by Sara Alexi
Did she remember to pay just now, or has she left Juliet with the bill? She stops as she is putting her weight to the door and tries to remember. No, she did pay. She left a note and some coins on the table next to Juliet's money.
She shoves with her whole weight and the door opens. The cat rushes in ahead of her. Looking up the broad wooden polished stairs, she waits for her eyes to adjust to the relative dark. The lift stopped again a couple of days ago when she was coming down with the heavy rubbish bag from the kitchen. She jumped up and down, the counterweight shifted, the wheel at the top that the big cable loops round gave a quarter turn, and she dropped enough, and quite suddenly, to be able to open the ground floor doors and take a big step down to get out. After putting the rubbish in the bin, she went back up by the stairs. Complaining to Apostolis resulted in him pressing the button a few times. The lift worked for him, and he declared there was nothing wrong.
She will take the stairs today. Her old legs have energy and besides, she does not want to lose this mood she is in by growing cross, or worse, hysterical, about being stuck in the lift. The cat investigates the lift and then springs up the stairs.
The sound of multiple ticking grows louder as Toula nears the top.
The chiming begins as she opens the upper door and without bothering to raise her voice to call out to Apostolis, she goes straight to the kitchen to make his snack. Five minutes later, after she has given the cat half a tin of tuna, they are eating in silence. At one point, she opens her mouth to tell him that she will be booking a ticket, but maybe it would be better if she bought the ticket first. Made it a fait accompli, as they say in France.
'French,' she says aloud, helping herself to another thin slice of the feta and spinach pie that she made the night before.
'Pardon?' Apostolis has a tendril of spinach hanging on his chin. He does not look up.
'Nothing. I just thought of a word and it was French.'
'Oh.' He turns the page of the magazine he is reading. He has been subscribing to this magazine about clocks for years. His rule about not reading at the table has never been upheld when his magazine arrives. Toula suspects that if it was her magazine, there would be stern looks and a brief word. But how does he even read them? His English back in school was never very good and he has had no reason to learn since. Only occasionally does she catch him running his finger under the script very slowly. When he becomes aware of her watching, he stops.
It had better be a fait accompli. A done deal, as they say in England. Buy the tickets first. She swallows a mouthful of the thin red wine to stifle her excitement.
After his snack, he retires to his study. His radio, which he always leaves on, is turned up louder than its usual low mumble. His door is open just a crack. Toula decides the bedroom phone would be more private. But in this decision, she becomes uncomfortably aware that she is trying to hide something. It is not a secret, so she does not go upstairs to use the phone. She goes upstairs to take off her earrings, which are pinching a little. It is just coincidence that she decides to call Alyssia whilst she is there.
The bedsprings give as she sits. The cat appears, leaps onto the bed, and curls up on her knee.
'Hello Alyssia?'
'Ella Mama, ola kala?'
'I am well.' Toula decides to practice her English.
'How is Baba?' Alyssia switches effortlessly from Greek to English and back again.
'He is as always. I have the card from Katerina.' The cat’s fur is so silky and smooth.
'Good, I will tell her. I am sorry you will not be able to come. She would so like it if she saw more of you and Baba, but I guess this is the life we have chosen.' Her laugh is like ice cubes against crystal to Toula's ears. Her spine straightens and she looks far beyond the crack of sunshine between the slats of the pale grey shutters, imagining her beautiful daughter, a woman of the world, living in London.
'So I am not coming?' Toula teases her beloved offspring and rubs the cat’s nose.
'Mama, I know how it is with Baba. It's okay. I will explain to Katerina how far away you are. Maybe if you got a computer, we could Skype?'
'Well, I have a surprise to tell you. I am coming!' There, she is committed now. The quivering in her chest grows stronger but the lightness inside her head is wonderful. The cat jumps off.
'What? How did you talk Baba into coming? Really, Mama? That is so wonderful. I will pick you up from the airport, of course. Do you have your times and dates yet? Come for a while, Mama. Do not come just for a few days. A week, no two, at least. How did you manage this with Baba?' Alyssia’s intake of breath fills the phone.
'Your Baba, he is not coming. Baba, he does not know yet that I am coming.'
'Oh.' Alyssia's deflation is as noisy as her earlier outburst was. How many times has Toula heard that same sigh as Alyssia grew from a child to the rebellious teenager that she became, over promises made to her and then broken by Apostolis when she was so little. Simple things such as going for a walk, playing ball. Then there were the possibilities she discovered through her friends when at school; ball parks, water parks, dancing lessons, all of which filled her little heart with such joy, only to have a smoothing rug of procrastination thrown over them by Apostolis. The practicalities of going, the procrastination of paying for lessons, the organising of lifts, the scheduling of time—all being put off until it was clear that for her, such things would never be. Over and over, Alyssia had her hopes dashed until she almost had no hope left at all. Her rebelling in her teenage years shocked Apostolis, but Toula understood. She, too, had promises dashed. Promises of travel, of working together, of doing up their village house, spending time together, him not going to Athens so often, leaving her alone, moving back to the village once they were retired, travelling once they were retired, visiting Alyssia in England as well as all the little everyday things he promised and never fulfilled. Coffee in the square that never happened. Friends round for dinner who were never invited. New shutters that would open that were never ordered. Air conditioning units that never materialised. None of it from a lack of money.
'Alyssia, listen. I am coming.' Toula speaks firmly. 'I, me, your mama, Toula. I am coming. Just me alone. This is not to do with your Baba.'
'Thank you, Mama, but we both know how he is.' Alyssia sounds defeated. The anger within Toula that has been sitting somewhere inside her solar plexus since talking to Juliet rears up and tightens across her chest. It stiffens her jaw and her teeth clench. She is not going to let her daughter down, not now, and not ever again.
'I will tell you how it is. When I close the phone to you and your baba has fallen sleeping, I go to the travel peoples and I take a ticket.' Her English is falling to pieces with the speed she is talking, but she does not care.
'But Mama, how will you get to the airport?'
'The railway line to Corinth is open now, so there is trains all the way. A taxi to take me to the station. It is not difficult.' As she says the words, the anger changes to fear and then back to anger again. She will go. Women her age travel the world over all the time. Thousands have done it before her, and thousands will do it after her. If she can give birth with no help, she can take a plane to London.
'Mama, do you want me to send you some money?'
Toula knows why Alyssia has asked. Ever since Apostolis squeezed her out of their building business after Alyssia was born, even though their wealth was growing, he took tighter and tighter control over the money. All through Alyssia’s life, if money was needed, it involved a lengthy explanation to Baba and an account of it once it was spent. Toula explained to Alyssia that it was because they were brought up poor farmers in a rural village but even when she said it, she knew it was not the real truth.
Apostolis liked the control. He still likes the control.
Sure, she gets housekeeping money, but Apostolis collects the receipts. They do have a joint bank account and in theory she can draw money out, but in all their married life, she has never done this.
> Perhaps this is something she should do. It would be better to do it now and learn how it is done than wait until a time that forces her to learn.
Kyria Zephyria, from the village, after her husband died, had her electricity cut off before she dared go to the bank and take out some money. How poor Zephyria must have worried. She never said anything at the funeral or any time after. She must have thought she was going to starve to death. All for not knowing what to do and say in the bank.
Toula smooths the bedspread on either side of where she is sitting.
But look at Zephyria now! A new dress every few weeks, her house all tight against the weather and the insects. Double glazing to keep out the heat and the hum of the village. Insulation in the roof to keep the chill out in the winter. Air conditioning in the bedroom to make it possible to sleep in the summer. She lives like a queen since her husband’s death. And does she miss him? Not one jot. How easy her life must be.
'Thank you, Alyssia. You have always been a considerate girl, but I will go to the bank and take money out. How is young Apostolis? Tell me he does not look like his pappou?'
The two of them dissolve into laughter and continue to chat about nothing in particular for another half an hour or so. But a small part of Toula’s mind is pondering over Apostolis' health. He is getting thinner. Maybe he won't be around too many more years. It would be a mercy if she had some life left to live after he has gone.
Juliet
The following day, Michelle chooses to come into town with Juliet and as they cross the road, Juliet is reminded of the letter that Michelle had dropped.
'You made a very neat job of avoiding my question yesterday.'
'Which question?' Michelle has a pair of shoes in her hand that she is taking in to be mended. Juliet regrets not bringing hers. It is better to do these things before the weather turns cooler and the cobbler has a sudden influx of winter shoes.
'That letter?' Juliet prompts.
'Ah.' It is a sound that suggests she is not going to say any more.
'Michelle?'
'What?'
'Oh come on. It was from him, wasn't it?' Juliet has an interest not only for Michelle’s sake but for young Dino, too. He was just another boy from the village until he fell for her friend. Now Juliet cares for him too.
'Maybe,' Michelle says.
'Do you really expect me not to care or be interested?' Juliet adopts a teasing tone but she cannot keep the edge out of her voice. Michelle can be so frustrating at times. Does she think her life will not be affected if they become a couple?
They turn onto Toula’s street. The café is empty and they choose the chairs with the most shade. Michelle puts her shoes on the table and then immediately changes her mind and puts them on the floor, sweeping the dust they leave behind onto the floor with her forearm.
'So, what does he say?' Juliet presses.
Michelle sits back and takes the letter from her bag.
'I’m not sure you are going to approve.'
'Tell me.' She braces herself. She wishes nothing more than for her friend to find happiness and companionship, or even love. This wish for her wellbeing will be enough to cover her feelings, to hide her sadness at possibly being left on her own over the winters.
'Okay.' Michelle pulls out the leaves of thin paper from the envelope. They look well-worn already.
'I just want it to be known,' Michelle provides an introduction with steady eye contact, 'that I have not been in touch with him since he left last autumn. I have given him a chance to realise he is too young to be with me, that he needs to find his own life. I kept my side of the deal.'
'That was a deal you made with yourself, Michelle. No one else put pressure on you.' Juliet has no problem returning her stare.
A pair of legs by her side breaks her concentration.
'Two frappes, one metrio and one glyko, please.' Michelle mixes the Greek words in with the English to the waiter, who nods and goes inside. Juliet encourages Michelle to read by touching the pages. Michelle is looking after the waiter.
'You know he stares at you?'
'Read,' Juliet commands.
'Just saying. He’s nice looking, our age.'
'Michelle!’
'Okay, okay. Dear Michelle.' Michelle clears her throat and moves her chair nearer to Juliet, leaning in towards her, holding the papers closer to her eyes and speaking in hushed tones. She looks up as a man walks past, talking to himself, or rather into a telephone earpiece. He passes unaware of them both and Michelle continues.
'I have tried very hard to do as you asked. To not write to you, to not contact you and to go out and have my own life with people my own age—and I have.'
A tiny gasp escapes Juliet and she looks at Michelle who is stony-faced.
The frappes arrive and Michelle waits until the waiter has gone back inside before progressing.
'After three weeks here, we then had to swear allegiance to Greece. Once we had sworn, we were allowed out on leave. I could have come to you, but I didn't. I did as you suggested. I have been out with groups of friends I have made here in the army, men my own age, or should I say boys. They seem so young. Nice, but young. They have lived such easy lives. Whilst on leave with them, I have met their sisters and their friends, girls who are also my own age and they are nice. Some of them are good fun, some even educated, but there is something (and forgive me if you find this word harsh but I can think of no better word in English), insipid (is that how you spell it?) about their characters and they cannot hold my attention for long.'
Michelle stops to look at Juliet who, as she takes a sip of her drink, is eager to hear more and points at the letter to indicate that Michelle should continue.
'I can honestly say I have tried. I have done as you ask, as you requested. I did it wholeheartedly with the intention of trying to forget you. It has been many months since I have seen you, coming up to a year now, and I am writing to you now to tell you that your method has failed. My feelings have not changed. If anything, they have grown stronger and I repeat again: Michelle, will you marry me?’
Juliet explodes with a tight chortle and then smiles and pats Michelle’s knee. Michelle ignores her and continues.
'I have eight months left to serve. I know nothing of your life since we parted. Did you manage to sell your house in England for the price that would allow you to buy that small hotel on Orino and the barn next to Juliet's? If so, have you made the barn so you can live in it? Or has none of this happened? Have you moved back to England and continued your life without me?
'My only connection to you is this mailing address. I can only hope they are forwarding your mail. If I hear nothing from you, I will write to Juliet. I feel sure she would forward my letters to you.’
Juliet nods as if Dino is present, assuring him that she would.
'If, for whatever reasons, you have returned to England, I want to tell you that when I am released, I will follow. Whatever it takes, I am prepared to give.
Please write to me. Let me know that you have received it.
'With a heart full of love,'
Michelle mutters these words.
'Dino.'
'Oh my, oh my,' Juliet says and with a big sniff, she throws her head back and looks at Michelle, who is still looking at the letter, her face unreadable. Two women walk past, arms linked, strolling in the heat, heads bent in to one another, talking quietly.
'So, and I quote, "If he asks to marry me again in six months, I will take him seriously." So now you must take him seriously, what are you going to do?'
Michelle says nothing.
'How do you feel towards him? Do you want to be with him? Do you still feel the same as you did last summer or has all that emotion gained some perspective?' Juliet waits as Michelle considers her reply.
'No.' Michelle says emphatically and takes a suck on her straw. Her face muscles are tight, her grip on the glass turning her knuckles white. Juliet waits.
'No, the emotion has not gaine
d any perspective, as you put it. I yearn for him.' She pulls a face as she says the word yearn. It is overly passionate for Michelle's usual vocabulary. 'But I have to question myself; am I yearning for the child I never had? Or am I wishing for a time that is now passed, wishing back my youth that never was because it was all exams and studying?'
'Or are you over complicating it and thinking too much? I remember a time when you told me I was doing something like that. Maybe you just love him.'
'When he reaches forty and wants a shiny, red racing car and a young Barbie girl on his arm, I will be sixty-five.' Michelle speaks as if these are thoughts she has had a hundred times, and Juliet suspects that is probably the case. But she knows from experience that once she gives in to emotion, it is almost impossible to reason feelings away with logic.
Michelle’s mouth is a tight line, and she is looking anywhere but at Juliet.
'Yes, you are right,' Juliet states emphatically. 'Better to not have his love now in case that happens in the future.' She nods sagely, leans back, and uncrosses her ankles.
'Says you, Mrs Too-Scared-To-Have-Any-Relationship-At-All!'
'Get lost.' Juliet says it as a joke. It is the sort of phrase they used to address each other when they were teenagers, but she can hear the edge in her voice. She smiles to soften the words. Michelle has her lawyer’s gaze fixed on her now. She bets Michelle must have been really good in her wig and gown before she gave it all up for her life over here.
They drink their coffees in silence.
'So, what are you going to do?' Juliet asks again, when enough time has elapsed to take the focus off her last words.
'I bought a postcard to write back. I was just going to write a line or two; I don't want to be rude. But then I thought a postcard in return for his heartfelt words would be giving him short change.'
'That’s a slight understatement. So what are you going to do?' Juliet can see Toula coming out of her door, the cat by her ankles. Her conversation with Michelle is going to have to wait.