Then Collins says, So I'm an arsehole and you're not. Is that it? Mick starts laughing and Collins is going, What? What's so fucken funny? And Mick says how he didn't need to bust Collins out of gaol to make a point that fucken obvious.
For reasons that're beyond me, Collins starts grinning at Mick through the headrest like he's about to start laughing too. I'm thinking the whole world's gone berko. Then Collins goes, And there's nothin else you want? But he doesn't sound mean any more.
Mick says, now he comes to think of it, a new Akubra would be nice. Collins can have his old one.
No-one had talked of Petros when they sent me off to Greece. Discover your homeland, Sophie, you can't do anything once you have kids, and Father laughed like a detonator so that I had no way to refuse. Yeah, go, Sis, I loved it over there, my brother had pointed to a photo of himself eating stuffed eggplant by the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. You can practise your Greek, Mother had said, and then she showed me a pile of letters from her second cousin Katerina and said she could tell from the perfumed stationery that if I stayed there I would be pampered. Katerina looks like Jacqueline Onassis, Mother had said with a sigh, and through her fingertips as she stroked my hair I had felt her secret wish: I hope my daughter meets a handsome Greek tycoon.
On the ferry from Piraeus to Sikinos I do not see anyone who can pass as a Greek tycoon, though a man with calves shaped like boab trees ogles me no matter where I sit. When I say, Stop staring at me, he just shrugs his shoulders and flexes his boabs, so I sit with a cardigan over my head for the rest of the journey. As the ferry's horn sounds I uncover my face again, and the glare from the whitewashed village startles me so much that I have to look down at the grubby floorboards to recover.
I had imagined I wouldn't have any problems picking out Jacqueline Onassis from a crowd of villagers at the port, but as I disembark all I see is a man eating nuts from a bag, spitting the shells out on the dirt. I had pictured busy streets full of pushy Greeks, but the village on Sikinos is small. The quietness feels like a threat, though of what I cannot say.
When the peanut-eater is close enough he spits a shell at me and laughs with a mouth so wide that I can see chewed bits on his tongue. Don't worry, Sophie, I've got a wild sense of humour, and I think: this is no suave Aristotle Onassis. I'm Petros, Katerina's husband, and he plays with the ends of his moustache as if that is all I'm entitled to know.
In the port village we eat chargrilled octopus for lunch and I watch as Petros cuts up the tentacles, and chews them one by one. They look funny without their heads, he says, but I prefer to fix my gaze on the houses lining the hill top, dazzling white against the blueness of the sky. You can tell everything about a person by their hands, Sophie, and he makes olive-oil fingerprints on my paper serviette. My hands, he says intensely as his knuckles crack like nuts, are the agents of my desires and the servants of my soul. Suddenly I want to remind Petros of my family back at home, so I tell him about my father's greyhounds, and how my brother plays Sunday golf. I cannot hold his interest, though, and he starts humming ‘Never on a Sunday’ as he pats his stomach in time to the tune.
Petros explains that there are two villages on Sikinos and declares: This port village does not inspire the imagination. He shows no interest in my raptures about quiet seaports, and starts up his decrepit motorbike so we can putt-putt up the hill. The gentle sea breeze is soon replaced by a brisk wind, which courses along the barren slope into my squinting eyes. Near the top of the hill, Petros turns off his engine and from the hush of these sleepy heights I feel the pull of a deep encircling sea. Tinkle, tinkle, Petros whispers, as the bells of distant mountain goats cut sharp notes across the air. This is your real soul, Sophie, this is where you belong. I do not like his certainty, but I concede that the view is not too bad.
At the top of Sikinos sits Petros's village. It disturbs me with its similarity to the village by the port. Petros reveals who lives in the cluster of houses and with each disclosure I can smell the garlic that permeates his breath. This is Sophie, is all he says as he introduces me to the old woman who serves meals in the tiny taverna. The woman stares at me before shuffling off into the kitchen and Petros pats my arm as if I'm forgiven for something. Inside the woman's shop every table has a backgammon board with their pieces set up for a game. I wonder where you put your plate if you order a meal.
As we enter Petros's house he lets out a sigh and declares: Everything I have is yours. I had expected Katerina to have made her appearance by now, and so I ask of her whereabouts as Petros fetches fruit. The oranges here are the best in the world, he announces and he slices the peel into a coil and lets it fall with a bounce on the floor. Katerina had to go to Athens suddenly—her mother is very ill.
I now know I have two weeks on Sikinos with no Aunt Katerina, and I quiz Petros about the island and what there is to do. In answer he shows me a book called The History of the Greek Peoples of the Cyclades and tells me about Julio, his Italian neighbour who has been here since the war. He came to invade and he stayed. Petros laughs. Lots of people come here and never get away. I look around his kitchen and see the stovetop where flies dip in and out of pools of grease, and wonder what it is that compels Julio to stay.
At night I sleep in a large stark room, with a Japanese screen that slices the space in half. On each side of this screen there are identical beds, and I wonder if Aunt Katerina normally sleeps in the yellowing sheets that cover me now. On the first two nights I barely sleep. Through the semitransparent screen I keep Petros's shadow within my sight. He paces around the perimeter, then sighs and stands quite still. I can see him plucking at the hairs of his moustache with his stubby fingers. I turn over noisily in bed and make it obvious I am awake, because I am uncertain of what will follow behind the confines of the screen. The loud squeaking of my mattress sends Petros hurrying into the kitchen, where he fills a glass of water and drinks it with a gulp.
I wake up tired in the morning to the sound of shrill crowing and Petros cooking oats for our breakfast, the porridge boiling over the side of the pot. I have an appetite like a pig, he laughs as he fetches the bread from his cupboard. Have some jam on that, Sophie, you'll soon not be so thin. When I am least prepared he yells, Catch Sophie, and throws the jam jar at me.
Petros works in an orchard and insists on walking to work, so that I can borrow his motorcycle and drive around the island. By 11a.m. I have circumnavigated Sikinos in a one-and-a-half hour ride and there is nothing left to explore. Back in the village no-one says hello, so I sit down in the taverna and decide to kill time with food. I am still waiting for the menu when a plate of fish arrives. It balances awkwardly on the table's corner but I don't dare move the backgammon board. I am already aware of the silence that followed my entrance. I pick the fish off its backbone and eat as quickly as I can. I yearn for the anonymity that a vacation in Bali would have brought.
That day I return sunburnt after falling asleep on a silent beach. Petros is home early in the quietness of our partitioned room. He is sitting shirtless at his desk, and the sun highlights hairy patches on his back. When I say, Hi Petros, I see him start like a shot-at bird, and he stands up quickly to face me, grinding his chair leg against the floor. You're a quiet thing, he says, and I wonder if he knows that he is making a fist. Imagine you sneaking around like that, Sophie, and he turns back and gathers papers into a folder, closing them in with a snap.
Petros is cooking toast when I ask after Aunt Katerina. He tells me that her mother is getting sicker, but smiles as he scrapes at the charcoaled crust. Don't you worry, Sophie, he says. The doctors of Crete are the best in Greece. When I remind him that Katerina's mother is in Athens, he stamps his foot and says, Damn, this toast is much too burnt to eat.
Petros becomes keen for me to spend most of my time out of his house. After introducing me to some of the villagers he takes them aside and whispers things I cannot hear. After his mutterings they hover around me, like Mrs Stathos in the bakery. Let me show you my wedding dres
s, she says, pressing her fingertips so hard into my arm that my skin blanches. The brocade on her gown is white like the outside walls and through the lace I can see her palms stroking memories from the silk. Although I am being let in on family confidences there are secrets here that are not within my reach.
After a week, Petros's night-time pacing compels me to rise out of bed, and as my feet worm their way into slippers I hear a gush of water from the kitchen tap. Not sleeping so well, Sophie, we'll have to do something about that, and he crushes a tablet between his fingers, in a tight little pincer grip. I mention that it's really his insomnia which keeps me awake, and decline his dissolved tablet in the unwashed cloudy glass. You're a stubborn girl, Sophie, is that a family trait? We retreat back to our halves of the room and my eyes don't leave the Japanese screen as I wait for his silhouette to begin its pacing. Just as my eyelids are starting to fall, the click of a folder opening breaks the silence of the night, and I hear the scratching of a pen, like cockroaches scuttling in bins.
Every day I am ushered out of the house before Petros goes to work. I am introduced to Julio and told that he will show me around the monastery with all its beautifully restored frescoes. I just dream of a day of rest. Before we go, Petros takes Julio aside and I turn away from their muffled sniggers. Not for your tender ears, laughs Petros as he waves goodbye. As Julio drags me towards the monastery Petros's laughter continues to echo. Once we reach the monastery Julio seems desperate to justify the walk. His Greek is very poor and he reiterates everything in Italian. I nod at his explanations which I do not understand and make up my own interpretations of the frescoes. I find a painted man standing behind a flock of sheep, looking like he's pushing those happy grazers towards a cliff.
Julio divides up the olives for lunch like a boy counting out his marbles—Uno, due, tre. He fills up two glasses with Lambrusco and from our vantage point I can see the distant port village asleep at the base of the hill. Bellissimo, Julio says and raises his glass for a toast. As our glasses clang together I lose half my wine. The stain soaking through the earth reminds me of the absorbency of tissues wet with blood.
The sun is too strong, so we head back to our village early. By this stage we are communicating like actors in a silent movie and I watch Julio chew on his fingertips til they start to look bright red. I do not want to eat with him in his house, so I make a pillow out of my hands to tell him I'm too tired. Stanca, si, si, and he bows before me like a knight, then disappears with a flourish into the dark doorway of his home. I am yearning for a lie-down as I enter Petros's house.
The cloudy glass still sits next to the sink, with the crushed tablet floating near its brim. The bed I wish to lie on, which this morning I left unmade, has had its sheets straightened up and tucked precisely into place. Even though I know Petros isn't here, I can feel his shadow lingering behind the Japanese screen, and step into his half of our partitioned room to confirm its emptiness. Piles of paper are spread all over his desk and I search for the folder with the rings that snap. In the top drawer of the desk the glint of a metal binder catches my eye. I pull it out and see the title: ‘Diary of Petros'.
I begin at the date of my arrival and read as quickly as I can. The descriptions of events are simple, and I see that Petros can barely write. ‘Sophie is on Sikinos' the diary says, and I become conscious of voices outside that may herald Petros's return. By the time I've reached ‘Sophie sees Sikinos on my motorbike' Mrs Stathos is laughing wildly outside, filling the street with her belly full of air. Next, 'Sophie and Julio go out' is scratched hard into the paper and the ink makes an ugly stain on the following page. There is mention of events on days that have not yet passed and my name reappears consistently beyond the date I intend to stay. I read about myself picking oranges from the orchard in which Petros works; dropping them into large buckets that I have never seen. I flick forward through many pages to find I am always harvesting his fruits, but as I start to scan the other entries Petros's steps stomp towards the house. I close the folder and place it back in the drawer. I quickly return to my half of the room, and start to file my fingernails as casually as I possibly can.
Home early, Sophie. Petros lights a cigarette, blowing a long missile of smoke towards me on my bed. Too much wine, naughty girl, and I watch his grubby finger tsk-tsk me. What did you do at the monastery, where did you go for lunch? and when I tell him he smiles knowingly, and nods slowly for a very long time.
Sophie, he says later as he's cutting up the spinach, I've got a surprise for you tomorrow so don't make any plans. I decide it is time to ask him about his hobbies, so I mention a fictitious friend who likes to write in her spare time. Ah, I'm like Zorba the Greek, Petros says as he twirls around. People waste their lives in pen and paper—I prefer to dance. He starts clicking his fingers above his head as if he's free and easy, and I throw the spinach in the boiling water and watch as it shrinks in size.
In the evening Petros goes briefly to visit Mrs Stathos because we have run out of sugar. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, he sniggers as he leaves the house. I return to his desk, but the folder is no longer in the drawer. While he's gone I look everywhere for the diary but cannot locate it. I wake many times during the night, wondering why it was moved.
The next morning I take a ride on Petros's motorbike and when I return I see Julio carrying a crate of Italian wine into the house. In the kitchen there are coloured streamers and balloons strung up, and Petros is making a taramasalata dip. Mrs Stathos arrives to deliver some steaming white rolls she has baked, and winks at Petros as she arranges them on a plate. Sophie, you didn't knock, Petros says. You've caught me by surprise. I am perturbed by the accusation in his words. He puts on a cassette of ‘Celebrations from the Southern Cyclades,’ and says, This party is for you. I am unsure whether to smile, and thank you doesn't seem the right reply.
Put on your dancing shoes, Sophie! he shouts as the bouzouki fills his house, but his words seem too much like an order and I feel unable to perform the dance that he seems to expect. He twirls around and slaps his thighs and offers me wine after every verse. He thrusts a spinach roll at me and says, Eat up, Sophie, Katerina was thin like you, and he grabs a bottle by its neck and guzzles down the Lambrusco. He punctures a balloon behind me and I jump and he laughs and says, I've got more surprises than that. Julio and Mrs Stathos leave the room without saying a word and the clunk of the front door closing has a finality I do not like. That will keep Katerina out, he laughs, and I ask when Katerina is coming back. Petros says nothing but guides me towards the window and I can feel his palm on the small of my back, pushing into me a little too hard. I imagine myself bounding down the barren hillside towards the silent sea. I ask again after Katerina, and his singsong voice answers me with, Sophie, Sophie, I'm so glad you're here.
Leaning on a post in the middle of Languid Lounge is a man who appears older than he probably is. His eyes are bloodshot and dilated, they look menacingly black. He is telling me something about Snow White, which I suspect might not actually be related to the seven dwarfs.
Staring at my scalp, he tells me that he doesn't like bald girls and in return I tell him that this used to be a good place before the assholes discovered it. He seems unperturbed at my comment. He meanders through a conversation, more with himself than with me, about how his friend Joe led him here. According to this man, Joe has a girlfriend who sounds similar to my ex—she too was beautiful. Her hair was bleached the colour of milk and smelt like artificial peaches. I miss her hair.
I have stopped listening to the man in front of me who tells me stories that I don't care about. But I have nothing better to do, and I would rather listen to him than go home to silence. Turning my focus back to the conversation I hear him tell me that my voice sounds like the whine of a diesel engine. I hold my tongue and let him plough on through his eclectic range of sentences. After listing all the reasons why I am not the right girl for him, he makes some excuse to head to the bathroom, I suspect to reload on the ammunitio
n that keeps him going. I watch him bounce from one person to the next until he makes it to the bathroom and then I turn to leave, to return to my one-bedroom apartment downtown.
The next morning I am sitting in a local cafe when a dog comes up to sniff my bag, which is on the ground beside me. It is a scruffy dog, small but determined. I lean down to rub its ears and it growls at me. The owner tells me that I shouldn't have tried to pat it. Well, I think, it shouldn't have poked its nose in my bag. Doesn't it understand the personal-bubble rule?
I look at the owner and apologise.
I know it is not my fault, but apologising is easier than arguing with a woman who wears a matching running suit. She scowls at me and then runs on towards the park.
The dog should've been on a lead.
I was told the other day that I looked like I should be on a lead. The comment wasn't unexpected, when you consider where I was; Languid Lounge is one of those clubs where you never expect the ordinary. The lady with the dog would never be in there. She would be sipping cocktails with girlfriends, all of them pretending to be the women from Sex in the City.
When I had hair no-one told me that I would suit a lead.
My hair was almost red, but not quite. I would tie it high up on my head like a three-year-old's ponytail. That was when I dated Melissa, the girl that smelt like artificial peaches. Then it fell out. And shortly afterwards we fell out.
I tried wigs for a short time but they made me itch. Then Mum took to buying scarves for me to wear, but I hated looking like a hippie tree-lover. So now I just look like I want to slit my wrists. It scares people. They never want to be left talking to me at parties.
The waitress, Casey, arrives at my table and hands me a plate with a large portion of scrambled eggs and thick brown toast. She smiles, not really at me, she just smiles because that is what she does—or what she is paid to do.
The Life You Choose and That Chose You Page 23