of the younger boys cheers. This is followed by someone else who cheers and claps, and without design, the party starts all over again and sleep is forgotten. Aaman feels so happy to bring such joy to his family.

  Aaman goes back to Sialkot for the week and returns the following weekend. His mother says it is like a show where you get all the story in pieces. But that next weekend, he tells everything. When he tells them he has made the money for the harvester, his father runs to tell their neighbours. Before the afternoon is finished, the whole village is in Aaman’s family house again talking about how soon they could get the machine. Every time Aaman speaks now, the room hushes, his words hung on to like beans during a famine. Aaman points out that harvest is over for the year, and it would be better for the money to stay in the bank to earn interest than having a machine sit idle for long months. If they all put their money together into one account they would raise enough interest between them to buy a slightly newer harvester than the one they had set their sights on.

  His mother declares him to be the cleverest man in the world, and his father slaps him on the back. They are so proud. Aaman stands tall like a man. He wishes Juliet could have been there.

  Juliet wipes away a tear and reads on.

  Now I will tell you about Saabira. She was shy like when we first were married but I knew I had to deal with my fear of hurting her. So I was bold, Juliet. I tried to sweep her off her feet. But I hesitated and often forgot where I was and some of my thoughts I am not proud of. Saabira is my wife and my thoughts are only for her. But I had spent so long apart from her, she was not foremost in my mind, and I drifted to what was a more familiar vision for me. I believe you can understand all this.

  But time has healed us and the greatest news I have yet to tell you. Saabira is pregnant. We live in Sialkot during the week and I have good doctors checking her regularly so I feel confident that all will be well.

  When she realised she was pregnant, we became closer and I have told her all about you. I have told her about your kindness and your care and she has asked me to send to you her very greatest regards. She respects you highly.

  I have come to realise that ours is not a relationship that is to pass, Juliet. I want to know you for the rest of my life in some capacity. I trust I have your permission to write to you often now I have settled where I am.

  I nearly forgot to say Saabira is adamant, she wants to call our baby Juliet. I trust this is acceptable to you.

  With Warmest Good Wishes

  Aaman

  Juliet pulls another tissue from the box and wipes her nose. She looks over the garden and can see Aaman vividly at every job. But the Aaman in her mind gives her only happiness.

  Dear Aaman,

  I am delighted by your hero’s return. It is no more than you deserve. I think what you have done and achieved is extraordinary and I applaud you.

  I think I would like Saabira. Please pass my warmest regards back to her. I would be honoured if you named your child after me.

  I hope your harvester makes your father’s life easier and brings prosperity to your village.

  You have brought me nothing but happiness. I too feel that ours is a relationship th
at will not pass and I too wish to know you the rest of my days.

  Maybe when the baby is born, I could come to Pakistan, stay in an hotel in Sialkot and visit you.

  Your Loving Friend

  Juliet

  Juliet wipes her eyes on her tissue and looks out of the window. The grass needs cutting. Her thoughts are still with Aaman, and she rises from her desk and wanders through the kitchen and out into the garden. She picks up his gardening gloves and holds them to her face as she walks amongst the trees. Nearing the vegetable plot, she puts the gloves on and bends to pull a weed or two. She is disturbed by an odd noise. She looks up. It is coming from behind the orange tree by the gate. It stops, and she continues. The noise is there again, a hollow wooden sound. She takes the gloves off and straightens. It is a rhythmic tapping sound. She walks around the orange tree. A man stands by the gate. He stops tapping it with the stick he holds. Juliet walks up to him.

  “Hello, Madam. My name is Harpreet. I am looking for work.”

  ***

  If you enjoyed The Illegal Gardener you'll love book two in the series, Black Butterflies. Read a preview below:

  Black Butterflies

  Book Two of the Greek Village Series

  Chapter 1

  Across the water the island looks harmless. From this distance it is a misty blue, undefined, drifting above the horizon. Floating like a mirage in the heat. The water is smooth, its shallow facets glinting in the sun, beckoning with beauty, giving the illusion that she can swim there. The sun shines without a care, lazy, hot. No sounds are heard except the lap of the water and the snuffle of a stray dog.

  ‘You are coming, lady? Time to go,’ the man says, rope in hand. The brown sleek-coated dog with floppy dugs and ears sniffs around his polished shoes. He flicks the end of the rope at it and the mongrel sidesteps and turns its attention to the woman on the bench.

  Marina falters, refocusing her eyes on the young man. The island fades behind him.

  ‘Sorry?’ She slips her arm through the handle of her old leather cargo bag, anticipating his reply.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He nods his head at the boat which he has hold of with one hand, one foot on board, one on the shore, the strength of his inner thighs keeping it from drifting. He releases the mooring line from the quay’s solitary rusting iron bollard in readiness to be under way.

  Marina plants her feet firmly, shoulder-width apart, and leans her upper body weight forward over her shins, her black skirt taut in the effort as she slowly straightens. Her back isn’t so bad at the moment. Perhaps she needs to lose a kilo or two, but all day long in the shop with sweets, crisps, biscuits, and often there seems little point in cooking for one …

  Her black bag, now firmly hooked in the crook of her elbow, slides from the bench as she stands, the weight jerking her slightly to one side. The approaching dog is startled by the movement and retreats a few paces before returning to cautiously sniff at the corners of her holdall as she crosses the small pier to the boat.

  She is glad she has not worn her new shoes. The concrete is pitted and crumbling. She struggles to reach across the sea-filled gap for the handrail by the opening into the boat. The patient captain helps by taking her bag, slipping it up his own arm and steadying her descent into the small craft. It lurches with her weight and rocks as it stabilises.

  It has been a long time since Marina has been on one of these boats. She blinks back a silent tear. Now they have engines and covers. But it is still a basic wooden fishing boat, just like all those years ago. The red plastic-covered foam cushions on the box seats and the plastic windows in the plywood cabin walls are a thin veneer of modern life; the solidity of the wooden hull a reminder of the years of use, the slow evolution of a fishing boat; layers of paint a testimony to its service.

  In the prow of the boat facing the buckled, sea-etched windows and the tiny ship’s wheel is a big leather bucket seat on a thick chrome stanchion. The captain trots down the steps into the vessel. He grabs the back of this perch and eases himself into it, causing the stanchion to demonstrate that not only can it rotate, but that it also has an internal shock absorber and is quite happy to bob up and down against the waves once loaded with the weight of a man. Marina’s mirth escapes as an audible giggle. It is a seat for a serious office, on a pillar of chrome suitable for a late-night bar. She admires the inventiveness.

  The man settles into his throne and carefully arranges his coffee mug, cigarettes and lighter around him. Marina, giggles forgotten, realises that she is at the point of no return. She swallows hard and decides that perhaps the journey is not such a good idea. She takes hold of her bag and, planting her feet on the floor, she eases her weight forward. Unaware, the captain flicks a switch and the revving engine rocks Marina back into her seat, the deep throb of diesel drowning out her half-hearted protests. His attention is now on the sea. Edging the throttle forward, he swings his taxi boat away from the pier, leaving Marina to come to terms with the decision she has not quite made. She quells her fears by ignoring them and looks out at the blue.

  Even though the sea is flat-calm and silky-smooth, once some speed has been gained the hull begins an irregular bounce against the water, booming in the plywood cabin. The spray from the bow blows in through the open doorways spasmodically, like indecisive rain. The man sits on his pedestal, bouncing to its rhythm, throttle full forward. He leans to his right and flicks another switch on a small home-made plywood box. The craft fills with the sounds of eighties pop music and the captain sings along, the words distorted by the accent of his Greek mother tongue. His brown polished shoes tap out the rhythm on the worn wooden floor. Marina cannot help but think more practical shoes would be better suited to the job. But his open-necked shirt is clean and his jeans have an ironed crease down the centre. It is nice to see a well turned-out young man.

  Her attention is drawn back to the island, but as it does not seem to be getting any bigger Marina ignores it and turns to look back towards the mainland and watches the wake of the boat rising and curling upon itself. Plumes of spray create rainbows. Beyond, she can see the mainland disappearing. The dog is still on the pier, sniffing around the bench where she sat. The shore on either side of the pier is rough and pebbly. There are no tourists here; it is just a port, a place of comings and goings. Not much has changed, the farmhouse just as she remembers it from all that time ago. There are more cars parked now than when she was a girl. But there were fewer people everywhere in those days. Everyone knew everyone back then. That was why Aunt Efi had taken her to the island. Marina crosses herself three times and blesses the memory of Aunt Efi.

  A new song bubbles from the speakers. Marina looks at the back of the man bobbing in his chair. He is whistling along to the music and his chair bounces in rhythm as his foot pushes the beat into the floor. Some wisps of his hair are blowing in the wind that curls through the two forward doors. He becomes aware of Marina’s stare and raises a hand to slick back the stray strands, but no sooner has he smoothed his mane than the wind regains its wild control. The captain pauses his singing and grooming to light a cigarette. He catches Marina’s eye as he turns from the wind to still the lighter flame and smiles cheerfully, nodding to the island to indicate their advance.

  Marina can see the town now. The long streak of an island is broken in the middle by what looks, from this distance, more like a tumble of white rocks. She can make out a vague indentation, indicating the harbour opening. She puts a hand to her stomach and wishes she had eaten more for breakfast, or less. The island had seemed bigger back then, but her nerves felt the same.

  The land is now fast approaching, the houses cascading down to the port from the pine trees on the ridge. Red-tiled roofs atop dazzling whitewashed walls. Small, contained, as ancient as Greece itself.

  They are approaching with speed. Now she can clearly see the high stone wall to the left of the port entrance, capped with dots of black, a line of old cannons. She looks to the right to make out the lower wall, also sporting
rusted cannons, to complete the defence. She watched a documentary about the island on television one night when business was quiet in her corner shop. It had been a wealthy port full of boat owners, shipping magnates, at one time. Pirates had invaded, so the islanders slung a chain across the harbour entrance, from cannon to cannon. The heavy chain dipped beneath the waves to catch on the keels of the invading boats, giving the islanders time to load and fire the cannons at will.

  Marina half-wishes the chain were in place now so that their keel might be caught, ensuring their return to the mainland. She thinks about her shop, with familiar faces coming and going, and routines that seldom vary. Childhood friends who became parents, who now come in with their grandchildren. Time standing still until you look in the mirror.

  The captain is singing Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ at the top of his voice. He has slid from his elevation and is all but dancing as he steers. He lets go of the wheel for a full spin before slicking his hair back and continuing towards the port.

  Marina laughs, her eyes sparkling. The man turns to smile at her and offers his hand for a dance. She waves him away. He grins.

  She hears voices, an American twang, and looks about her through the salt-streaked plastic windows. A sailing yacht with crew on deck in bright swimwear, with pasty white limbs. They wave and laugh and the captain sounds his compressed-air horn in one loud, rude blast, and he sings all the louder. The day-trippers laugh and wave more vigorously. The captain smooths his hair.

  The cannons are nearly above them now. They have reached the entrance to the harbour. The captain shuts down the engine and their speed drops to a lulling chug. The bouncing becomes wallowing, everything calm. Only Marina’s stomach churns.