by Chloe Rayban
I went and hovered by the open door, wondering if I should intervene.
Stavros looked up and demanded: ‘What you want?’
‘You can’t blame him—’ I blurted out.
But Stavros slammed the door in my face.
Later I heard the sound of the boy’s hard leather shoes on the steps going down to the harbour. I got up and looked over the side of the terrace. He had a bundle with him – looked like clothes. With a sinking feeling, I reckoned he’d been fired. If he had, it was definitely my fault. God, I felt a heel.
We sat miserably waiting for the police to arrive, ranged in an irritable group around a table. As we sat there, I managed to extract from the others a half-hearted account of the night before.
For once Sprout didn’t try and make out that he was the world’s greatest gift to womankind since Casanova. He admitted that the tall blonde – the one he’d thought fancied him – didn’t want to know when he tried to make a move on her. He reckoned she was in with the guys who’d cut in on them. It was a set-up job. The guys had arrived on mopeds and they seemed to know their way around. Then later, in the confusion, when Sprout discovered our stuff had been nicked, the girls were nowhere to be seen. Mick reckoned they’d gone off on the back of the scooters and got away along the coast road, in spite of the storm. They could even have caught the night boat out of the port.
‘But you must know something about them?’ I said.
‘They were blonde. One was tall and pretty and the other two were average,’ said Mick.
‘You didn’t ask their names, even? Where they were from?’
‘When you’re chatting a girl up, you don’t ask for her passport,’ said Sprout. ‘I think the big one was called Anna. The others could have been called anything. They were bad news, anyway.’
When I realised I wouldn’t get any more information out of them, we lapsed into silence. Sprout had one hell of a hangover and kept going over to the garden pump to douse his head with water. Mick just sat there, twanging the elastic which held the paper tablecloth down – he was driving me crazy.
At around two in the afternoon, a rich smell of some kind of stew came from the kitchen. I avoided the others’ eyes. We were all ravenous. Stavros appeared, tantalisingly standing in the kitchen doorway wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He must’ve seen our hungry expressions because he came back a few minutes later with a round loaf of stale-looking bread and a bottle of mineral water, and slammed them on the table.
‘You eat – OK?’ he said without smiling or anything.
Ignoring his charity, I got up from the table. ‘Where’s the boy gone?’ I asked.
‘What boy?’
‘The Greek boy who said I could stay here.’
‘He not Greek boy. He Albanian,’ said Stavros, and he held a finger up to his temples and added dismissively: ‘Stupid Albanian.’
Well, I don’t know that much about politics but I’d seen enough in the papers to realise that the Albanians had had a pretty rough time recently. I thought Stavros was totally out of line.
‘You shouldn’t have fired him. It wasn’t his fault,’ I said.
‘You tell me how to do my job?’ demanded Stavros. He loomed over me.
The others looked on.
‘Cool it, Ben,’ whispered Mike. But I stood my ground.
‘How was he to know I didn’t have any money?’
‘You listen,’ said Stavros, bringing his face uncomfortably close to mine. I got a waft of the garlic from his stew straight in my face. ‘I tell him, any boy, any man, any woman, want to sleep here, I want to see money first – or passport. That is the rule. He break it. He stupid. No good. See?’
‘Yeah, but… I mean, the storm…’
‘No but. He stupid. No good. He gone.’
Stavros shook his head dismissively and went back into the kitchen.
I slumped down on a chair and tore off a bit of bread. I’d done what I could. Hadn’t done a lot of good. Hadn’t done any good. But I wasn’t exactly in a bargaining position.
I chomped thoughtfully on the crust. It tasted great – must’ve been the loaf he’d brought back with him earlier. The one I’d smelt while it was still hot… the one I’d smelt a lifetime ago when I was carefree and on holiday… when I had money and a passport and mates who didn’t look as if they’d just been kicked in the stomach… and the prospect of weeks of perfect windsurfing ahead of me…
God – to have our stuff nicked like that – it made my blood boil.
We travelled back to the port in style. Police escort. They didn’t actually put handcuffs on me but they looked as if they’d have liked to.
We sat forever in their stuffy little office making statements. And then we waited even longer while they filled out endless forms and got us to sign them. Dad had told me never to sign anything I hadn’t read – but Greek script? I don’t think he’d anticipated a situation like this.
They photocopied all the forms and gave us copies to keep. Then they handed each of us an official piece of paper which would stand in, temporarily, for our stolen passports.
Darkness had fallen by the time we walked out into the open air, free men.
‘What do you think happens about that Stavros guy at the taverna?’ asked Mick. ‘Do you think he’ll get compensation?’
I shrugged. ‘Doubt it.’
I didn’t care about the guy – didn’t matter whether he got the money or not. It was what happened to the boy that bothered me.
‘So…’ said Mick. ‘What now?’
‘S’pose we’d better ring home and get the olds to bail us out,’ said Sprout.
Mick looked really pissed off. His dad had a fearful temper – he’d give him hell.
I wasn’t looking forward to calling my parents either. Not that they’d fly off the handle or anything, but they’d be so disappointed – for me as much as anything. I’d worked my arse off to earn the money for this trip. Six weeks on double shifts in a fast food kitchen. I’d only just managed to wash the smell of the place out of my hair.
‘All I want is to get shot of this place,’ said Mick.
Sprout nodded. ‘Likewise. Doesn’t feel like a holiday any more.’
‘What you thinking of doing – hitching a lift home?’ I asked sarkily.
‘Get the olds to send out some money and fly back,’ said Sprout.
‘That’ll take days,’ I pointed out. ‘What do we do in the meantime? Drink tap water, suck stones? We don’t even have our sleeping bags.’ I kicked at some rubbish in the gutter and stubbed my toe.
‘Uh-uh,’ said Sprout. ‘I’ve just had a brainwave! Mum’s Barclaycard! I’ve got a second card on hers.’
‘You don’t mean to say you’ve had it in your pocket all along?’ groaned Mick.
‘Not exactly. The card’s gone, too. But I’ve gotta report it. And remember all those commercials?’ He did a quick impression of Rowan Atkinson making sucking noises. ‘If I call the Helpline, they should send us some dosh.’
‘Genius! Where? How? What do they have – carrier pigeons?’ demanded Mick, getting to his feet.
‘They send it to a bank, stupid,’ said Sprout.
The banks were closed, but the Tourist Office was open and it had a Visa sign outside and a notice which said they changed money.
The tourist people pulled out all the stops. They let Sprout use their phone to ring the Helpline, and by some sort of telegraphic magic, faxes started to roll out of their machine. Eventually a wadge of money was handed over.
‘So,’ said Sprout as he counted through the notes. ‘What say we get on the night ferry? We could even get a decent kip if we sleep inside.’
‘And we can get a hot meal,’ said Mick.
I didn’t say anything.
‘And beers – they’re on me by the way,’ said Sprout. He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up. We’ll be in Athens by the morning. Nice brekkie at the airport and then we’ll get a flight home. You can be tucked up
in your own bed with your teddy by tomorrow night.’
I shook my head. ‘Let’s have a beer first and think about it.’
‘What’s there to think about? The ferry leaves in half an hour. We can have a drink on board.’
Both of them started walking in the direction of the jetty. The ferry was waiting there with all its bright rows of lights shining invitingly.
I hung back. ‘Wait,’ I said.
‘What’s up?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe I don’t feel ready to leave yet.’
Mick looked me up and down. ‘What you gonna do, mate? Take up begging?’
The island bus had arrived. It was standing at the terminal. I could hear the faint jangle of bazouki music coming from the driver’s open window. It had its engine running, waiting for the last late passengers of the day.
‘Look, guys – give me some of the money,’ I said suddenly. ‘I mean, lend it to me…’
The bus was hooting, preparing to make off.
‘You mad? What you thinking of, man?’ demanded Sprout as I stripped ten thousand drachmas off his roll.
‘There’s something I’ve got to do. Look, I’ll see you, OK? Tell my parents I’ll ring – not to worry – I’ll keep in touch.’ This last phrase was delivered at a run.
The bus driver was closing the doors. I forced my body through as they slammed shut.
My last view of Mick and Sprout was their two figures standing in the road looking bemused. Mick held up a hand and Sprout put a finger up to his head indicating that I was screwy.
I grinned out of the rear window, then sank into a seat.
I was the only person on the bus.
The driver turned the joyful clatter of the music up a few notches and turned to me with a slow smile. ‘My friend. Where you go?’
I handed him a note.
‘To the very end,’ I shouted over the music.
‘Ahhh,’ he said. ‘Paradiso.’
Chapter Four
Paradiso – paradise.
The place was in darkness when I arrived. I peered at my wrist and then remembered that my watch wasn’t there – but it must be pretty late.
I made my way quietly down the rough track to the taverna. The ragged row of coloured light bulbs that decorated the frontage was turned off, but there was a light on in the little kitchen and I could hear sounds coming from inside. I crept up to the window and peered in.
Stavros was washing up. At least, there was a great pile of dirty glasses and dishes beside him and he was thrashing stuff about in a plastic bowl. He swung round and his elbow caught a teetering pile of plates. They smashed to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces. Stavros swore emphatically and unintelligibly in Greek. There was a bottle behind him – he turned, filled a glass and drank. I realised he was pretty drunk. Not happy drunk but mad, furious, raging drunk – frightening – he was such a big bloke. Anyone could see that right now was not the best time to approach him.
I crept further round and looked in from the other side, wondering if the boy was back or whether I’d been right in assuming he’d been fired. There was no-one about. But there was a light showing under the door of the room I’d slept in the night before and a murmur of voices coming from inside. And then laughter. A girl’s laughter. So someone was staying there.
I remembered the warmth in that room and the comfortable bed. I hugged my arms around me. Greek nights could be chilly even in midsummer. I’d have to find somewhere sheltered to sleep. I decided to leave it till morning to tackle Stavros.
I spent a terrible night. I don’t think the chickens enjoyed it much, either. Having a large unwashed male in their shack must’ve made the poor old biddies uneasy. They’d all get off to sleep, perched side by side with their feathers fluffed out, heads under their wings, then one of them would suddenly remember and shout: ‘Oh-my-God-there’s-a-man-in-here’ – or the chicken equivalent – and they’d all flap and shriek and cluck disapprovingly until they settled down again.
But I must’ve fallen into a heavy sleep around dawn because when I finally got up, the sun was already quite high in the sky. Luckily no-one had come to feed the chickens. As I emerged into the warm sunlight I wasn’t sure which of us smelt worse – but the chickens seemed pretty glad to see the back of me.
I made my way around the headland to the beach – a swim was definitely in order. Stripping off to my shorts, I hid my clothes under a rock. Maybe I was getting paranoid but I didn’t want to get robbed again.
The water was that perfect temperature – just cool enough to make you hesitate going in, cool enough for a good brisk swim. I walked in to waist height and then dived under. The sea closed over my head and rang in my ears, and I swam forward underwater and opened my eyes. I could see the surface above me like a second sky, and then I broke through it, shook the water out of my hair and swam as hard as I could out into the bay. I’m a pretty strong swimmer. I got my two-kilometre certificate early on, and the olds had insisted I did a life-saving course when I took up windsurfing. I’ve never been able to understand people who are scared of water. It seems like a natural habitat to me.
I swam out for about half an hour and then turned and looked back, treading water. The houses in the village had shrunk to the size of those little china models you get in Greek gift shops. Now I could make out the shape of the hills. I knew the island was volcanic. But from out where I was, I could see that the cliffs must have been part of the edge of a crater. That explained why the sand on the beach was black. The cliffs looked red and scorched, burned to a dull clinker grey in places, like the inside of hell. They made a pretty dramatic contrast to the sunlit blue of the sea. Paradise – that’s what they called the place. Ironic maybe.
I could just make out the terrace of the taverna. Barely discernable human shapes were moving on it – people reduced to the size of ants. Bright clothing, so females most probably. One of them might be the girl who’d been in my room the night before. I remembered the laughter – she’d sounded quite young… Nice young laughter. Hmmm… I wondered who she was with. I wondered what she looked like. Slowly and easily I started to breastroke back to the shore. By the time I reached it, I was going to be in need of breakfast. I wondered if the girl would still be there, on the terrace.
I dragged my T-shirt over my head and shoved my jeans on over my wet shorts.
Now for the confrontation. I hoped that Stavros had recovered from his mood of the night before. It would be just my luck if he had a blinding hangover. I made my way up the steps to the terrace, walking firmly and trying to look confident.
There was no-one there. The people I’d seen, whoever they were, must’ve left. No sign of the boy either. Stavros emerged from the kitchen with a grubby looking tea towel in his hand. He scowled at me. He did look pretty hung over, actually.
‘You back again!’ he said. ‘What you want?’
I stood my ground. ‘Where’s the Albanian boy?’
‘Why you wan’ know?’ Stavros came a few steps closer.
I took the notes out of my pocket, counted out the money I owed him and placed it on the table between us.
‘Would you take him back if I pay you what I owe?’
Stavros looked at the money and then back at me, obviously hesitating between the urge to pick it up and the climb-down that implied.
‘That boy no good. He poison my guests.’
‘Oh come off it!’ As an excuse, this sounded somewhat excessive.
‘Yes, I tell him. You make café frappé – always use bottle water. Boiled water OK hot coffee. Frappé always bottle water. He think he know better. American peoples very sick – they leave.’
‘Well, OK. But a guy can make a mistake.’
‘Then you come. Backpackers, I say, always money upfront. Otherwise, pouff!’ Stavros made a gesture like a backpacker disappearing into a cloud of dope-scented smoke. ‘Gone in morning, never see money, never see nothing.’
‘Yeah, but that night – the storm. You wo
uldn’t’ve sent a dog out in it.’
‘Backpackers worse than dogs,’ said Stavros angrily, eyeing the money again.
I just lost it at that point. There was this greedy, over-fed bastard about to pocket my money and he wouldn’t even give the poor little guy a second chance.
‘Take it then,’ I said. ‘Take the money. I hope you’re satisfied. You don’t deserve to have anyone working for you. I hope you have to do all the washing up and sweeping up and… cleaning the lavatories and… and…’ I ran out of ideas.
Stavros picked up the notes and counted them carefully with his back to me.
‘…and make brekfuss?’ he asked, swinging round to face me.
‘Yeah, that too…’ I said.
I hadn’t noticed the twinkle in his eye.
‘You want brekfuss?’
‘That’s all the money I’ve got.’
‘Siddown,’ he said.
He was crashing around in the kitchen for a while. I sat down, feeling dizzy from hunger. I hadn’t eaten the night before – and what with the swim and everything…
Stavros re-emerged with breakfast for a king! A huge omelette, plenty of bread, a tub of yogurt and a glass of milk.
‘On the house,’ he said in answer to my expression.
Then he went and sat at the next table with a tiny cup of gritty Greek coffee, and watched while I wolfed the food down.
‘Hungry eh?’
I nodded and continued eating. The omelette was brilliant – reckon it might have had something to do with my hostesses of the night before… Really fluffy, golden yellow and full of flavour.
‘Where your friends?’ Stavros asked after a while.
‘Gone back to England.’
He nodded thoughtfully, swilling his coffee round and taking sips.