by Sara Alexi
Grigoris peers into the gloom inside the barn. ‘There should be some more of my bricks in there. Probably piled up at the back. It’s been a while since I’ve been in here.’
‘Is this your plough?’ Petros asks.
‘No, it’s Vangelis’s.’
‘Vangelis’s? So why don’t we just take it and sell it? That way we would get our money,’ Spiros suggests. He stands in the entrance, surveying the interior of the barn.
‘Now, now, boys – that would be straight-out illegal. No, we will be smarter than that.’ Grigoris has found the extra bricks and is carrying them, one in each hand, to the barn’s entrance. The boys pitch in and soon they are all moved.
‘So, there is a standpipe for the water over there, by the gate.’ He points to the entrance to the orchard. ‘And there should be a pile of sand. Yes, over there. So, boys – to work! I want you to brick up the entrance to the barn, and once it is done, render it, smoothing the edges so it is indistinguishable from the walls.’
The boys are dumbstruck by this request, and neither of them moves or makes any reply. They look at the barn, and then at the tractor, the plough, the canisters of fertiliser and weedkiller, and all the other things stored inside that Vangelis will need very soon – certainly in a day or two – for the tending of his oranges and olives. They turn back to their uncle with puzzled expressions on their faces.
Grigoris laughs at the sight of them. ‘Don’t you trust your Uncle Grigoris?’ he asks, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders.
‘Yes, but–’ Petros begins.
‘But nothing, just trust me. Do as I say, and you will get paid what you are owed, and we will have a laugh too!’
He slaps them both on the back, then wanders away towards his olive groves, where he is in the process of clearing the stones from the soil. The larger stones are used to terrace the hillside, creating retaining walls that help keep the moisture in. His farm has become much neater since he started doing everything by hand. He sees the little things now he is walking rather than sitting atop a noisy, relatively fast-moving tractor.
He clears stones and builds the next section of the wall until the afternoon heat demands that his limbs stop. He will return in the evening when it cools off, but for now he has done enough.
He returns the way he came, past the barn, to find Petros and Spiros have really put their backs into the work. Spiros has found a tall wooden ladder in the barn and is using his trowel to shape a cement block to fit into the last row. Grigoris cannot remember if the ladder belongs to him or to Vangelis. Petros has already begun rendering and is now working at shoulder height. Grigoris shovels sand for the next batch of render, then leans on the spade, watching the boys finish up.
‘How’s it going?’ Lena slices open an enormous watermelon, and cuts chunks of the moist red flesh into a large bowl. Grigoris and the boys attack it hungrily.
‘We finished.’ Petros sounds proud. Despite Lena’s insistence last night,Grigoris did not explain the details of his plan, but he did tell her that the first step was to block up the entrance to the barn.
‘Oh, well done! So, Grigori, what happens next?’
‘We wait.’ He chuckles. The boys join in and so does Lena, but they don’t really know what they are chuckling about. They just believe and trust in him and that is enough!
The next morning, before Grigoris is fully awake, Vangelis is banging on his door.
‘What on earth do you think you are doing? I use nearly all the stuff I have stored there!’ Vangelis is red in the face and sweating, a contrast to the blue sky behind him.
‘Well, I did ask you to remove it on more than one occasion.’ Grigoris remains calm, in the shade on his doorstep, the sun in his eyes.
‘But you cannot just brick it up in there, why would you do that?’ Vangelis’s face is growing redder and redder, and he looks like an enormous beetroot.
‘I can and I have,’ Grigoris replies, putting his hands in his pockets, relaxed.
‘But how am I supposed to get to my stuff?’ Vangelis speaks through clenched teeth.
‘Not my problem.’ Grigoris jiggles a couple of nails in his pocket. He often finds nails and screws in his pockets, and Lena chastises him, saying that they will damage the washing machine. These are from the other day, when he was fixing the chicken coop.
‘Well, I will just tear your wall down then!’ Vangelis is physically shaking.
‘You could do that. Just as I could have towed your tractor out.’ Grigoris is still calm. ‘But when I suggested such a thing, what did you say? No, please do not press yourself to remember, let me remember for you. You said that if I were to do that then you would prosecute for any damage I caused. And I seem to remember you saying that you would be sure to find some damage. Now, we wouldn’t want any damage to your tractor, would we?’ Grigoris is aware that he is goading Vangelis, but he cannot help himself. He feels no fear in confronting this old bully, who has turned a peculiar shade of purple and is wheezing and gasping for breath. Even if Vangelis were to swing for him, and it is a possibility, Grigoris would easily be able to duck out of the way. But Vangelis doesn’t make any move. His mouth opens and closes but no words come out.
‘But I am not an unreasonable man,’ Grigoris continues. ‘There is a way you can reclaim your things.’ He releases the nails and withdraws his hand to rest it against the door frame, leaning his weight against it.
‘What way?’ Vangelis’s words come out more like a cough.
‘Well, you could take the wall down but then, of course, you would have to put it back up, replace it just as you found it. Now, in order to avoid me prosecuting you there would have to be no damage at all. Of course, it would be very easy for me to claim damages. For example, if I thought the brickwork was not as good as it is now, or the rendering not as neat …’
‘Oh, come on, man, get to the point. What do you want?’ Grigoris has never seen Vangelis so angry, his words spat out, his eyes growing bloodshot.
‘Oh, well, it is simple. If you employ the same men to rebuild the wall once you have taken your things out, then I could hardly prosecute, could I? I’m sure the second job will be even better than the first, seeing as they have had practice.’
Vangelis blinks hard several times as he digests this.
‘What men?’ he finally hisses. Grigoris is having to squint to see Vangelis’s face, the sun behind him is so blinding. But he has no inclination to move. He is one step up and therefore has a height advantage.
‘Petros and Spiros, and they will be happy to do the job for you for two hundred and twenty-seven euros and fifty-eight cents.’ Grigoris watches as the recognition of the exact amount registers in Vangelis’s eyes. ‘Each,’ he adds, and delights in watching Vangelis’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
‘Okay, all right, I see. I am not a fool. I’ll pay them – now take that wall down so I can have my tools for work.’ Vangelis’s shoulders drop, his face sags and he looks like a beaten man as he puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a roll of notes.
‘No,’ Grigoris says flatly.
‘No? What do you mean, “no”?’ Vangelis freezes.
‘I mean I will not take the wall down.’
‘But you just said …’
‘I just said you would have to employ Spiros and Petros to rebuild the wall and that will cost you two hundred and twenty-seven euros and fifty-eight cents, each.’
‘But you don’t want a wall there! That’s nonsense! This is just a way to get me to pay, and I have agreed, I will pay.’
‘I think they said that taking it down neatly, each brick numbered and ordered so it will go back exactly the same as it was the first time, with no damage done, would be harder. But they are nice boys so maybe they will accept the same as for the build. Two hundred and twenty-seven euros and fifty-eight cents, each.’ Grigoris can sense Lena behind him in the kitchen, listening.
‘That is robbery!’ Vangelis stuffs his money back into his pocket.
‘And the taking and using of someone’s barn against their will, what is that?’
The money comes out again and Vangelis looks to the sky as he does the calculation, his brows knotting.
‘Good God, man, that is nine hundred and ten euros and …’
‘Thirty-two cents. But of course there is the cement for the bricks, and the render when you rebuild, so, well, it would be generous to just say a thousand euros all in.
‘I haven’t got a thousand euros.’
‘Oh.’ Grigoris does his best to look disappointed as he takes a step back, and he transfers his hand from the door frame to the door, pulling it closed.
‘Okay, okay.’ Vangelis sounds beaten. ‘I’ll get it, just get that wall down.’
‘Lena.’ Grigoris invites his wife out of the shadow of the kitchen. There is a clink, a spoon being left to rest in a bowl, perhaps, and she appears, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Vangelli, I need to hear, in front of a witness’ – his hand slips around his wife’s waist – ‘that you swear on your honour that you will pay if I start the work.’ Lena is stiff, but her hip moves against his. It feels exciting.
‘I promise,’ Vangelis mutters, looking at his feet.
Petros and Spiros only need half a day to remove the wall. Grigoris marks a number on each block, but not in any particular order. Vangelis arrives as the last bricks come down.
‘You have the money?’ Grigoris wipes his hands on his trousers.
‘Not yet.’ Vangelis takes the keys to the tractor from his pocket.
‘But you have the two hundred and twenty-seven euros and fifty-eight cents that you owe each of these boys. So pay them.’
There is a hesitation. The boys stop what they are doing and stand expectantly. Still with the tractor key in his hand, Vangelis takes out his roll of euros and pays them both.
‘And the rest?’
Vangelis is still holding the tractor keys in his fingers, twisting them one way and then another. Grigoris’s movement is so quick that it catches him off guard as the key is snatched from his hands. He looks shocked but does not object.
‘How about I hold on to the key for the tractor? When you need to use it you can, but until you pay for the rebuilding of this wall, the tractor is mine?’ Grigoris says.
Two months later, Vangelis has still not paid the remainder, and so the bricking back up of the barn has still not been done. But this was Grigoris’s plan. He and Vangelis have fallen into a routine of sharing the tractor, and the arrangement works well. When they had a tractor each, their machines would sit idle for many days at a time, but now the old workhorse is being fully utilised. They share the cost of the diesel and Vangelis, who likes to tinker, maintains the machine.
There have been other advantages too. Vangelis, having been forced to do much of his work by hand, has lost some weight and his face is no longer crimson with the slightest exertion. Grigoris, on the other hand, is now able to use the tractor for some of the bigger jobs, and can now allow himself a little more time to relax. Lena takes up some of this time. Her hip pressing into his on the doorstep that day was just an introduction to much greater closeness, and she treats him differently now – with respect, and just a touch, he flatters himself, of reverence. Grigoris and Vangelis drink coffee together on occasion, so they can plan out the week and decide when each of them needs to use the tractor.
Now they are talking about sharing fertilisers and weedkillers and other chemicals so they can buy them in greater bulk. That will save a euro or two.
Lena has even suggested that Vangelis and his wife join them for dinner one day next week.
The Desalination Unit
June
It is one of those perfect moments that cannot be expressed adequately in words – that point in the evening when the sun is just sinking to the horizon, turning the scene soft and pink, and painting the few puffy clouds that hang in an otherwise clear sky a brilliant gold. In another few minutes, dusk will be falling, but right now the island could not look more perfect.
From her little balcony on the first floor, Michelle can look out over the port with all its comings and goings, and over the sea to the hills in the distance, behind which the red disc of the sun is now dropping. She could rent out this room at the top of the house, with its sea views, for a tidy sum, but she considers that life is short, so the room is reserved for her to retreat to, in order to put some space between her and the paying guests. Right now, with a glass of chilled wine in her hand and the hotel full, life could not be better. The season has started well, and there is still the summer to come before she will close the guest house for the winter and return to her little house on the mainland, next door to Juliet’s. Although island life is blissful, Michelle always looks forward to the complete peace afforded by her cottage in the village towards the end of the summer.
A donkey brays, but it is not one that is in the port. There are only two donkeys visible and she recognises them as Yanni’s. He’s late to leave for home today. The animals will have spent the day carrying suitcases, people and goods up the narrow alleys of the main town. The cobbled lanes on the island are too narrow for cars or motorbikes, and everything that must be transported is either carried by hand or, if it is too heavy, on the back of a donkey.
The harbour is built in a natural inlet and is more or less square, with wide, stone-paved walkways on each side. The harbour arm, a wide stone jetty reaching out across the mouth of the inlet, almost completes the square, leaving just a narrow opening for the boats to come and go. There is a constant influx of people to the island, which is considered something of an exclusive destination. A daily visitor to the island is the water tanker, a battered commercial ship that brings fresh water across from the mainland. The island’s main water source dried up many years ago, and apart from one or two wells there is no fresh water available, and so the tanker comes every day from the mainland, low in the water on the way in, bobbing like a cork when it leaves. The water is pumped high up the hill to a large reservoir that serves all the houses in the town. For quite some time now there have been spasmodic discussions in the dimos about installing a desalination plant to relieve the island’s dependence on this tanker, but as yet nothing has come of it. Apparently such a unit would transform ordinary seawater into clean, sweet-tasting water fit to drink.
The town itself has been built in the scoop of land above the sea in this narrow inlet. The houses at the harbour’s edge are large and square, built of dressed, square-cut stone, constructed over a hundred years ago by rich merchants at great expense. The whitewashed houses behind and further up the hill cannot compete in grandeur, but the view of the houses cascading down the hill to the harbour’s edge is dramatic and picturesque. It has brought celebrities and artists here, and many of them keep holiday homes on the island. In the summer it is possible to sit at one of the many harbourside cafes with a retired Greek fisherman on one side and a famous personality on the other.
Michelle takes a sip of her wine and watches the sun disappear and the sea turn inky black. A few orange lights come on around the harbour, casting stripes that ripple across the water.
Yanni the donkey man twists his moustache and rolls a cigarette, fiddling with his lighter, which throws harsh shadows on his features for a moment.
With a click of his tongue, he begins to walk, his donkeys following. Sophia, his wife, will be waiting for him up on the ridge, high above the comings and goings of the town. Michelle loves to walk in the hills and a few times she has found herself up there and has struck up a friendship with Sophia, who is always pleased to have company. As Sophia’s belly has grown with their first child, she has become less energetic, and so when Michelle passes by she always asks if there is anything she can do for her. Sophia’s answer is always, ‘Yes, sit and chat a while.’ And so she does.
The last time Michelle was up there – two Sundays ago, was it? – she came back down by a new route, past the dump, a deep ravine that smoulders and
burns day and night but never seems to get any smaller. She has been told that in fact it grows each year and is becoming a problem. Apparently, the land either side is no longer used for grazing and is certainly unfit for living on. In short, it has become worthless.
A little memory comes to her now. It intrigued her at the time but she quickly forgot it.
‘Dino?’ she calls gently through the balcony doors. She can see his naked feet hanging off the end of the bed. He will be reading. Recently, he has become obsessed with the idea of learning to kitesurf, having seen some Americans trying it in the waters around the island. He is convinced it is the sport for him but, as yet, he has not actually had a go.
‘Also, when I get reasonable at it,’ he said enthusiastically, ‘we can offer it as a package to people who stay, lessons maybe, or encourage people who can already kitesurf to stay.’ Not that they need more people. The place is already full for most of the summer.
‘Dino?’ she calls again, a little louder, and this time his feet move.
‘You need more wine?’ He comes with the bottle and a glass for himself and she moves her feet off the chair so he can sit down. She holds her glass out for a refill.
‘Actually, I didn’t call you for more wine, but seeing as you are offering …’
‘So you just needed me then?’ He leans forward and kisses her, his lips growing more insistent with every second. Michelle pulls away.
‘No, listen. Last time I went for a walk I came down past the dump, and I noticed at the time, but then forgot, I think I saw Adonis down by the water’s edge. Then, as I walked further I saw whatshisname, walking quite briskly back to town.’ Adonis has been Dino’s best friend since birth. The two were very close before Dino left the island, and now he is back they have taken up their friendship again as if no time at all has passed. But Michelle has never been sure if she likes Adonis. Sure, he is tall and eye-catchingly handsome. The rumour is, he has even done some modelling in Athens – but when it comes to Dino he is a jealous friend and has never made Michelle feel she is welcome. Her instincts tell her not to trust him.