by Sara Alexi
Sara Alexi
A SONG AMONGST THE ORANGE TREES
A NOVELLA
oneiro
Also by Sara Alexi
The Illegal Gardener
Black Butterflies
The Explosive Nature of Friendship
The Gypsy’s Dream
The Art of Becoming Homeless
In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree
A Handful of Pebbles
The Unquiet Mind
Watching the Wind Blow
The Reluctant Baker
The English Lesson
The Priest’s Well
Kharkiv, the Ukraine
The light is utterly blinding. The sun is piercing straight through Sakis’ eyelids and boring deep into his throbbing head. The ringing in his left ear, long and high-pitched, is relentless, an internal sound that does not diminish as he turns his head to press the noise into the pillow. His heart is pulsating in his neck, thumping at his temple and pounding deep inside his brain. Summersaulting up from his guts, a bubble rises and pushes through his chest until it reaches his lips. His happiness bursts as a grin, extinguishing all physical pain, cutting through his hangover, conquering his tinnitus. He won!
A noise, china clinking. Cup upon saucer? The door to the bedroom is not altogether closed. There is someone in the sitting area. Should he be alarmed?
Trying to sit up generates resistance. His stomach complains and strongly suggests relieving his body of its contents. His head, meanwhile, assures him that if he moves from horizontal, it will drop from his shoulders like a lead shot and grind a rolling course across the floor. Lying very still is the only immediate option. Lying absolutely still, staring at the hotel ceiling with a big grin on his face.
How quickly life changes. He performed without expectation. It could have been his chance but, at the time, he felt without doubt that it was the wrong song. It was too light, ephemeral, with so little meaning, and definitely not his best. He told them at the committee meeting that it was too obvious, that it held no history, no gravitas. Stepping from the stage, despite the thunderous applause, he was certain it was over. He slunk, head down, back into the semi-circular seating booth. Andreas shouted a customary 'Bravo' above the noise of the crowd and threw a big arm around his shoulder and pulled him in for a hug, a big smile puckering his chubby cheeks, his eyes bright. The applause didn't stop and an unusual feeling of static began to electrify the air around them. A stranger bounded up, kissed him on both cheeks, and talked earnestly to his manager, who then released him from his embrace. From somewhere, a glass of champagne was slipped into his hand, a television camera was pushed in his face, and a girl with a Scandinavian accent began to ask him questions, her bubbly concentration fully focused on him until the scores began to roll in. A Greek official squeezed into the booth with them. He shouted over the noise of twenty thousand spectators that the big man he had brought with him would be Sakis' new bouncer. It seemed his oversized manager was suddenly not enough.
Then people he did not know squeezed into the booth. Two television cameras were trained on his face, there to catch every expression, milk every moment. The noise in the stadium grew louder. The final votes were coming in. He was neck and neck with Spain, and then a roar. There were too many people in the way, obscuring the illuminated scoreboard. Andreas stood on his seat to find out what was happening. A wave of excitement fluttered towards them and then everyone around them erupted, jumping on the spot, hugging each other, shouting 'Opa!' at the tops of their voices. An exuberant cheer, and fittingly also the title of his song.
And just in that millisecond, time stopped and a bubble of silence fell around Sakis. He felt his world shift, stepping from one reality to another. There would be no more panicking to pay his rent each month! No more grimy little clubs, with sticky floors and acrid air. No need to write cheap songs with easy lyrics so customers, half-crazed with cheap whisky could sing along at three in the morning. Now he would be surrounded with quality musicians! There would be heavy, heartfelt sessions into the night, passionate composition, meaningful lyrics, like-minded people. He had arrived.
His hand raised to his mouth to cover his gasp of shock, his fingers exploring how one of his front teeth just slightly overlapped the other, his imperfection. Then his sphere of quiet burst and the moment rushed in on him again as hands pulled him. He stood, the milieu propelling him towards a walkway that led back to the stage. The crowd was cheering, screaming his name. A rain of silver petals caught in his hair, settled on his shoulders and dazzled his progress. A microphone was clipped on his shirt and he was centre stage, with twenty thousand people waiting in front of him and one-hundred-and-ninety-five million worldwide. There was no way he could swallow. Blinking, he momentarily froze. Then he sang and forgot the world.
The party started as the last note faded. He has no recall of leaving the stage, just of people, crowds and crowds of people around him. A new place, a large room. Andreas shouting something about America, nodding furiously, encouraging. Handshakes and hugs, kisses and glasses of bubbly wine. Then the clamouring masses parted as a man, not a big man, in fact a small and neat person, roughly the same age as him, slunk up to him slowly. There was a recognition, the face of a stranger he had always known.
'Is “Opa” typical of the songs you write?' he asked, using English as the common language. His accent was French. Sakis felt such a relief at the question. He started with an emphatic 'No,' and then babbled about his hopes of bringing Greek urban music to the forefront. The questioner’s head nodded in approval, understanding.
'The working class undercurrent has always preserved and propelled traditional Greek music,' Sakis explained, and the interviewer’s unshrinking gaze conveyed an understanding. He talked on and on until a handheld camera with a German logo was thrust between them and a new interview began amidst the clamour.
As Sakis tried to concentrate, another glass of Champagne was thrust into his hand and he glanced back at the man with the French accent. It's funny how some people just fit. You know it instantly; there is a rapport.
The German reporter gave the French man a nudge and grunted, 'Give us some room, Jules,' and waved his fluffy mic.
Jules. The name suited him. He had agreed on the purpose of music, of art in general, the power it has for the underdog, the repressed masses, the people who toil to keep countries on their feet.
The sounds of something poured, a teaspoon against china brings Sakis back to the present. If it were Andreas in the next room, he would have shouted a loud Kalimera by now. Maybe it is room service.
In those first hours of winning, the throng around clamoured for his attention. Reporters from more countries than he could name wanted to interview him, each with a handheld camera and fuzzy microphone. It was difficult to focus—he had drunk too much wine—so he just smiled his best photogenic smile, turning his head slightly for each camera, doing his best to hide the overlap of his front teeth as he waved to the black lenses. He would be on the cover of every magazine and tabloid in Europe tomorrow.
Andreas was mingling, talking to as many people at once as he could, no doubt seeking out the best opportunities, arguing the best deals.
He cannot remember much more. At one point, he was outside and he was shocked at how cold Kharkiv was, but the people around him didn't seem to notice and he sang to the moon and the crowd of people around him joined in. So cold. Returning inside, he felt the need to break away, find some space, and it was a relief to see Jules sitting in a corner with a free chair next to him.
'Coffee?' A voice comes from the next room. Sakis sits up so quickly he has to hold his head. It is Jules.
'Coming.' His own voice sounds hoarse and feels as though a dozen razor blades have sliced through his tonsils. With a hand on his throat, he makes the effort to stand. The room swims. He is naked.
'Shall I bring it in?' Jules asks. His accent seems more pronounced today.
'No!' The word rasps his larynx raw. With a hotel dressing gown around him, he goes out to face the world. The world in which he has won! His tread is light; his feet barely touch the carpet.
The room is more populated than he expects. Jules, with unbrushed hair that sticks out at all angles, is on one sofa that is piled with crumpled blankets. He has the t-shirt on he wore the night before. Andreas is there too, hovering next to the fireplace, carefully presented in his pressed suit and new shirt, and there is a lean man with perfect teeth, also in a well-cut suit, who stands with hands in pockets, expectantly. Sitting by the door, staring ahead, tense, as if he is expecting a riot at any moment is the big man who was introduced as the new bodyguard the night before.
On a small side table, there is a tray with a coffee pot and several cups. The low, central table is strewn with newspapers and magazines and his own face grins back at him from a hundred different angles. He laughs. He won! The words sound so good, hold so many promises. He says it again inside his head. ‘I won!’
Jules hands him a cup of coffee and nods ever so slightly at the pile of blankets. Sakis nods back, an even smaller movement that accepts that Jules stayed the night on the sofa. He takes the small white-gold-rimmed cup on its delicate saucer. It is very designer and impractical to hold, with the edges of the saucer so upright. It could almost serve as a small bowl, and this reminds him he must ring up his neighbour to remind her to feed the cats. Where did he put his mobile?
He closes he eyes as he drinks. The scalding of his throat feels good, but the swallowing exacerbates the pain. He should never have sung in the cold night air.
‘How do you feel, my boy?’ Andreas shouts in his excitement. ‘We did it! Or rather, you did it! You are a global sensation—look at the reports!’ He flourishes the magazine in his hand. ‘We’ll be rich! You, my friend, are famous…’ Andreas puts down the periodical to pour his own drink, all his movements exaggerated, full of energy.
Sakis does not reply. He needs to wake a little more slowly.
‘Right,’ Andreas begins once armed with coffee. ‘When you go back to Athens, I have arranged for you three television interviews and a press conference over two days and then, you can gather a few things and fly next Friday…' He is interrupted by a knock on the door. The bodyguard opens it a crack, then wider to admit a uniformed maid holding two bunches of flowers. On silent feet, she crosses the room and adds these to a table between the heavily draped windows that is already overflowing with floral offerings. On inspection, the cards are not from individuals but from the other countries. The largest bouquet is from Spain, who he beat by only two points! The UK has sent red, white, and blue roses. The Netherlands has sent green carnations and tulips. Italy has sent silk flowers—very stylish!
Outside the windows, the sky is a pale blue. The sun is sharp but the people hurrying on the streets are wrapped up in coats, hats, and scarves. Back in Greece, today will be another scorcher. If he were there, it would be a good day to go to the beach and lay motionless under an umbrella and allow his body to fight off the demons of the drink. He needs time to become an active member of the world again.
'Sakis, are you listening?' Andreas barks.
'What?' The impractical cup is shaking slightly in its saucer. Jules takes it from him, refills it, and offers it back. Sakis thanks him. There is no eye contact. Jules seems as half-awake as he is.
'America, Friday!' Andreas says as if it is something he is repeating.
'What?' Sakis asks, wondering if there are any pain killers. Maybe he should just go back to bed.
As if he has spoken his thoughts aloud, Jules conjures from nowhere a packet of Paracetamol tablets and pops two out of the blisters. Jules' fingernails are rough, as if he bites them, as he places the pills in Sakis’ palm. Two fingers are stained with nicotine. There is something very real, grounding, and reassuring in his presence.
The tablets get stuck in the razor blades that are lodged at the back of his throat and it takes several swallows of coffee to encourage them to go down.
'You alright?' Andreas asks, his smile fading slightly.
'My throat feels like…' But he cannot finished the sentence. Every word feels like it is doing him harm.
'Well, order some honey and lemon or something. You have a press call in half an hour, okay?'
'Okay.' Sakis picks up his bouzouki, which is resting in its open case against the wall. His body moulds to accept the instrument’s form and they become one. He strums a few chords, which soothe his soul but not his head. But then a new melody finds its way to his fingers. He plays it twice and then adds on a note. This is a song about dance; he can feel it. The chords that are forming, the melody that is coming have a heavy beat but are dreamy, like when he becomes lost in the rhythms of the pentozali, the Cretan war dance. When the ecstasy of being alive flows through his veins, his agility is brought to the forefront and he is swept into elations of the music’s vigorous, sensual pulse.
'Conference room, half an hour,' Andreas reiterates loudly and leaves the room.
The press conference is crowded. There is standing room only and cameras and microphones are lined up on every available table space in front of him.
'Sakis, were you surprised to have won?'
To admit he is surprised would suggest he did not think his song was strong enough, which may be true but it is not something he is going to share. To say he is not surprised could be considered arrogant.
'I am delighted to have won,' he deflects. He takes a drink of water. The hot lemon and honey has soothed his throat somewhat, but it is still sore.
'Do you think Greece will benefit from you winning? Can Greece afford to host the contest next year?'
These are not questions he wants to consider. Why do they not talk about his music?
Andreas takes the questions, to his relief.
The door to the press room is open, with people coming and going as the conference proceeds. The noise is a constant hum, as many are translating everything that is said into hand-held Dictaphones.
'Is “Opa” typical of the songs you write?' The question cuts through the cloud of babble.
Sakis is not sure if it is the relevance of the question that pleases him, or the questioner. There, old-fashioned notebook in hand, press card around his neck, is Jules. He has changed his t-shirt and the one he now wears looks official. It bears the logo of a major European cult music paper that holds a certain gravitas in the subcultures of the music world. No wonder they got on so well.
'I think “Opa” has proved itself to be a song of the people,' Andreas begins emphatically.
'I prefer the songs I write that reflect more of Greek history. I am a big fan of rebetika, a term that comes from the word rebetis, which is very close to the word mangas. The manga was, and is, a proud working-class man. It is more than just about the music—it is about the character, dress, behaviour, morals, and ethics all associated with this subculture. The working peoples’ voice.' Sakis can feel the passion swelling his chest and the rasping in his throat is ignored.
Jules scribbles furiously, smiling to himself, nodding.
'Of course our roots are important in our music. That is what this competition is about. But Greece is now part of modern Europe and “Opa” reflects this well,' Andreas interrupts, and before he has finished speaking, he points to another member of the press who has his hand raised. It is the turn of a new questioner. Jules has had his moment.
After the press conference, there is a lunch. After that, a television interview, and then a cocktail party, followed by dinner and the inevitable party. An
endless bombardment of people ask trivial questions. After that one question from Jules, no one seems actually interested in his work, his song writing, his passion. Sakis accepts every glass of champagne offered. He also accepts that this is the reality of the fame he was seeking. It is a pale shadow of his dream. He spends the whole day half cut, wondering what he has done.
The following day, there are more parties. The pain in his throat has grown worse and he speaks as little as possible. Jules is around sometimes, and sometimes not, depending on each event. But he is in his hotel suite when the day is done, offering him a sense of grounding, something real, something that agrees with his soul. They talk of the deeper aspects of his music, what he is trying to say, the sense of community that maybe no longer exists that he is trying to evoke back to life. They continue to talk and talk into the night, his voice growing fainter and fainter until Jules forbids him to talk anymore and makes him a drink of lemon and honey.
Sakis yawns. It's been a long two days and his forehead is throbbing and hot.
'All right if I crash on your sofa again?' Jules asks. It doesn't need an answer.
Athens
'Oh, there you are.' It is Jules' voice. Where is he? His brow is mopped with a damp cloth that smells of lavender. 'You've had a rough few hours.'
The shadow of the window on the ceiling is familiar. He is at home. But how long has he been here? And why is Jules here?
Harris pushes her soft, furry, two-tone nose in his face, incessantly meowing for attention, her wide eyes on the edge of panic until she receives a caress. Ginger Eleftheria is weighting down his legs, his loud purrs drifting in the still room.
'You were out for the count for a while there. You have a fever,' Jules says. The cream curtains are drawn but the sun finds its way between the threads to spread a mist of its rays in the room.